#wr deirdre chatzy

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Ireland || Morgan & Deirdre

TIME: A hundred years or so from now.

LOCATION: A cottage, a museum

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

WARNINGS: none

SUMMARY: A century isn’t enough time to make Morgan less anxious. Chaperoning her daughter’s school trip with Deirdre gives her more than enough to worry about.

“I think we deserve a soft epilogue, my love. We are good people and we’ve suffered enough.” -Nikka Ursula

There was no perfect home between Dublin and the wild woods; Morgan and Deirdre looked. Every village, every suburb, every dilapidated farm. Too far from public transit, too many people, not enough distance from the other Dolans. So they built their own, two floors high and hugged gently by oaks. They painted the gables black and the sidings blue, the shade of Morgan’s eyes. They built a stable for a couple of cows that would do nothing but laze and let themselves be spoiled. They planted everything from potatoes and mint to geraniums and roses. When a storm drowned and trampled most of it their third year in the house, Morgan said they really would get around to building a greenhouse this time. So far, however, that remains a dream. But they did get a shed for crafting and a shed for death. They made a rooftop deck for stargazing. They papered the walls with shelved books and furnished the rooms with their most important treasures from the last hundred years or so. They kept the brick hearth clean and warm, first with blazing fires, then, as the earth warmed and dried a little more each Samhain with family art and pictures. Especially once the baby was born.

On this day, the baby was twelve and went by Steph instead of Persephone because last year Aoife Murphy said Persephone sounds gross and made her cry, not that she would say so if asked. She started secondary school away from her old classmates, the same one Morgan taught at, and things were almost better for her there. If she could just get through this field trip to the natural history museum without everyone finding out how bizarre her moms were, maybe Kelly (gorgeous, terrifying, and most popular Kelly) would want to invite her to her birthday party.

On this day, Morgan didn’t even try to feign sleep as she lay in bed with her wife. She and Deirdre had never tackled chaperone duty together before and she didn’t know what to expect. She taught all day, so Deirdre was the field trip expert through Steph’s primary years. But now. Now Steph was in the same building as her all day, and they didn’t have to be spread out until nightfall. They could be a family, happy and out in the world and together and everyone would see and no one would mind and if she could just stop being terrified of screwing it up, she might actually get to enjoy it.

Steph called from below. “Mammy! You said we’d start early!”

Morgan stiffened in bed, hand digging into Deirdre’s arms. “I also said early would be seven-thirty, not seven,” she sighed.

“Mammy!”

“I heard you, baby!” She called. With another sigh, she rolled over to see her wife in all her bed head glory. “Morning,” she said sheepishly.

Deirdre, on this day, responded as she did every morning when faced with the sight of her wife: she smiled, sat up slowly, and in defiance of their screaming child, kissed Morgan with great lingering. “Good morning, my love.” The morning was a magical place, filled with dewy morning air and the light their old blinds couldn’t stop from cutting across their messy bedroom claimed by books and a busy schedule. At least it wasn’t as bad as it had been when Persphone was first born. But the morning could not be claimed by annoyance at the dust collected over their furniture, and the too-full bookcase that begged for an ally, perhaps in the little space they had across the room. A hundred years ago the morning could have been taken by such thoughts, but after a decade of thinking something terribly wrong was going to rob them of their happiness and the following decade of confusion, Deirdre realized anxiety wrought mornings were a waste of time. She could worry about her mother coming to claim Pershephone under proper Dolan tutelage, she could worry about whether or not Pershephone might scream on this trip just as she worried the same countless number of trips ago, she could even worry about their aging dog, whose life could only hold on for so long. The cows, which no longer produced milk and now lived simply to be themselves--creatures that didn’t need utility to have value--could even be a center of fear. But none of it for the morning.

Rather, the morning was just the place to wonder how it was, with about one hundred years of marriage, Morgan managed the art of looking more beautiful each day. And each year, not an ounce of love waned. In the morning, there was no space for fear, not where there was so much love.

“You’d think it was Yule with the mood she’s in. Remember when she used to stand by the door, whining until one of us got up? Now she just yells from the kitchen.” Deirdre laughed, stealing another kiss as she remembered that Pershephone--Steph, as she now liked to be referred to--stopped barging into their room specifically because they, as she once put it, kissed too much. That made Deirdre laugh again, but it wasn’t until Steph called for them that she rolled out of bed with her own whining. “Did you eat breakfast?” She called out, searching for her robe among the clutter.

“Yes!” Steph screeched back, already with the lungs of a banshee.

However, Steph wasn’t in the sort of mood to let there be a morning. And Deirdre chuckled as she put on her robe and turned to look at her wife. “It’s serious,” she teased, “you better get down before she drives herself to school.” And the morning, the worry-free morning of lazing and affection, crumbled as healthy concern filled Deirdre’s gaze. She reached for her wife before she was out the bedroom door, pressing a kiss to her hand as she held it. “How are you feeling?”  

There was no such thing as bringing a zombie back to life, but Deirdre’s morning kisses came bewilderingly close to it. Morgan relaxed and melted back into the world where she belonged. How could she do anything else when Deirdre had such a preternatural capacity for loving her? Since their marriage, she had never waxed and waned like Morgan did. She never took her for granted, never withdrew out of misplaced fear, never sampled a different life for the novelty of it. In Deirdre’s eyes (finally showing a little wrinkle, especially when she smiled), the morning always made Morgan new and wonderful and right.

“Good morning, my love,” she whispered back, automatic though more awed than usual.

After a moment of staring dopey eyed at her (her honey-brown eyes, the shine of her hair, her still perfect freckles, the absurd mix of mischief and kindness in her smile), Morgan got up and began climbing into the casual suit she’d laid out for herself the night before. She flinched when Steph screamed up again, louder than before.

“You know, for some reason I feel like it was a lot cuter at Yule. Or maybe that’s just because she was five and we were in the pre heavy eye-roll years.”

But she wasn’t really irritated, not in a way that didn’t dissolve five seconds later. In her dark months of the year, sure, the little things felt worse. But it was early autumn, and the day was bright. Life was short and long at once and time dissolved so strangely, it just wasn’t worth dwelling on tiny irritations that she would look on fondly anyways twenty years down the line. And if she came downstairs looking composed, she might be able to soothe the anxiety-temper out of her daughter before they squeezed into the car together.

She clipped a frilly bow tie onto her blouse to soften her look and grinned over at her wife. “I’ve got it, don’t worry.”

And she really did, maybe, until Deirdre stopped and grounded her again. “I’m…” Fine was the word that came to mind, but of course that wasn’t true and she didn’t really want to bother with that game anyway. She shrugged instead, mouthing nothing as she searched for the truth. “…I just want this to be good. For all of us. That’s all. I really, really want this to be good.” She squeezed Deirdre’s hand and tugged her close. “How are you?” Her eyes flickered to the half open door, then back. “Will it make anything better if I promise you not to be embarrassing?” She was teasing, but there was a little knot in her heart that was ready to do it.

“No promises.” Deirdre replied quickly with a gentle laugh, and a finger tapping Morgan’s nose as she so often did to hers. She knew Morgan didn’t mean it, not truly, but even so, a century together told her that a piece of Morgan thought it might fix something. And they both knew what a bad idea vague promises were. They had a rule with Steph, and an unspoken one between each other. “No promises,” Deirdre repeated more softly, “you don’t need them, my love. Whatever happens, your daughter loves you. She’s just a little--”

On cue, Steph yelled again, “Mammy!”

If she had been activated, a sound like that would crack their pretty stained glass, and ruin the more delicate furnishings. Even though she wasn’t, there was also a rule about being loud in the house. Not the sort of rule that meant harsh punishment that Deirdre and Morgan knew, just the sort that ought to be heeded in everyone’s best interest. It was true that Persephone didn’t know a moment of pain like either of them had, even after how much the two had worried one scolding went too far, or that they couldn’t manage to raise anything at all, perhaps they shouldn’t. But they did. And down a small wooden set of stairs was a young girl, barely a teen, who despite her yelling, really was the best little girl Deirdre knew.  

“No yelling, dear,” Deirdre called down and after a pause, smiled as a meek apology rose from down below. “She’s just excited. I bet she also wants this to be good, really good. In her case, so she can hang out with Kelly, but…” Deirdre trailed off in the sort of way she knew Morgan understood as, you know what I mean. She kissed her wife again, slow in just the way their daughter would have a fuss with, and lingered just shy of the corner of her mouth. “I’ve never known you to make anything less than really good,” she murmured, “and if our daughter calmed down for a moment, she’d agree. But I don’t think she’s going to be calm unless she knows you’re coming down so...well, as much as I enjoy keeping you to myself, I should learn to share by now.” Deirdre kissed Morgan again, reluctantly moving out of the way. “And I’m okay,” she responded after a moment, not much better after a century at handling that question. “I wish I was still in bed, but I’m okay. I’m going to wear my big jacket so I can take a bone or two, I think.” Deirdre smiled, wide and lopsided and twinkling with mischief. Steph called out again, quieter this time. “Let’s greet the day, my love.”

Morgan had to bite her lip to keep from whining as Deirdre parted from the kiss. Here in the world of their room, everything was safe and no one could be disappointed and nothing-problems could be seen for what they really were. Over their threshold, out in the real world, anything might happen.

“This is probably why the PTA moms already think you’re older than me, huh,” she said. Then, because the silence between Steph’s calls was starting to tear at her nerves, “I love you. So much. Please be kidding about the bone, because we will not be forgiven if you get banned from the museum again.” One last squeeze and then she was racing down the stairs toward the burning glare of sunrise and the wide, worried face of their little girl. Deirdre was right. The day was for greeting, like a new guest, and the three Dolans could do it just fine together.

#

“Do we have to stand together all the time?” Steph hissed. They had just finished another headcount after the last one revealed that Connor McCarthy had slipped away to see what the ticket counter looked like from behind. Now, mostly thanks to Deirdre, they were finally heading into the Egyptian exhibit visiting the city.

“Bug—Steph,” Morgan corrected herself quickly. No home names for Steph at school. And definitely not when there were other students around. “We’re all standing together. That’s how these things work.”

Steph gave her a look so much like Deirdre’s when she was irritated that it took some of the sting out of not being wanted. You know what I mean.

Morgan nodded, conceding. This was fine. This was what Steph wanted and forcing her to conform to some idealized fantasy wasn’t going to make anything better. And so she was fine. Absolutely fine. “I’ve got the front, your Ma’s got the back, so if you want to make time with Kelly, you should get her somewhere in the middle.”

Steph hesitated a moment, sensing that her win wasn’t as right as she wanted it to be, then faded back into the little crowd of her classmates.

The unfortunate part of chaperoning a trip with Morgan was that they had to be separated by a group of squirming children. Deirdre shot several looks of encouragement and longing over the crowd, but she was about as happy being stuck apart from Morgan as Steph was at being stuck sandwiched between her two mothers. At the back, Deirdre had accrued her own gaggle of kids, who remembered her as their chaperone in primary school and mysteriously enjoyed her company. The kids were too old to be bribed into happiness with snacks, but just the right age to indulge strange thought journeys. Deirdre liked children, they were far more like fae than she ever cared to notice before, but at this age, the preoccupation with social acceptance hindered any fun she had before with them. It was like corralling sheep that didn’t want to listen; that thought they didn’t have to. She disliked wielding authority, and wasn’t sure how much longer she could accept playing chaperone. Maybe it was time to retire. But until then, her gang of kids at the back were happy enough to play along with her game, aptly titled: how do we steal this? A simple thinking exercise in how to commit crime, and secure a few more bones for her collection (the last part was her own secret). The kids at the back, mostly boys, seemed to enjoy the game. And when they entered the Egyptian wing, they shared her excitement.

Over the crowd, Deirdre gave Morgan a thumbs up, and blew a kiss quickly before Steph could notice and glare. In the center of their small group, she could see Kelly with her bouncy blonde hair, flanked by her friends and their bright clothing. And poor Steph, trying to inch herself into their circle. “Now, what are we stealing?” She whispered to her accomplices, hoping Steph couldn’t hear and wouldn’t feel embarrassed that she hadn’t learned how to stop talking about crime, which was an issue three years ago on a zoo trip. The boys ran up to the first display, shoving each other to read the inscription.

“I’d steal a sarcophagus,” one of them said. “No way, I want that shriveled foot thing!” Another added. “Look at the mummy!”

The kids were leaning into the display excitedly, so much so that Deirdre didn’t have the heart to tell them not to touch the glass. Those who couldn’t see in were ducking around trying to look or elbowing themselves into a space. Kelly was holding her nose. Her friends looked at her, then around them, then followed suit. Deirdre turned back to the children and noticed for the first time that not all seemed as excited as the boys. Some had their faces scrunched together, some gazed just to turn their faces away and gag. Even the boys had misplaced delight; not in how beautiful death was, but how gross. Through the crowd, she couldn’t read Steph’s face. Deirdre looked to Morgan, hoping there was just some great anecdote or story a part of her lesson that would change their minds. The children started to reel from the display. Deirdre’s brow wrinkled; she moved closer to her wife, despite the rule that she was to stay at the back. That too, was just the sort that could be broken without harsh punishment.

Morgan, finally reaching a point in her life where she found preparing for disappointment useful, wasn’t surprised by the mixed reaction. A few years in lower level secondary school could do that to a woman. She sidled up to some of the louder skeptics. “Is a big first year like you really scared of one little mummy, Miles?”

Of course he wasn’t scared, Miles insisted. It was just so old and falling apart, not like in the movies, and in the photos the mummy’s skin looked disgusting, that was just facts, even Mrs. Dolan had to admit that.

“Would you be more scared or less scared if you knew you were insulting a cursed mummy?” Morgan asked.

The word curse caught the attention of a few and Morgan stalled by running though what little she knew about the curse of the pharaohs and Tutankhamen until the real guide showed up. She promised a secret prize to the first student who could prove whether or not there were any ‘cursed’ objects by looking closely and paying attention; that guaranteed about a third of the raucous ones would stay in line.

When the guide did show up, Morgan finally gave in to the proximity between her and Deirdre and took her hand. She spoke softly, just for her wife’s ears, but kept her eye on the students. “I think they look rather nice, personally,” she said. “But then, I’m probably biased in favor of a society that mummifies departed pets so they can all be together in the great beyond.” She leaned her head on her shoulder, basking in being unnoticed for the first time all day. “Also, is it cute or lame if I pilfer you a plastic mummy finger from the gift shop? Hypothetically.”

Steph knew where each of her mothers were in a room even when she didn’t want to. Their signals, as she thought of them, faded or grew stronger with proximity in a way she couldn’t ignore with so many normal people around. So she didn’t need to see them pair up behind the group to know that was happening, she was just relieved they were far enough away that nobody would notice if they started kissing. But she didn’t know how long she could count on them to stay like that. She had to take her chance with Kelly now.

“The curse thing is just a myth,” She scoffed, side-eyeing the other girl. Kelly didn’t believe in ‘baby stuff’ and liked being skeptical at everything. “One of the men they say the curse killed was murdered, actually. Smothered in his sleep at his club. They never caught the killer either. Can you believe? Looking at a blue asphyxiated body and thinking it must have been magic?” She laughed, waiting for some of the girls to laugh too, or at least nod.

Deirdre relaxed into a small smile as Morgan tried to notice the children. It was one of those things Morgan was good at, one of those things Deirdre could only watch with adoration. It didn’t work perfectly, but nothing ever did with humans. After more than a century, some things never changed. The music might have been new and strange, and the technology more advanced and confusing, but death was still untouchable. History was still foreign. They didn’t pause to think the body there had been taken from its home, that their own funeral practices might seem as odd thousands of years later. How long did it take until graveyards were exhumed for the sake of history? Would it be their bodies sitting there? Gawked at? Too much had humans come to know death behind glass, at safe distances, too little did they ever think about the mummy without a name.

But now was not the time to worry, human nature wasn’t her concern. Being a parent had shifted the focus; it didn’t matter to her what these children were thinking, but what Steph was. The girl who brought bones and dead animals into the house. Who pinned butterflies sitting on Deirdre’s lap. Who used her dolls to reenact a murder scene. The very same little girl who knew there was nothing gross here. Trusting her daughter to know better, Deirdre relaxed again, leaning into Morgan. “All these years later and people still find the Ancient Egyptians to be weird. That poor nameless mummy is practically dust.” She shook her head, laughing quietly along with Morgan. She thought it was nice too, but Morgan had heard enough of her death ramblings to know that she did. “Funny,” she laughed into a kiss against Morgan’s cheek. “I was going to get you a gift shop mummy. Maybe I’ll have to steal a vase then.” She hummed; surrounded by death, holding the woman she loved and watching their child, she knew peace.

“I think you’re more qualified to be teaching them about curses than…” Deirdre‘s voice fell away. Steph’s words rose above the din and all seemed to quiet as she spoke. Steph was expectant for agreement, but behind the crowd, Deirdre tensed. The very same little girl that sat between them as they explained why grandma Siobhan would not be coming over, and why she would never meet grandma Ruth. The exact girl who once delighted in watching her Mammy’s fingers regrow, who asked why she couldn’t be blue all the time because it was prettier. The girl who learned. The girl who knew better. The very girl who knew that if anyone had thought a blue body was magic, it was her and her mother, who was still standing rigidly behind them. Because she had thought it was magic until she knew the words. And Deirdre still thought it was magic, even though she knew them, because it was Morgan.

Morgan felt something was wrong before she understood it. There was a sickly prickle in the air, a swelling sense that something was about to happen. Can you believe? Looking at a blue asphyxiated body and thinking it must have been magic? A little pool of silence formed around Steph. One drop, then another, another.

Morgan was limp and frozen at once. If she had remembered her last violent days of being human better, she might’ve recalled that liquid, helpless feeling of being struck by a hard blow and falling to the ground without any hope or plan of fighting back. Because this was it. Children had to distance themselves from their parents, it was a sign of developing a strong sense of self. They had to feel safe trying out different looks and personas. They had to make their own choices and their own mistakes. And so what could Morgan do but watch Steph laugh like she was an absurd joke? Like she didn’t exist at all? Children acted out. Children tested boundaries, both their own and others. What could Morgan do besides watch her daughter’s betrayal come to nothing?

She squeezed Deirdre’s hand. “Stay here,” she  said. “Stay with me.” She meant to sound firm, to draw a line between what they both wanted and what they could do. But her words came out as nothing more than a thinly veiled plea in a frail voice.

Deirdre’s lips twitched as she held Morgan tightly. A reprimand burned on the edge of her tongue. But Kelly dolled a punishment far worse than Deirdre ever could. She was looking at Steph like the others, but her lips were the first to thin and then pull down. Her eyes were the first to narrow and her brows the first to pull together. One word escaped her mouth, “ew.” And as she laughed, shrill and sharp through the thick of silence, laughter inspired in spurts around the crowd. Steph slouched, shrinking into herself, her eyes were focused on the tiling below. Kelly spoke the same way she laughed, “I think I just found something worse than the mummies.” As if she remembered suddenly who Steph was, she looked at Morgan, “I’m sorry for laughing Mrs. Dolan, but Steph’s making me uncomfortable with her talk of murder.” She couldn’t help the way her lips twitched, fighting back a smile. Kelly took her a moment to remember how to look wounded, and so she did, big eyes and batting eyelashes. There was another quick apology to Steph, just to cover her bases. Then, confident that there was nothing Morgan could say to scold her, she turned back, blonde ponytail grazing Steph’s nose.

Kelly was calculated, quick. Where interest shifted from her, she was fast to reel it back. As her friend managed meekly to ask why the man had died, Kelly just as quickly issued another sharp retort, killing the question where it started; in the girl’s throat as a gargle. She stood at the center again, more confident. In many ways, Kelly reminded Deirdre of herself; what little she did remember of herself at that age. But so did Steph, tall and thin with hair much darker than her classmates, trying her best to become invisible in the back. She didn’t look at her mothers, but if she had she’d find that where disappointment once tugged Deirdre’s features, worry now did. The rest of the children shuffled toward the guide awkwardly, trying to pretend nothing had happened. The few that turned to look at Steph were met with Kelly’s friendly gaze, and in desperate situations, a quick compliment or question to get them looking where she wanted. There was them, and then there was Steph.

Morgan’s frozen expression warded off any protracted speeches from Kelly, thank the stars and it held in place until the worst was over. The tension she’d been holding released  itself in one terrible squeeze of her wife’s hand, and in the letting go. She couldn’t be herself right now and the three of them would never be the three of them in a setting like this. She had been delusional to think that would happen.

The guide uncomfortably moved them along, and every child went, edging further and further away from Steph as they did. It was just the three of them in the back now. Reluctantly, Morgan slipped away from her wife and followed too.

She kept stride with Steph at the back for a few paces but did not look at her and did not speak. She didn’t know what she wanted to do, or what she should do. She only knew she wasn’t allowed any of it, per Steph’s pre teen boundaries. “I’d like to speak with you about this at home,” she said. Her voice was flat, emotionless, which was how Steph knew the extent of the damage she’d done. Morgan drew herself up, fixed her face into her bright, unflappable teacher self, then moved ahead to mind the other children.

Steph didn’t make a move to acknowledge her Mammy, she was too busy fighting back tears. Everyone was leaving her behind, no one liked her, no one understood her, and all she wanted was a sandwich and a nap and for today to have never happened. She tried to look through her hair and find her Ma without showing it, but the moment she registered her shape, she looked away again. As long as she didn’t see her face, she could hold out hope that her Ma wasn’t mad at her like everyone else.

It was Deirdre now who pleaded softly for Morgan to stay, her fingers recoiling at the empty air between them. The only thing she could manage was quiet whining, completely obscured by the museum heater and the guide’s monotone explanations ahead. Stay, her eyes told Morgan’s back, stay and let’s talk to her. But Steph wasn’t just Morgan’s daughter, she was her student, and she wanted to be treated as such. She made a big deal out of it; she wanted to be Steph not Persephone. But all Deirdre could see was their daughter, and the little girl that she was. With more resolve, she might have been able to give Steph what she wanted, but the last century had turned Deirdre into the sort of woman incapable of looking away. So moved next to her daughter and placed a hand on her shoulder. When that was slowly shrugged off, she pressed a kiss to the top of her head and didn’t mind the garbled complaint that never managed to be formed into any words. “I’m sorry it didn’t work, sweetie,” Deirdre said softly, burning to hold her daughter’s hand as she shoved them into her pockets. Steph sniffled, mumbling something Deirdre couldn’t hear and didn’t think she was meant to anyway. There was a lesson here to give, but Deirdre thought it would be cruel to make Steph listen to it now. “I love you,” she opted for instead. When her hand met Steph’s shoulder this time, she didn’t shrug it away.

“You’re embarrassing me,” Steph bit the inside of her cheek and mumbled in that sort of petulant way she did when she couldn’t admit what she actually wanted to say. In this case, four words. Deirdre didn’t mind it.

Softly, Deirdre asked, “Do you want me to leave you alone?” Steph nodded. “Are you going to be okay?” Steph didn’t respond. “Do you want to go home?” Steph nodded, then shook her head. “Do you want me to push Kelly down the stairs?” Steph let out a small, watery laugh, swiping at her eyes. She shook her head. “Do you want to talk to Mammy?” Steph looked up at Morgan, then quickly back at the ground. Heat rose to her cheeks, and Deirdre let her hand fall away from her daughter’s shoulder. “I’ll talk to her first, how does that sound?” Steph nodded and Deirdre reluctantly left her to catch up to the group on her own.

Beside her wife now, Deirdre wrapped her arm around her waist and leaned in slowly for a simple kiss against her temple. She tried her best to pull them back into their own little bubble again, out of earshot of the students. The guide seemed more enthusiastic as Kelly made it a point to ask questions, in a show of her best, irrefutable behaviour now.

“I remember when I was like that,” she started softly, “you’re only so powerful as long as you’re paid attention to; as long as you’re important. And it’s easy to make sure you’re the only person people are looking at.” She paused. The guide was leading them into the ‘Queens of Egypt’ section of the exhibit now, through a thin dark tube-shaped corridor illuminated by fluorescent recreations of hieroglyphics. They stopped inside to marvel at the art, Deirdre turned around to watch Steph’s lanky frame be coloured by blues and purples. “You know she wants to talk to you, right?”

Morgan shivered under Deirdre’s touch. It took most of her nerve not to melt into her completely. She watched Kelly hold court among the other students, the confidence in her shoulders and the swish of her hair. “I never had that,” she said.”Did it ever feel as great as it looked?”

But Deirdre hadn’t found her smooth out her hurt with dry repartee. Deirdre, and her absurd, unimaginable, wise love, was trying to fix their family. Morgan shook her head. “She wants to be something she’s not. Like that.” She nodded toward Kelly. “She wants everything we did. Because that’s just life, apparently.” But she slid her gaze back to her daughter, unable to help herself, and she remembered not being able to be small enough, good enough, enough enough, and she wanted Deidre to be right.

“What could we even say? I’m—not even me right now. It’s not like how we are at home. I shouldn’t have built up any idea that it would be in my head.”

Kelly was swishing through the crowd to get a better look at the jewels, trying to superimpose her reflection on them and decree them ugly at the same time.

Morgan turned her face into her wife’s shoulder, the better to hide the frustration on her face. “My gods, but I wish I could do something to Kelly besides write her up to the fucking office. That never does anything.”

“The unfortunate part is that it did, most of the time, feel just as great as it looked.” Deirdre sighed, pressing her lips to Morgan’s head again, hoping her wife would let her hold her closer, as if they weren’t meant to be responsible, respectable adults right then. “My love, who are you if you’re not you? Who are you meant to be right now?” Deirdre’s voice became soft, and her eyes softer. In time, her hand found Morgan’s and she squeezed. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting something to be good, you know that. There’s nothing wrong with having some hopes or expectations. I’m sorry the day wasn’t all that you wanted, but the day isn’t over just yet.” She smiled, wishing she could transfer some of her energy to Morgan. It was the death around her that buzzed like a beehive in her chest, and her love for Morgan that gave it all a home. But she was also not meant to be anyone’s teacher right now. She was wife and she was mother, and those were two things she could always be, and two things she always was. “I love you,” she said, “and I do think you are magic.”

Her eyes followed Morgan’s to Kelly who, in an agonizing play-by-play of Deirdre’s own school persona, held her head high and her smiles wide. “We could do something,” she mused. If Kelly really was anything like she had once been, all they needed to do was pull the rug out from under her feet. They could be vicious about it, even. But Kelly was still a child, and Deirdre didn’t know what felt fair. For her daughter, she would’ve done anything, for Morgan, she thought it was wise not to completely terrorize her student. Maybe they could get that attention back onto Steph, she knew a lot more about the ancient Egyptians than any of the other children. And she had things to say about death, and mummies and curses. But what if they only made things worse for their daughter, who sometimes seemed as though nothing was ever right for her? “I could make my eyes go black and pretend I’ve been cursed and then touch her. Maybe she’ll think she’s caught something and throw a fit. Or maybe you can throw your hand at her or…” Deirdre trailed off, “what do you think, my love?”

Morgan hid her face in Deirdre again as the last of her dry, stiff shell fell away. “I love you too,” she whispered. “And I’m sorry about everything until this point. I’m not helping, I know I’m not. I don’t know how you take such good care of us when I get all—” She sniffled and gestured vaguely, trusting her wife to fill in the missing words.

She thought Deirdre had some good ideas, actually. Most of hers involved fae allies they didn’t actually have at their disposal. A little staircase critter to bite the wedge heel off her shoes, some pixies to glamour her face into some really bad acne… before she knew it, Morgan was laughing as the images piled on. “It’s funny you mention my hand because I was actually kind of thinking of putting a finger or two in her bag and pretending to discover it. Or outsourcing some help to make her look foolish, but I haven’t spotted any ghosts and you would’ve noticed any fae by now.” She plucked her knife out of her purse and looked up at her wife, all herself again. “Is it too mean if you crack some glass in front of her so she thinks there really is a curse?”

“Don’t be sorry,” Deirdre said with a smile. “You’re not doing anything wrong.” Comfort was as easy to give as it always had been; love, understanding and patience had never been particularly hard. Not for her family. And it was even easier to say that Morgan was always worthy of her best care, just as Steph was. It was, of course, similarly easy to plan mischief. And Deirdre did so with a grin, and another kiss before silently securing the plan with Morgan and going off to get it all done. In her expression, sentiments that a century had made obsolete in the spoken word moved between them. Be careful was in her eyes, don’t hurt yourself was the way her lips curled up, and I love you was everywhere, but most of all the way her fingers lingered in the air after they parted. She caught Steph’s confused gaze back in the corridor, and winked.

Kelly had become bored, with no challenge to her position and the realization that now she did actually have to listen to the guide, there was nothing to do. She had begun tapping at the display glass, sighing and moping around as her friends tried desperately to find something interesting to cheer her up. When she reached a bust of Hatshepsut encased in glass, she traced the outline of her face with her fingers; the nose, the jaw, the eyes, over and over again as the guide struggled to keep the attention of the children.

“Hatshepsut had her own curse, you know,” Deirdre smiled at Kelly who, to her credit, did not care. And, to Deirdre’s convenience, wanted to be vocal about it.

“This exhibit sucks. The pharaoh’s are boring and no one cares about the queens.” Kelly sighed, forlorn in her disposition.

At once, Deirdre screamed, earning herself the gaze of every child and guide in attendance. Easily, she laughed the sound off, “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought something touched my shoulder! Must have been the heating.” As attention shifted away from Deirdre, it fell on to the display of Hatshepsut, now sporting web-like cracks under Kelly’s frozen fingers. The murmurs started quiet before they were an uproar of stating the obvious.

Kelly drew her hand back, “t-that wasn’t me! I didn’t do that!”

Morgan could only spare a moment to admire her wife as they parted. (Her achingly soft, beautiful wife with her forgiveness and her wisdom and her chaos. You would never guess who she’d been, would never imagine how much good she was capable of.) Slicing her own finger off was a trick she’d become very good at, but that didn’t make hiding it any easier. But Deirdre screamed and the eyes in the room turned and her knife went through her pinky, just above the knuckle. She cradled it in her palm, careful to keep as much of the black-green liquid that drooled off the skin as possible.

“Okay, everyone!” She called, bright and commanding as a teacher should be. She waded through the students and herded them along into the last room. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Kelly, come on honey, get away from there before anything else happens.”

Kelly nodded, whimpering, and didn’t think twice about nice Mrs. Dolan putting a hand on her back, or hovering by her open bag. Morgan dropped the finger in, smiling warmly at the girl as she did it. “Be careful,” she said, teasing gently. “The stories say broken glass foretold each death of the curse.” The stories said no such thing, but Kelly would never know that.

The little girl nodded, flushed with embarrassment, and hurried off to join her friends. Morgan patted her bag as if sending her off and pop. Out came one dead little pinky.

One of the students lagging behind screamed.

“Uh, Kelly?” Morgan called.

The other students at the back of the line were pointing, gaping at the finger with disgusted wonder.

“I wasn’t running, Mrs. Dolan, I was just catching up so I wouldn’t get lost.”

Morgan picked the finger off the floor and held it up high to make sure everyone else in the group saw it. “You dropped something, honey. Please tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

“Ew! I don’t know what that is, it’s not mine!” Kelly protested.

“I saw it fall out of her bag,” Connor McCarthy said.

“I saw it too! I thought I smelled something weird!” Soon students who were in front of Kelly had somehow sensed all along that she had a weird dead finger in her bag, and the more Kelly protested, the more everyone was convinced of the lie.

“We can settle this at school,” Morgan chided. “Come on, there are much more impressive dead bodies in the exhibit than whatever weird props your classmates are hiding.”

The guide, bless their heart, distractedly sped through their prepared speech of the last room, and after Morgan dragged Connor McCarthy away from the broken glass (he wanted to have just a piece as a souvenir), she was able to drift over to where Steph was: in the back, too bewildered to risk getting close to the others just yet.

“Hey, bugaboo,” she whispered, warm where she had once been cool. “Are you hanging in there okay?”

Steph couldn’t look at her Mam, her cheeks hurt from where she bit their insides to stop from laughing. And they burned where guilt and embarrassment scorched them red. She turned to look at her Ma, who was engrossed in conversation with the employees about the nature of the glass used, and if it was on the fossil exhibits too. Kelly was ahead, screeching about her innocence. And here was her Mammy, talking to her after everything. Steph wanted to say she was sorry, but ended up kicking invisible rocks away on the ground.

“Um,” she kicked at more rocks. “I know it doesn’t hurt but you don’t have to chop off your finger, it’s weird.” Steph’s face burned hotter, her gaze stronger on the tiles below. She didn’t want to say it was weird; it wasn’t weird. It was cool, even if it made her scared sometimes that it wouldn’t grow back one day. She wanted to say thank you, even if her heart was hammering in her chest and her eyes kept darting up to her Mam’s hand, trying to see if the finger had come back by now. Her mind raced and her tongue struggled to catch up. “I’m–Um–You’re…”

Slowly, in trembles and hiccups, Steph cracked. A flood of tears met her dark eyes and she turned to bury herself into her Mammy’s shoulder. She didn’t care who saw, it didn’t matter so much anymore. She cried like she was eight and had tripped over one of the garden rocks and wondered why it hurt so much, and why her insides were so red. She cried like it was movie night, and one scene of harsh flashing lights and loud banging scared her so much she had to hide behind her Mammy. She cried like Persephone might, and called for her Mammy without a care for how childish it sounded. She didn’t even mind being called bugaboo. She was happy her Mam was talking to her at all, and she had so much to say. But first there was, “I’m sorry.”

Morgan wrapped her arms around her daughter. What hurt she harbored was washed away by those little tears on her shoulder. “Oh, little bug,” she sighed. “I love you always. No matter what happens, no matter what you do, I love you always.” She kissed her head. “I forgive you, and we are okay, and you will be okay. Just as you are. Because that girl, the one you are when you aren’t pretending, she’s the best kid I know.”

She gave her another kiss and another squeeze, then looked up in search of her wife, and smiled bigger than she had all day when she found her. “I was thinking,” she said, “Why don’t we do something tonight, after we finish up with school. We’re all in town together for a change, and it’s October tomorrow, maybe we can make the most of it. See a show, go to that burger place you like so much, at least get an early start on Samhain season, huh?” She pulled back and brushed her hand over her daughter’s face to wipe her tears. “Think about it, at least. Let me know what you decide when we get back to school?”

Steph nodded quickly, laughing and sniffling through being fussed with. The back of her hand was good enough to wipe tears away with, but her Mammy’s hands were better and they buzzed and tickled wherever they went. Steph shivered from the cold and laughed again, meeting her Mammy’s eyes finally. “Yeah, I’d like that,” she said with a few more sniffles and laughs. “I love you too,” she mumbled through her hands.

When Deirdre met up with her daughter and wife, her arms went around both for as long as she could manage until Steph squirmed free. Ahead, one of the girls was waving and calling Steph over, and with her a few joined in, eager to get their classement to join them in whatever they were looking at. And when they noticed their teacher lagging behind too, they called out again. Excitedly, Steph looked between her mothers before taking her Mammy’s hand and trying to drag her forward. “We still have to go through the fossils! And I wanna see the mummy again before we go. Come on! Come on, Mammy! Ugh, you two move so slow.” Moving behind them, Steph tried to push her mothers from the back, finding that they were both much heavier and that the floor was much more slippery than she thought.

Deirdre laughed and urged Steph to go ahead without them for a moment, if only to steal time to kiss Morgan before she had to work again. “That seemed like it was pretty good to me,” she smiled.

Morgan took Deirdre’s hand and ambled slowly. She would catch up eventually, and maybe slip a tip to the guide for taking up some of her duties without being warned. But for now, her hope was brushing against her fingertips, better than any caress from the living. “It really was. Thanks to you.” She leaned against her wife as they walked, not caring how intimate they seemed to anyone.

Steph was already bouncing back and chattering with one of her real friends, holding her head just a little higher as she pointed out something in a photograph of the Book of the Dead. In the spring, she would be thirteen and even more like the vision Morgan had seen in a magic mirror more than an age ago. Morgan would hold her breath each day in fear that some horrible accident would force a pair of moth wings to cut through her daughter’s little back. A few more years beyond that, they would have to start seriously discussing what choices they would make for activating her if fate hadn’t made that choice for them already. And in the time after that, they would all have to learn how to be happy again, as everyone did at least once while they lived.

But for now, the little girl that made the seasons turn for Morgan was smiling and looking at her mothers with so much love it seemed impossible to imagine they could be parted. For now, home was more than an address in Ireland and a blue cottage never quite done. It was in the pressure of her wife’s hand, the glimmer in her daughter’s eye, the rush of affection in her own chest, better than any human heartbeat.

“Come on, my love,” Morgan said, rising on her toes. She kissed Deirdre’s cheek and pulled her ahead, quickening their pace. “Let’s not miss the best parts.”

[mor-beck-more-problems]

The Sweets We Wish For || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: This morning

LOCATION: Morgan & Deirdre’s house

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

SUMMARY: Morgan Beck, dead girl walking for fourteen months and counting, feels a world of difference.

CONTAINS: N/A

Morgan opened her eyes feeling like there were spiders crawling on her back. She jolted upright, kicking the sheets away and--- “What the fuck.” Morgan Beck, dead girl walking for fourteen months and counting, felt. She brought her fingers to the sheets and rubbed her fingers over the surface. There was that feeling again. This soft-but-prickly all over tingle, this swarm of something. Had silk sheets always been like this? Was something happening to her brain? Her nerves? Morgan retracted her hand and turned to Deirdre, who was already waking up beside her.

She opened her mouth, trying to do something other than gape in confusion at her. This couldn’t be a spell, right? Her energy didn’t react to magic that way. But then that weird preternatural dream thing had gotten her once. Was everyone’s senses dialed up to eleven? This didn’t make any sense. None of this made any sense. “...Babe, uh...something’s…” Wrong? Maybe? Or not? “This is gonna sound really weird, but can you touch me real quick? But just a little bit?”

Thunk, thunk, thunk—Kaden’s body tumbled gracelessly down a spiraling, never-ending set of stairs as Deirdre stood above, holding a squirming Morgan in her arms. Her mind told her that Morgan was simply dancing to praise the death of Kaden (as all ought to) but her body told another story. Warmth filled her senses one moment only to be lost in another. In bright spots, the vision of Kaden’s rolling body was replaced with the interior of their bedroom, and the Morgan in her arms was the Morgan sat up beside her. A strange expression played on her love’s face, and Deirdre groaned as her mind struggled to put pieces together. “Now…?” She mumbled, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palms. “At this hour?” Not that she was objecting, she wanted to explain, just that she was a little too tired. “If that’s what you want, my love.” With another groan, she rolled half on top of Morgan, pointing at their nightstand. “I think the bite guard and the handcuffs are back in there.” And with a yawn, she smacked her lips together and rested her head against Morgan’s shoulder, pressing a tired, gentle kiss to her cheek. “If you just give me a moment to wake up I can…” Deirdre trailed off, yawning again, this time expelling her hot breath across Morgan’s skin.

Morgan looked bewildered at her love, then at their window, where morning light was just barely coming through. Oh. It was still early. “I’m--no, not exactly--oh, my love--” Morgan tried to find words to explain what was happening to her, but she still wasn’t sure. As Deirdre came closer, her insides clenched. She didn’t know whether to dread her touch or ache for it. “W-wait--” Something’s wrong with my body. Or different. And do the sheets feel weird to you? Morgan could have said any of those, but she said nothing, because as soon as Deirdre’s head touched her, Morgan gasped and forgot how to make air flow. Then Deirdre was kissing her, and cold wasn’t enough of a word for it.

“Mother fucking Earth!” She cried, shrinking away. “That’s--you’re--” Morgan hovered her fingers over the spot where Deirdre had kissed her. She flinched, squeaking out a cry over her skin... “Cold! You’re freezing cold! And I’m cold! Or maybe it’s just our room that’s cold? And the sheets are--I don’t even know! I don’t know, I don’t know what’s happening, but I--” She held out her hands between them as if the answer might be written somewhere on them. Of course they weren’t, so she looked up at Deirdre, more bewildered than ever. “I-I...feel things. Like...feel-feel. Like before or maybe…even more.”

The early morning had its way of clouding the processes of the mind; Deirdre’s eyes grew wide as Morgan pulled away. Then they flickered shut as she pulled her hands back. It had been so long since someone shrieked at her coldness; for a moment, it spurred only bitter memories, a fog which threatened to color even Morgan’s old delight at her cold fingers, a delight she hadn’t seen in over a year. Deirdre’s eyes opened, finding thin streaks of rising sun spilling across their dark silk sheets. There was something about the morning. Deirdre snapped her attention to Morgan, her eyes grew wide again. This time, she was grinning.

“I’m cold!” Deirdre pointed at herself, tumbling off the bed, “I’m cold! That’s me!” It was too good to believe that Morgan was feeling her suddenly--this must’ve been some new sort of dream, the kind that felt too real--but as she nodded along to Morgan’s jumbled thoughts, she felt like it was the most clear assumption. She crouched down at the edge of the bed, looking up at her girlfriend. Slowly, she reached her hand out and trailed her fingers across Morgan’s. Deirdre paused there, watching her reaction before she continued and wrapped their hands together. Once upon a time, Morgan had tingled; she felt like fire against her skin. Their first night together Deirdre thought she might melt into Morgan. “Y-You’re still cold,” she said, brows furrowed together. It made sense for a zombie, of course, but not for this dream. Not for any drug she knew. Frantic, she pressed the back of her hand to Morgan's forehead, as if only her hands might’ve been suffering from poor circulation; she was cold—just as cold as Deirdre. “No, no, that isn’t right.” Deirdre fell back with a heave, lost in her thoughts.

Morgan finally brought her eyes up to Deirdre in the quiet, remembering how she felt about her skin as she tried to process her body. “I-I’m just--I didn’t mean to--” But when Dierdre looked up at her, she was smiling with more light than Morgan had seen in a long time.

She followed her love like she might hold all the answers, crawling to the edge in spite of how her skin twitched with surprise and reaching over to meet her fingers. This time, when they touched, it was slow. Morgan braced herself for the full body shiver that rippled through her. The familiar words she had spoken when she was alive rushed to her mind but after a year of dull pressure, nothing in her vocabulary seemed sufficient. “You’re--I don’t even know how to--” Tears rose to her eyes as she mouthed stupidly, struggling for words. “You’re soft and smooth and cold but you’re so alive, I can feel how alive you are when you touch me, you’re incredible--” Her words trailed off as she shivered, all her conditioning lost to time.

“I’m cold too?” She asked, slow on the uptake. Her skin was still ash white and she did have goosebumps all over. But as Morgan sat with the feeling, she decided her cold was more stiff and stagnant. It wasn’t the strange death-in-life plunge she felt when pressed against Deirdre. She followed her love to the ground and reached for her hand, hesitated, then brushed their fingertips together. “It’s been so long I can’t tell if this is how the world used to be or if something’s turned up my sensitivity to a million. But you’re--” Morgan moved her fingers to Deirdre’s lips, tracing the outline as lightly as possible and gasping with tears when she felt how much more delicate they were than the rest of her. She did the same with Deirdre’s ear, her hair, always with the lightest of touches. “You feel real. Like, more real than anything in my memories. This is real, I’m r-really--I’m here.” She let out a quiet, tearful laugh of amazement. “Can I kiss you? Um, gently? I’m still trying to process whatever this is, but I will never forgive myself if I pass up the chance to learn what it feels like to kiss you again.”

It must have been a strange dream then, destined to be cruel in its ending, but how could Deirdre deny the look of wonder upon her love’s face? The cynicism, the weariness inside of her, dissolved quickly under Morgan’s rediscovery. In that moment, it didn’t matter to her if she was caught in a dream, or if Morgan’s sudden feeling was a dangerous infliction, all she could remember were the evenings soaked with tears, the nights plagued by the loss Morgan suffered. Their lovemaking, contorted to Morgan’s desperation to feel. It was absurd to question that she would even consider freezing her love out of the sensations she deserved. Her happiness said enough for Deirdre. She burned where they touched, she whimpered where they parted.

“Yes,” she breathed, smiling wide. “Yes, please, my love.” Deirdre leaned in, stopping just shy of Morgan’s lips with all the trepidation of a first kiss. She would let Morgan close the distance between them, but in the seconds she waited in twisting anticipation, her eyes darted between her love’s own and then her lips, her ears, her hair. They all appeared unchanged, just as beautiful as she remembered—as magnetic as always. She’d never forgive Morgan either if she passed up the chance to kiss her now.  

Morgan trembled as Deirdre came close enough for her to feel her breath.”I forgot what morning breath smelled like,” she whispered, giggling. “How on earth do you put up with mine every day?” Before Deirdre could answer, Morgan guided her the rest of the way with her fingertips and brushed their lips together. Then again, and again, lingering in place. “Mmmm...more people need to kiss more banshees. Really--” Another kiss, more firm than before. “A much under-researched field of study. Because I don’t know what the words for this are anymore, nothing feels right enough.” She took Deirdre’s face and kissed her the way she wanted to for as long as she could until she couldn’t hold the unreal novelty of comfort and love rendered into something her touch could decode any longer.

“Have you ever heard of this happening? Should we be worried right now, or--” She trailed off, entranced by her sense of Deirdre’s hair. There was so much of it, a million little threads, so fine they felt like almost nothing by themselves but something like a cloud, maybe, when stroked by the handful. How could she have ever taken gentleness like her love’s hair for granted?

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot about—“ Deirdre’s sentence muffled against Morgan’s lips, forgotten in favour of a much more pressing matter. The kisses felt the same for her, of course, but that didn’t mean she was any less enraptured—kissing Morgan at any moment seemed to have that effect. “Well, I’ve always thought you’d look cute in a lab coat,” Deirdre smiled and stole a kiss of her own. “For science.” Deirdre could think of a lot of words to describe it, though Morgan was right, none of it could ever be accurate enough. “I love you,” she mumbled; that felt apt to say. She was reluctant to touch Morgan as they settled, worried she’d send her shivering back, so she kept her hands planted chastely on the carpet.

“Definitely worried.” Deirdre said simply, smiling with ease. The statement, however plain, did not upset or surprise her. “This sort of thing absolutely does not happen. Ever. Not unless someone slipped you some drug. Or this is a dream—though, is it yours or mine?” Deirdre hummed, playing with the thought for only a second. It didn’t matter. She glanced down at Morgan, watching amazement flicker across her features. “It doesn’t matter, my love. If you could see the look on your face, you’d know that too.” Days, weeks, haunted by mourning. Deirdre knew them well; she didn’t resent them, she didn’t even mind them, but her memories flared with them. Morgan curled under weighted blankets. Morgan floating atop their pool. The answer to her agony was partly this one simple thing: feeling. What did it matter if it was too good to be true? Many of the greatest things were: love, kisses, comfort and finding a fresh carcass under the summer sun. If this dream was going to end, it didn’t matter. Deirdre would be there, and she’d see them to a gentle end.

“If you can feel again, maybe we should take out the handcuffs…” Deirdre paused, “I’m joking. You seemed like you could barely handle the silk. Do you think you just need a moment to get used to everything again?”

Morgan let her hands fall to the carpet near Deirdre’s, just close enough that the space between them felt charged with their not touching. She tugged on the fibers, a little less unnerved by their density now that she knew what was going on. Then she looked at her love and might as well have been a teenager on her first date. “I never dream anymore,” Morgan said, leaning in again, her lips brushing Deirdre’s only when she pursed them to speak. “Or maybe I do now. Maybe it’s time for a nap. Cold pillows always did make me drowsy…” She shied away and ghosted her lips down her love’s neck and shoulder.

“I feel like...I absolutely want to try sex while whatever’s happening is happening, but also maybe doing that right now would be a ticket for a really not fun panic attack, So I--Earth and Stars, there is nothing in the universe that feels like you. You’re better than snow, better than anything I ever said, than anything I understand right now--” She kissed her shoulder and carefully brought her cheek down to rest there. “I love you. Adjusting sounds good. Maybe help me get downstairs for breakfast?” At the thought of food, Morgan sucked on her love’s neck. “Mmm. You’re salty-sweet. No surprise there, except that it’s way too addicting for someone this easily overstimulated.” She continued, inhaling deep and moaning at Deirdre’s scent. To her, it was as powerful as divinity. It made her think of cherries, sandalwood, and soft dark soil. And there was something else, bitter and intoxicating, something that had no memory or word besides Deirdre in Morgan’s mind, too fae to be categorized. “...hey, just so we’re clear, I’m still dead, right? You sense me like you did before?”

“Morgan…” Deirdre breathed, snapping her attention away. She flushed now, embarrassed to be treated as if she was the eighth world wonder. For a year now, Morgan hadn’t been able to say anything about the way she smelt, felt or tasted. It was almost too much to hear it all at once. Almost. Her fingers twitched, her body shivered as if sparks ran under her skin. “Definitely my dream then…” she mumbled, and then at once decided her theory of this being a dream was moot—there was too little murder and far too many compliments. Her mind didn’t usually conjure such creative images. But the wonder in Morgan’s voice and reverence in which she took Deirdre in, all of that felt like a dream. She closed her eyes, the carpet had begun digging into her palms, and she was sweating in ice cold droplets down her back. Her lips parted as she breathed. And in time, with a curse spilled in Gaelic against her tongue, she gave in and wrapped her arms around Morgan, holding her gently.

“You are still dead,” Deirdre explained, tangling her fingers in Morgan’s bed-messied hair. She was careful to be gentle, and more to be slow. She began first by playing with small strands of Morgan’s hair. “You still feel dead. I can feel you like a hand around my heart.”

Slowly, she took Morgan’s wrist in her grip. “I can’t feel a heartbeat, either.” Which only served to confuse Deirdre; nothing she knew about had this sort of effect. It must’ve been magic, she thought, but from where? By who? Why? Then she shifted, “here, shall we get up now and start moving?”

Morgan gasped to feel Deirdre around her all at once. She was a current and she was a rock, she was a body and a force of nature, she was melting and she was safe. Deirdre was more things in one movement than Morgan knew how to name or process, but she welcomed them all.

She sighed and went back to memorizing the taste of her love’s skin. “What if we try everything in the freezer until I can figure out what you taste like,” she suggested, only half-teasing. “You know, for scientific purposes.” She rose to her feet without letting go of Deirdre in the usual way she had. She was curious about the rest of the world in their house with the petrified wonder of a child, but she was more eager to re-discover her love in a new language. So she kept herself fastened to Deirdre’s side as they left their room and awkwardly climbed downstairs.

“Carpet is weird,” she mumbled. “I know it’s soft but it’s also kind of itchy and dense, right? It’s not one thing, I don’t know how we were so casual about walking barefoot on it for so—” Morgan’s foot slipped and her leg went out from under her and she reached for the bannister to steady herself but it was not enough and she fell the rest of the way, only a little slower now, until she finally stopped and landed on her clumsy foot. For one breath, everything was alright like it would have been the day before. In the next, pain rushed in.

Morgan had forgotten about body pain. Impact was one thing. Impact had become a comfort. When Deirdre made love to her, Morgan begged for more impact, more pressure. She wanted to be found. She wanted to know that love could pierce through the dullness of death even if it stung. This was different. Morgan felt the air on her raw skin as if for the first time, gasping and choking on how furiously it burned. And her leg. It was a little swollen, and her ankle didn’t look right, and when she tried to move it, the pain shot up all the way to her throat and she cried out, covering her mouth too late to smother the sound completely. There was hardly any blood, just a thin black smear down her calf and strips of skin scraped clean. It was fine. She was fine. Just hurt. Hurt was a feeling just like anything else. Then the flesh on Morgan’s leg moved and the bones in her ankle inched back toward their old shape and there was nothing within Morgan terrible enough to understand the preternatural agony of feeling her body try to mend itself on a hungry stomach. She curled in on herself, crying and trembling and screaming under her hands until there was no air left in her lungs.

Head tilted to the ceiling, Deirdre barked out in laughter, water growing in the corner of her eyes. With a pittering exhale, she pressed closer to Morgan. “Very funny,” she chastised, finding only amusement in her voice, “I don’t taste like anything frozen, I assure you.” Deirdre pressed a soft kiss to Morgan’s cheek as they rose, as if chasing her on the way up. “And I might get jealous if you mention the freezer too much.” Now it was her turn to tease and she did so with a bright smile, falling easily into step with her girlfriend. “I’ll think you’re trying to replace me.”

And in strange fortune and obvious curse, someone did end up tumbling down a flight of stairs. Not anyone she would have liked to, though. Deirdre reached for Morgan feebily, flesh slipping through her fingers. She rushed down after her love, just inches from tumbling down for herself. “Morgan--” She tried to speak over the screaming to a similar futile effort. She watched skin recede and bones recede into place; what was once a beautiful marker of Morgan’s zombism, now felt like a terrifying reminder of things out-of-place. What was worse, breaking a bone or having a bone snap back in place? How about both?

Deirdre crouched down, hadn’t she wailed just like this the first time one of her bones were broken? She wrapped one cold hand around Morgan’s now-healed ankle, as if trauma were only fiction; and pressed the other to her calf, equally ignorant to memory. “It’s okay,” she began calmly, just under Morgan’s crying, “you’re okay, just give it a moment. It’s okay.” She counted five beats before she tugged Morgan into her arms, sitting with her on their cold, dark hardwood. “Carpet is weird,” she answered slowly, “it’s kind of like wooly grass...if grass was that thick. Oh, my love, grass is going to feel so strange to you again. When I was a child, I liked to bunch it all up in my fingers and pull. I’m not sure why I did that. Must’ve been a nervous habit.” And when Deirdre was sure her nonsensical talk had lulled--though perhaps time had done that without her help--she kissed the top of Morgan’s head and looked at her. “How are you feeling right now?”

Morgan was grateful for the sudden rush of freezing softness that enveloped her through Deirdre’s arms. She couldn’t look away from her body, the skin papering itself over, the leg hair pushing through the new flesh, the swelling turning flat. She had never been afraid of this part of herself before. But now she caught each little mend with a prick and a whimper. Something was wrong. She couldn’t tell anymore which part of her it was, everything about feeling her insides race to fix themselves was very, very, very wrong. She should have been more worried. She should have been more careful.

Deirdre’s words finally reached her and Morgan latched on. Wooly grass. Handfuls of green earth in a child’s fingers. Yes, that sounded really good about now. Morgan took in a shuddering breath, then another. She closed her eyes. The pain was gone. All she was holding onto now was fear. When she opened her eyes again, there was Deirdre, filling up her whole world. “A little more nervous than I was a minute ago,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. She sniffled. “I probably should’ve figured feeling everything again meant feeling...everything again. I-it wasn’t a serious thing. When I felt it--” Her voice snagged on the memory and she eased herself slowly into Deirdre’s arms to push it away. There was her smell again, and the foral whiff of laundry on her robe. “It was just my ankle. I’m okay.” She said it a few more times to reassure herself as well. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.

Morgan breathed again and dropped as much of her fear as she knew how and held onto Deirdre just a little tighter instead. She kissed her love’s shoulder and lifted her head so her tremulous words wouldn’t get lost against her skin. “Maybe we could try to get to breakfast again? Nothing complicated. And maybe you can stay close while I try to get used to...existing, I guess? I-I know something bad is probably happening right now. And that scares me. But it also scares me that feeling the world again will have to stop. And I don’t want to spend all this time being scared.” She sniffled. “I want my life with you back.”

Deirdre pressed a hand to Morgan’s cheek, pausing just shy of roughly rubbing at her skin, thumb hovering in the air. The pressure she once needed to apply was habitual, woven into her body’s understanding of Morgan just as old memories of gentleness were. It took her only a second to adjust again, tucking loose strands of hair behind Morgan’s hair—promptly bounced free again with their fluffy nature—as she softly traced the bones of her face. “Everyone forgets about pain until it happens,” she smiled. “Paper cuts, stubbed toes…all of them hurt with the shock of it; no one wants to remember exactly how things hurt. And you shouldn’t worry; I don’t think you have to live your life worried about all the ways you can be hurt anymore. So,” Deirdre kissed Morgan as she helped them both to their feet, catching Morgan’s weight in case her ankle still tingled, “personally, I don’t know what there is to be nervous about. You’ll have to tell me if anything still makes you feel like that.”

At the mention of breakfast food, Deirdre eyed the stove, still several steps away. Since it was a little earlier than their usual waking time, the cats hadn’t stirred yet either, but she knew the sound of cooking would call them over like some kind of lighthouse to hungry, hungry shores. “How about pancakes?” She started one step at a time, slow and steady and careful. Left foot. Right foot. A pause to make sure Morgan was following along okay. Left foot. Right fo— Deirdre stumbled.

She was back to standing stiffly only a moment later, but for a second, she had stumbled. “Bad,” she repeated, gut churning and lips pulled thin. Yes, all of this probably did mean something bad, she knew that. She had been thinking that. But it was different to hear it confirmed from Morgan. “I-I’m sure it’s not that bad,” she argued nervously in a soft voice, “I’m sure it’s nothing to really be worried about at all.” She smiled thin, anxiously tugging Morgan closer to her. Bad had only been a thought until now, but if Morgan thought so too then…we’ll, it was rare that both of them were ever wrong. And as much as Deirdre knew about death, she wasn’t any sort of zombie expert. This peculiar sudden burst of feeling wasn’t normal, and didn’t come with the warmth or heartbeat it should’ve if it was a drug. She didn’t know what it was, and that frightened her too. “You’re going to be okay,” Deirdre was nearly angry in her insistence. There was a good possibility that Morgan wasn’t suddenly becoming more alive but turning more dead. Deirdre refused it. “Right?” She begged, dragging herself flush against Morgan. If Morgan was going to die again, she wouldn’t know, and that was a fact that terrified her everyday. Deirdre liked knowing things, most people did. “I don’t—I don’t want to spend this time being scared either. But, I…” she swallowed thickly and closed her eyes. “I love you so much, Morgan. Always. If this is something bad can we just…can we just…” She wanted to suggest forgetting it for now, but thought about how much worse it would be to not know. Caught between the two ideas, she floundered for a moment before she gestured for them to keep walking. It was okay. It was okay. It was okay.

Morgan lifted her tear-stained face to her love and watched her thoughts play out on her expression with avid devotion. She strained upwards to caress Deirdre’s jaw with little kisses as she gave her wisdom (because that was something Morgan could do now; she could be so gentle, and so tender, and feel every ripple of sensation at the same time) and nodded along with the plan she was constructing to supplement her own in such a way that her cheek rubbed against Deirdre’s skin.

“Pancakes sound perfect. But you’ll have to stay extra close in case I burn my hand on the skillet again,” she said, voice light. She had gotten better, but the skillet liked to get the better of her and her once-dead nerves at least once a week.

Then Deirdre stumbled and her wise and wonderful confidence fell away and Morgan ached with how clearly her fear was imprinted on her body, her touch. “Hey…” She said. “We don’t know anything for sure. For all we know; this is just my White Crest trauma talking. But either way, I’ll be okay. I’m dead, not gone. And it is really, seriously hard to get rid of me at this point.” Now that she was speaking up to soothe her love, Morgan’s words came easier. She sounded so confident she almost started to believe herself.

Morgan kept still and held herself in place with Deirdre, who was getting desperate to submerge them safely away from their concerns. “I’m okay,” she said again and turned Deirdre’s face to look down at hers. “I love you too. More every day and always, always, Deirdre. And I am okay.” She kissed her as tenderly as she knew how and lingered, forehead pressed to forehead. “Neither of us want to live in fear and neither of us want to ignore a chance to be proactive about finding out what’s happening. So I’m thinking…we give ourselves today to be happy. I want to sample everything there is to sense in our little world. I want to learn the right words of everything I’ve been missing out on. I want to know how it feels for you to have your way with me. I want to feel you and everything that makes up my life like I never stopped. And tomorrow, we can start looking for answers in whatever White Crest bullshit is going on now. Tomorrow, not a minute before.” Another kiss. “So no eulogizing. Just be with me. Show me how life is. Okay?” She pulled back and gave Deirdre a bright smile. “And, most importantly of all: decide if you’re brave enough to try my brain sausage with your pancakes.”

On the days where fear grew large and vicious, where the loss of Morgan was fanged and snarling, Deirdre kept herself afloat with a small hope; a tiny idea that she could trust in the world allowing them to have the space they’d so carefully carved out. Didn’t they deserve it? Though, the more Deirdre followed that line of reasoning, the worse she felt; she was a murderer, torturer, apathetic and destructive weapon of a creature. What she actually deserved was very obvious. So, she never let herself think that far. She let her thoughts rest on her small hope, praying it wouldn’t be crushed one day—and of all days, not today. Deirdre closed her eyes and let Morgan’s words wash over her. Her small hopes always felt a little stronger with Morgan there. “Okay,” she breathed, opening her eyes. “I’m sorry. I love you.” And meeting Morgan in a kiss of her own—it was of Deirdre’s expert opinion that kisses be divided equally among them, as she explained to Morgan many days ago, stealing kisses when she could—her hope stretched and smothered her fear for the moment and she smiled again. Morgan said she was okay, and Deirdre chose to believe it. “Just don’t expect brains to feel like normal meat. It’s a little more creamy, or like jelly depending.” She paused, “I’ve had some of your brains before.”

It was easy then, to move forth as though things were truly okay. Morgan was in her arms, touching her, kissing her. Her hands rose to Morgan’s face, keeping her still, tracing pores and the lines her tears followed when they spilled. She kissed her again, sealing her hope there and pulled them along to the kitchen. She left Morgan to get acquainted with the countertops and the tile as she fetched ingredients: flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, milk, eggs, butter. The flour rained in small spurts when she put everything down, looking at Morgan. “How do you want to do this?” Deirdre smiled, knowing their usual division of labour was Morgan doing most (all) of the work and Deirdre doing the odd cutting job and the dishes at the end. This time, though, she wanted to do more. Her excitement portrayed in her holding the pan up, deferring to Morgan.

Morgan skated her toes along the tile. She remembered pretending to be Nancy Kerrigan in her worn out socks when she was a kid. The kitchens she’d grown up in had never been as smooth as this. The holes snagged on little chips and rough patches. She could only do circles a few feet wide. But the summer was humid. There was something slick about their wide, polished tiles, and she could spread the tips of her toes as far as she could reach and glide as if they were a single, icy blade.

She giggled, and looked up to explain to Deirdre, when she saw her love holding out the cooking pan, a look on her face that made her seem brighter, younger, than she had been in some time. It was almost impossible to misread her expression, so inviting, pleading but in the kindest way. Morgan couldn’t help but answer her smile with one in return. “Um…” She was strangely bashful, having Deirdre’s attention in this way, teaching her something they could share in for once. Morgan’s hands, ever curious, were dancing over the stovetop and over to her arms, which made her jolt with a sweet plunge of cold. “Well, the pan goes on the stove, and you turn the knob on low so it can preheat…” She guided Deirdre through the movement, starting to enjoy the gradations of goosebumps their closeness sent through her body. Somehow, they reminded her of the way water ripples looked. “And then we get to start the batter. Do you want to crack the eggs for me, farmgirl? I could use some strong fae muscles to help me out.” She batted her eyes, feigning the role of a damsel in need before laughing once again and reaching for the requisite measuring cups. Morgan made pancakes so often, she barely had to take her eyes away in order to find all her tools. But that didn’t stop her from sliding her thumb around the plastic and the rubber grips on the handles. She laid them all out and took a moment to consider what a miracle it was to have so much beauty in so many ordinary places, right at the tips of her fingers.

Morgan smoothed her hands over the countertop and pressed, with a delighted gasp, into her love. “Do you want to run the mixer too, babe?”

Whatever complaints Deirdre had about being shown how to work a stove, as if she didn’t know, shivered under the delight of having Morgan show her at all. She gasped at the fire, as though she couldn’t believe it, and nodded enthusiastically at being led along. It ended far too soon for her liking, but there was only so much to do with a pan. “Yes!” And, excited at the prospect of helping, Deirdre nearly forgot about the teasing. “Oh, right,” she coughed and was quick to correct herself. “Wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.” But what should have been a smirk was a bright grin instead. Deirdre could crack eggs with one hand, which was all the better for her so she could use the other to pull Morgan close. As the mixer whirred, bringing everything together in a light and sweet-smelling batter, Deirdre had moved completely behind Morgan, arms wrapped around her waist. “I love you,” she mumbled against her neck, “and is it too late to say I wanted blueberry pancakes?”

For the rest of it, she cooed and hummed as Morgan worked. There were simple sensations that even she had taken for granted; the warmth of the skillet, the uneasy weight when it came to flipping a pancake, the sweet smell, the burnt smell. Deirdre gestured silently where Morgan should keep her fingers now, in case she forgot; don’t burn yourself here, remember you need to use the handle like this. But it was like nothing had changed from their first few mornings together, intertwined as breakfast was prepared. Where the sun was warm and the wind cool. It wasn’t like they didn’t share mornings in the wake of Morgan’s death, just that it was different. Deirdre always felt odd being the only one to enjoy a meal, even if Morgan said she didn’t mind. It always felt better when they could share things.

Deirdre moved and readied plates and silverware for them. Stirred by the sounds of cooking, and the scent of it, the cats emerged slowly from their slumber, walking and howling like drunk sailors towards them. Anya, despite being told not to, pounced on the counter, pawing at spoons before Deirdre scooped her up and turned her towards Morgan. “Hey,” her voice was soft. Their pancakes were done, and there was just one aspect of their domestic life that remained unfelt, un-petted. Moira was on her way to Morgan’s feet. Niamh had claimed the center island, also jumping up where she shouldn’t. Deirdre moved a little closer. “Do you want to…” her sentence trailed off, “I can plate everything up, if you want.”

Morgan stared at Anya, who blinked back at her with wise indifference. Of all the feelings she’d lost, Anya had been the strangest, because there was nothing to recover when the cat was too put off by her death smell and the trauma of their bond breaking to go near her. By the time they made up a few short months ago, she was all out of practice and the best she could think of was “cat” which was no association at all. She looked to Deirdre next, and saw that her love understood what she was offering. A piece of a life half-forgotten. A piece of herself that could never be fastened back in place but might be collected, carried for safekeeping. Morgan nodded without saying anything and took the cat into her arms.

By now, Morgan was coming to accept that ‘soft’ would never contain everything that belonged to it, but Anya and her fine short fur seemed to be at least three different kinds of soft at once. There was the tender flesh of her ears, which stayed on alert until Morgan scratched her under the collar the way she liked. Then the shorter hairs under her chin, almost like fuzz. Her toe beans, which tickled Morgan’s skin. Her sleek black coat. She was a lean thing, fit from her daily hunts. You wouldn’t think there was much to cuddle, but the fine hairs grew thick and Morgan felt whole bunches of softness between each finger as she carded them across her back. So this was what having a friend back felt like, soft leather paws pushing against skin, the scratch of cat claws, and a soft (so, so soft) little body warm against your chest.

Morgan looked at Deirdre again. “Um why don’t we...we could eat in the great room? Put on a fire and watch the snow. We might as well enjoy all the strange magic we’ve been given at once, right?”

Moira sat on her toes and mewled pitifully, wanting a turn. Morgan’s eyes blurred as she knelt to pick up the kitten with her other arm. She was so fluffy, so light, Morgan couldn’t believe how deep her fingers sank into her fluff in order to cradle her properly.

“I’ll just...I can meet you there?” She said, her thanks written all over her watery face.

Morgan relished every brush of movement and contact. Wood floors (very cold), fancy rug (even stiffer than normal carpet), cats scratching, cats wriggling, cats using her as a diving board and a jungle gym, firewood, kindling, poker. And then pillows, blankets, and cats again. They drifted through her, it threw her with the force of a wave. And yet the ocean wouldn’t have been half as overwhelming, as far as she could figure, because it was all one thing. The wave that threw her into stillness was at least a dozen different sensations, a world’s worth of being she hadn’t thought to appreciate.

By the time Deirdre arrived with breakfast, Morgan had done up the floor by the prickly-toasty-warm fireside to be comfortable for them. She sat on a pillow, legs tucked up, one hand still stroking Moira, who she decided reminded her of clouds and feathers and those awful fur pillows that had been popular when she was young. Her smile turned wide and sloppy with delight. “That looks amazing! Pretty excellent teamwork, if I say so myself. This might sound weird, but I’m having--none of the words I’m familiar with seem enough to describe how everything feels. Like you’re soft, and Moira is soft, but not in the same way at all. It’s probably just the novelty of everything, but I was wondering--how would you describe the way blueberry pancakes taste?”

Deirdre watched Morgan leave with a warm smile; she didn’t need to read her love’s expression to guess at what might be floating around in her head, but even so, she desperately wanted to ask. It was a gift, always, to hear Morgan’s thoughts with her own voice, said her own way. She plated their breakfast with care, arranging everything as she’d seen it done at the sort of restaurants they didn’t frequent anymore and just the way Morgan used to like everything—extra blueberries and a handful of blackberries on the side. Coming into the great room with everything on a tray, she figured the only thing separating this from the mornings she once coveted was the denial of romantic feelings. And the extra cats. But it was so much better like this; the moment in time they never got to have. The promise of a long domestic life filled with feeling; their world. Their slice of paradise and heaven; that dusk-covered beach with the stars. “My love,” Deirdre greeted, settling herself and the tray on the floor. Morgan’s smile wasn't the only one messy with affection and delight. She had never learned how to describe how anything felt, and she wasn’t even the one who lost feeling.

Deirdre poured maple syrup from the ceramic jar over her pancakes slowly as she thought about it. “You once said…” She offered the jar to Morgan. “That I felt like melting snow in your hands, the first time you held some. Like that cold pool, that one summer day.” Deirdre paused, watching syrup run down her stack of pancakes. How did anyone describe how pancakes tasted? How love felt? How happy some moments were? “Memory,” Deirdre looked up, “I think you describe things with memories. Blueberry pancakes are sweet and tart, but they taste like Sunday mornings before prayer, in August when the fruit was ripe and my mother faithfully marked the day as rest. They taste like one moment's peace, one good day, one allowed indulgence.” Deirdre cut a piece, stabbing her fork into the fluffy delicacy and holding it just shy of her mouth. “Words are often inadequate, they’ve been like that before this…” Deirdre stopped herself. She wanted to call it a miracle, a dream, but didn’t want to test the world. She’d heard some things said about curses and intentions and minimized emotional footprints, and while she never believed a word of any of that, she didn’t want hopes to run too high. “…surprise. I wouldn’t worry about a lacking vocabulary; even if the words did exist, they wouldn’t tell me that my coldness felt like falling in love. But you did, your memories did.” Finally, she put the bite in her mouth. It was sweet, it was a little tart, but mostly it tasted like Sunday. And some of this moment too. “I mean to say; I am soft, kind of like a squishy ice cube. Moira feels like a hairy cloud. But far more like that first day we got her, and it felt like everything would fall into place, like relief, reprieve. New life. And this fire is warm, but to me it feels like the first time we had sex, and I thought you had a fever. Did I ever tell you that I tried to check your temperature while you were sleeping? I couldn’t believe anyone could be that warm, but I didn’t exactly keep a thermometer at my bedside.” Deirdre turned her attention to the flames, reaching up for more as they always did. “What does everything feel like?” She looked back at her girlfriend, “the pancakes, the cats, the fire…does it remind you of anything? What words do come to mind?” She paused again, breaking into a grin. “And yes, it was excellent teamwork.” Most things they did were.

Morgan ate as Deirdre spoke. She wanted the pancakes to taste the way listening to her voice felt. She was so thoughtful, so patient, and when she paused over her ideas just as Morgan bit into her fluffy-heavy-buttery-melt-y pancake and a fresh sweet-tart-slightly-satin-skinned blueberry burst between her teeth, Morgan thought she understood what Deirdre meant by a Sunday’s reprieve. A quiet and wonderful relief, a present that arrived just in time.

As her love went on, Morgan tried to make everything work with one hand while studying the room, the light, and the strange little textures around her. She wanted to braid the whole room into Deirdre’s words so that when she touched the couch, her heart would feel as warm and light as it did right now. “A squishy ice cube,” she echoed, laughing tipsy on happiness. “Sounds a lot better than fleshy water. But I understand what you mean.” She shoveled another bite into her mouth and held it there until the pancake turned to mush on her tongue before swallowing. Then another.

“The funny thing is, with how much I doubt my memories of things sometimes, I’ve already started trying to turn everything I touch into feelings. Like, kitchen stuff,” Morgan twirled her fork as an example, “Feels like some of the early days, wanting to do something nice to impress you or make you proud. The bones in my art feel like forgiving myself. The bones everywhere else feel like discovery or wanting to belong. My books all feel like whatever I felt reading them, or how I used them. But, let’s see…” She paused to eat some more as she tried to puzzle the images and heart-feelings she subsisted on into words. “Moira feels like being a kid at the end of a good day and thinking tomorrow might be even better. Naimh feels like wanting to do better. Anya feels like missing someone who’s still here.The fire feels like that heavier grown-up kind of hope, the kind we have at Yule and Beltane. I’m still deciding on the pancakes, though. There’s at least six different textures and flavors in one bite, it boggles my mind that we shove all of it into two words.” It took everything in her not to smile with her mouth full as she shoveled another bite.

“Normally, everything is so dull there’s hardly any variety. Like, our couch and the carpet: totally different material, but absolutely the same to me unless I really try to pick the carpet fibers apart. And the floor, and the stone mantelpiece, same thing. It’s just hard or soft, solidly together or kind of coming apart. And when it comes to softness…” Morgan paused and looked away from her plate as she scraped her plate clean. She didn’t want the last bite to taste like the heavy feeling building in her chest. “So much of it’s the same. The only difference is the shape. How much of me it covers. If I closed my eyes, I’d only know you were kissing my cheek instead of touching it with your finger by the sound and the shape of it. It’s not a bad kind of same. It’s like cotton balls and moth wings and those chunks of lint you have to pick out of the dryer, or that’s what I decided early on anyway. But it’s been just as long since I felt those things too. So of course it doesn’t always do the trick, especially when I’m low. But I still feel emotions every day, so it’s easier to trust that your hands feel like wanting to be faithful and your hair is like longing for a gentler world and your chest is being certain I’m safe…” She reached over and touched each part of Deirdre as she named them, shivering as she tried to memorize this new, vivid touch.

Morgan crawled closer. She picked up a blueberry and fed it to her love and kissed her. “Your lips feel like saying I love you,” she murmured. She grazed her lips over Deirdre’s cheek, then stilled, pulled back. “You’re warmer,” she whispered, as though she had discovered this phenomenon for the first time. She slipped her hand under Deirdre’s robe and felt her shoulder. She bunched her hair in each hand. “The fire’s making you warm!” She laughed, loud with amazement. “Do you know what you feel like when you’re warm? You at least know it’s different, right? But it doesn’t make me think of being sick or worried. It’s…not really warm enough to be toasty but it’s nice?” She ran her hands over the same places again, then her lips. “You feel like you but..new. Has anyone ever told you that before?” She snaked her arms around Deirdre’s body and tried to cover herself in the feeling.

“I know I was overstimulated like an hour ago, so I’m gonna let you be the level-headed one and decide. Okay?”  Morgan mumbled into her back, “I want to feel the rest of you, all of you. If I only get one day of this, I want to find all the different ways you feel like and melt my brain trying to name them all. Also, have hot cocoa again. And pie. And maybe build a snowman. And try on all my sweaters. But mostly you. Like right now maybe, while you’re warm? And then later tonight, when you’re cold again. And then maybe a few more times for good measure.” She kissed the back of her neck. “Sometimes I forget how much it broke me in the beginning, not being able to feel you the way I used to. Sometimes I don’t understand it. But I get it now. Your body is a whole world of wonderful things. And I could discover it for the first time all over again. ...Please?”

Deirdre never did take another bite of her breakfast. Her attention was captured by Morgan, watching her love as she spoke. Deirdre’s lips parted with each pause, silently encouraging Morgan to continue. Their worlds were different, and Deirdre had never stopped wanting to hear of Morgan’s. Anya, to her, felt like old memories. Niamh like loss, love, and the cold tingle of Lydia’s pearl hair. And Morgan, like everything good. Deirdre shivered under her touch, her eyes remained on her girlfriend and faithfully she sat and held her plate of forgotten pancakes. Her tongue curled around the blueberry offered, sweet juice burst under her teeth. Yes, yes she was warmer, very warm for a lot of reasons and only some of them had anything at all to do with the fire. “I hadn’t noticed,” Deirdre lied, flushed and grinning. And no, no one had ever told her that. No one had ever told her half these things. “Would you still say that knowing being hot makes me feel feverish?” She tried to joke. It came out as a rasp. She feared her mind was being too transparent with its ideas. She set her plate of pancakes aside; she wasn’t very hungry. Well, not for them at least.

One could imagine her excitement to learn Morgan was on the same page. “Hm,” Deirdre hummed, “only because you said please.”

It was true that for her, kissing Morgan felt just as it always had; like coming home for the first time. It was true that she had never lost the world of feeling and memory that Morgan gave. Touching her was walking down her favourite roads, looking up at the stars and choosing to let them guide her someplace. Her fingers tangled in her hair were the days spent sprawled in meadows uncaring for how the sun slowly hid behind the horizon in an explosion of pinks and oranges. Loving her was, as it always had been, the best thing that ever happened to her. Moments with Morgan always felt ripped from reality, placed in their own special glass-bottle world. But moments like these didn’t have a name and were too many feelings to let just one be picked. Deirdre described it simply as “I love you” said with the same rapturous affection every time.

Which, over the course of the day, was 192 times.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Turn to Loathed Sours || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: Current

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

SUMMARY: The sweets we wish for turn to loathed sours, even in the moment that we call them ours.

Morgan’s senses aren’t the only thing about her body that’s changing, and she can’t avoid facing it any longer.

CONTAINS: medical blood: references to first aid, stitches (not described)

Morgan’s arm healed from her injuries at the coffee shop eventually. But the ones she had collected that evening (a tiny burn from the pan and cat scratches from playing too roughly with Anya) hadn’t yet. That was over a day ago. And now she had new injuries. Serious injuries she couldn’t hide or brush off. A stupid fenodyree who’d gotten comfortable under the stairs at the bookshop pulled her ankle and bit the side of her foot. When Morgan prised it off (it hadn’t liked the taste of her after all), it bit a chunk off her forearm out of spite.

She sat in her car on the driveway, still trembling with fright and pain. She wasn’t sure how she’d managed to get home. It probably had something to do with urgency, and not looking at the damage done. Underneath her torn sweater, her skin was whiter, deader than she’d ever seen it before. There were fresh, sickly looking waves of green and yellow marbling along her blue and purple tones. The skin around the injury felt thin and dry, and what flesh she could see under the surface looked...wrong. Or at least wrong for her. She’d eaten enough animal corpses to know what rotting tissue looked like.

Maybe she needed to switch to a human brain to get herself back into shape. Those were more filling anyway, right? Maybe she could call Erin, tell her it was an emergency, and she’d do the hard stuff, she just needed a point of contact, a name, something. Or maybe she could try eating a supernatural brain, that might do something different. She hadn’t tried bies before. Maybe they were more...fortifying, somehow. And if her body was getting a little less magical, maybe some mundane treatments could help. A little Advil, a little neosporin, and a heavy duty band-aid could go a long way. Plus, stitches, if she really needed them. No one she passed during the day would think much of her sporting fresh stitches.

But as Morgan tried to bargain out a solution with her body, a small, tired voice inside her asked, What if there’s nothing? What if this is how you have to pay? What if it doesn’t stop?

No. There was a way to fix this. She just had to find it.

Bracing herself, Morgan limped out of the car and came inside her house. She dropped her keys in the bowl and made a beeline for the kitchen. She would stop being a baby about losing her zombie pain tolerance, patch up her injuries, eat, and figure this out. Everything would be fine. In fact, everything was already fine, she just didn’t know it yet. But it was. It was.

Neglected under her journey to New Zealand, Deirdre’s garden was repairing itself nicely. Her lilies had come into bloom along with her wine-coloured dahlias. Carefully, she cut herself a bouquet, eager to show Morgan her work and ease whatever guilt she might’ve felt for letting the garden fall into disrepair in the first place. The cats, lazing by her feet in the garden, rose first to signal Morgan’s arrival. Deirdre followed them with a smile, dirt under her nails and more on her overalls. Sweet floral notes lifted from her bouquet, intertwined with her scent of earth and sweat. When she greeted Morgan, she did so with a running kiss, pressed gentle and eager to her cheek. Then with a large step backwards, extending her bouquet. “You should take a smell--” Her delight was simple, clear. In the moments that followed, it withered.

“My love,” Deirdre urged, eyes drawn first to her torn sweater, then back up to her face--paler than it ought to be. She was bluer in the lips, more purple around the eyes. She considered where they were--the kitchen--and concluded that Morgan had come for a meal. Sometimes she forgot to eat, it wasn’t often, but in her new state of feeling, perhaps the joy of coffee and pastries had overwhelmed reminders to feed as a zombie ought. Deirdre decided she should worry. She smiled again, wider, thinner, nowhere near her eyes. The flowers were set down on the kitchen island. “Are you…” Okay? The word wouldn’t leave her lips. Okay? The word was a gurgle in her throat. Okay? A twitch in her lip.

Her eyes fell back to the sweater; the strange way Morgan moved, like her foot was asleep. Her gaze dropped to the floor. “...okay?” She said finally, knowing there was no way to avoid the question.  

Morgan hadn’t meant for Deirdre to see her like this. Of course it would look bad. In the instant her love approached and kissed her cheek, Morgan tried to hold onto her, murmuring, “Hey, how’s my farmgirl? Your flowers look beautiful, and the--” the smell was lovely. Earthy and powdery and fragrant in a way people only called floral because there was nothing else like it in the world. But before she could try to put any of that into words, because if she just held onto this moment, everything would be fine and Dierdre would know it was fine and she could figure things out as she went, listening to her love talk about her day. But she could only hold onto Deirdre so much with one arm, and before she’d even pulled back Deirdre saw everything.

“Yes!” Morgan said, shrill and too quickly. “I just, um…” She searched for the words but she struggled to find words that didn’t imply VERY NOT OKAY. “There was one of those staircase fae, at the bookstore? The little furry guys that like to yank you down and eat your feet? And so I took a little tumble and he took a bite out of my foot, and he didn’t like how I tasted, but he didn’t like being pulled off either, so he took a little more when I pulled him off, but he’s fine! Totally, completely fine! I was startled, so I threw him kind of roughly, more than I meant to, but he definitely got up and scrambled back safely on his own!” If she focused on the stairs and the fae, she wouldn’t have to talk about what was much more obvious: that she had lost whole pieces of her at the two story bookstore, a half hour drive away, and her wounds were still fresh.

Morgan shuffled away, intending to make a very normal stroll to the fridge and see if feeding herself everything they had in there would make a difference, but as soon as she put pressure on her foot, she went rigid and gasped with pain. “It’s fine!” She said, struggling to get her air circulation back in her lungs. “Definitely nothing serious. I didn’t even lose my toes! I just, uh...haven’t finished healing yet.”

Why was it always fae? Deirdre frowned, she wished there was some way to tell all of them not to hurt this one person (the times she did try, she was met with a lot of “well, all humans look the same”). She wanted to fixate on the faeness of the attack; she wanted to apologize for her people and explain that she really was trying to tell as many fae as possible not to eat her girlfriend. She wanted the words that left her mouth to agree, she wanted the smile to remain. “The bookstore?” Instead, she said this. “...which one?” Instead she frowned, she shifted, her fingers twitched at her side, desperate to reach for Morgan and soothe a problem that didn’t exist. The closest bookstore was a comfortable ten minute walk; a small place with an adequate selection of new releases and classic novels. It didn’t have stairs. Morgan took her car, Deirdre knew this because the beeping lock was what had perked Moira’s ears up first. There was another, about a five minute drive, smaller than the first. It sold mostly board games and housed a small case of used books. There was one stone step to get inside; gapless. The big one with two floors was half an hour away. It had the kind of wooden staircase with the empty space underneath and the big gaps between the steps.

Deirdre didn’t care much about what happened to the fae that bit Morgan, but forced herself to smile and nod anyway. Really, it could’ve been a ten minute drive if traffic and law were ignored. Which Morgan must’ve done, feeling famished from all the missed meals in favor of coffee and pastries. Though, hadn’t she just seen Morgan eat some brains yesterday? No, no, must’ve been another meat. How could she know? She wasn’t paying attention. Maybe it was just a nibble; nibbles didn’t count. Morgan stumbled and Deirdre rushed to her side, quick to loop her arms around her love. “Of course,” Deirdre smiled, “but let’s just...let’s just have you lean on me a little, okay? I think there’s some leftover brains in the fridge from...whatever you were cooking, right? And there’s more in the freezer! I found a moose, so that’s there. And it’ll be cold and unseasoned but it’ll be…” Deirdre’s voice cracked and she swallowed the nervous tic away. “Come on, my love,” Deirdre assured softly, opening the fridge with her free hand. “We’ll get your food, and I’ll take you over to sit and...well, maybe you just need a bandage and some rest. You had to drive all the way over here, and that--maybe that’s why--you should eat, right?”  

Morgan hated that she’d promised herself not to blatantly lie to Deirdre. It made answering direct questions she didn’t want to a special kind of painful. “The...big one.” She squeaked after a silence. The big chain bookstore with fancy staircases with little gaps that were just fae-tastic, a half hour away if she took the interstate. Morgan didn’t look at Deirdre as she answered. She didn’t want to know what it looked like as she put the timeline together. She didn’t want to see Deirdre grow worried. If she did, she’d want to comfort her. And she could only comfort her so much without lying.

She leaned on Deirdre as she was asked and gave her a little squeeze, and thumbed the flannel shirt she’d appropriated from Morgan’s own closet. Her overalls were a little damp and cold, there were grainy flecks of earth from the garden work she’d been doing. She was as soft all around as she was within, and all Morgan wanted was to rest there until everything stopped hurting and her body snapped back to being its old self. But Deirdre’s voice was growing thin. Morgan thought she could almost hear cracks of distress spreading over her heart.

“Yes! Yes, that’s perfect, my love,” she said. “Just get me to the great room with the first aid tub, and I can patch myself up from the couch, okay? And you can heat up the leftovers we have and everything else in a bowl. It’s too cold to have them raw. And then--” Then there wouldn’t be anything left in their power to do tonight. Then the future would keep going, smooth as ever, or it wouldn’t. Morgan’s lips trembled as she searched for the certainty she so desperately wanted. She stilled them with a kiss to Deirdre’s cheek. “Then you’ll sit with me, and tell me how the garden is doing, and let me smell those flowers. Just one thing at a time, okay?”

The big one. Deirdre wore worry in her eyes, smile pulled thin. The big one, she kept repeating it in her head hoping it would become less true. “That’s…that one is quite a drive away, isn’t it?” There had to be something said about asking questions she already knew the answers to. She didn’t say anything more about it, and simply nodded as she helped Morgan into the great room. When she was safe on the couch, she fished free their first aid supplies and placed them on the coffee table, then she pushed the table closer to Morgan. “You shouldn’t do it yourself, my love,” Deirdre said softly, “it hurts more when you do it yourself.” That wasn’t a claim founded by any science, but it was all Deirdre could do to keep from running around and spewing question and worry and question. “Just…” she sighed, leaning down to press a quick kiss against her girlfriend’s forehead. “…if you need stitches, let me do that. You must be in so much pain and…” Deirdre trailed off. She marked her exit with another kiss and said nothing more.

The kitchen was silent except for the whirring of the microwave and the sizzling of brains in a pan. Occasionally the sizzling would change in pitch and tone as Deirdre moved the meat around, trying to get it cooked all the way through. It seemed absurd—to be cooking the brains—but it was all Deirdre could do to keep from pacing around with questions and fears and worries and questions and running and crying and questions. The microwave beeped like an alarm. Deirdre was burning the meat. She shut the heat off and fished the leftovers from the screaming kitchen appliance with little mind for how her fingers scorched under the hot ceramic bowl. She topped it with her extra too-brown cooked brains and carried it to Morgan in a tray with a few of the flowers arranged nicely to one side, as if she were bringing Morgan breakfast in bed. “Here, my love,” she smiled as she set it all down. She offered Morgan the bowl, and a fork, and sat down next to her. “The garden is coming along nicely.” Deirdre was wringing her hands. “You should see the hydrangeas. The snow really confused them, for a bit, but I’ve got everything covered and heated and I was thinking of getting a greenhouse built. We have that space there, and as much as I like the outdoor garden, the weather can be so sporadic here and…” Deirdre rambled on, her story of little consequence about the state of their garden went on with stutters and stops. Skips and repeats. When Deirdre forgot which part she was at, she went back and told it all from the beginning, starting with the hydrangeas, which Morgan really should see. When the sound of her own voice began to sicken her, she picked at the dirt under her nails and said nothing for a moment. “I can still see where Anya scratched you.” Deirdre was looking at the floor; it was all she could do.

While Deirdre cooked, Morgan rushed to cover her injuries. She shimmied out of her sweater and bit down on it to cover her little screams when she doused her skin with disinfectant. She dabbed at everything as much as she could but there wasn’t much to wipe without any blood circulation to make a mess. But there was plenty to see: her arm looked like a kid had attacked it with squiggly scissors and her foot wasn’t much better. Morgan laid gauze patches over her foot and taped the whole thing up in a hurry, but it couldn’t completely hide the altered shape. As for her arm, she really did need more help than she knew how to manage with one hand and the pain every time she touched it was starting to make her head feel funny. Morgan laid her hanging bits of skin over the injury in an approximation of where it should go and gave herself a headache trying to will her body to heal itself. But there was nothing. Maybe even less than nothing.

Then Deirdre was back and Morgan had to drape her sweater over her chest so the extent of her discoloration didn’t look worse than it really was and eat her crispy food and listen to Deirdre’s story. It made her whimper with pain, but Morgan stretched her injured arm so she could take Deirdre’s hand into her own and thumb patterns onto the back of her hand. She tried to help her along soothingly, “A greenhouse sounds lovely. We could turn the back porch into a sunroom and attach it there. We could sit out in the rain with our tea and never get wet. Yes, the hydrangeas, my love, I want to see them. Soon, alright, soon…” But the only thing that came soon was the end of Morgan’s desperate meal and Deirdre’s last fatal observation.

“Oh, that.” Morgan tried very hard to sound dismissive. “I see it too, but I think it’s starting to scar over, don’t you?” But it wasn’t. And even though she had faithfully eaten everything on her plate, she was still hurt and in pieces and unmistakably dead. “It’s—“ Nothing to worry about, she wanted to say. But she couldn’t lie. She’d promised herself. “I’m—” Fine? Still? Really?

Morgan set her plate aside on the end table and reached for her love with her strong arm, rotting flesh and all. She stroked her soft hair and the side of her cheek. “I’m here,” she said plaintively. “I’m right here, babe.” Her voice choked and snagged and she had to swallow several times before she could speak again. “You still feel like a miracle. Like a chilly peach, only you never get wrinkled. It’s gonna be at least a hundred years before someone thinks you’re older than me, huh?” She forced a laugh and a smile. “Will you, um,” She inhaled stiffly as she upset her arm. She could hear how desperate she sounded, how frightened. She was fine, she was really fine right now in spite of everything wrong. But fine was a burning thread; it would finish without her and the fear of what would be left in its wake made Morgan tremble. “…Will you sit a little closer? W-will you hold me?”

Deirdre maintained her gaze away from Morgan, even as it hurt. There were many lies about how interesting the floor was swirling in her head. She burned to look at her, she desired to. Still, her eyes remained locked on the cracks in their hardwood. “A sunroom sounds nice. Are you sure you’re okay with covering the porch up?” She nearly sighed with relief as it seemed she was offered an excuse to look some place beyond the floor; she turned to stare at their porch. Soon, Morgan said. A lump formed in her throat. Soon. She turned back to the floor, blinking rapidly. Soon. Soon.

She didn’t say anything because she didn’t want to. If their conversation could’ve carried itself to magical completion, she would’ve let it. Was it so wrong to want the okay and none of the in-between? Then she was in Morgan’s arms, and it was very, very, hard not to look at Morgan. Like refusing light; opening blinds just to shut them again. The sun sat beyond the curtains, she just had to pull them back. So, she did. Deirdre relaxed, relented, and turned to Morgan, wrapping her arms slowly around her love. Morgan’s futile sweater-cover-up was squished between them. Deirdre didn’t look at Morgan’s arm, but her gaze did drift to the misshapen lump of her ankle. Then up, to the bowl of brains, all finished. Deirdre pulled back, pressing her palm to Morgan’s bicep. Morgan was paler than her; banshees were always meant to look and feel corpses. Zombies were the living dead for a reason, the dead living were not meant to be paler than her. Deirdre’s hand fell. Soon. Morgan sounded more frightened than she was. Soon. It would be something like a century before Deirdre started to show any effects of aging. Soon. Soon. Deirdre chased a kiss, pressing herself gently to Morgan. “We’re going to get married sometime, you and me. And we’re going to have a family, even if that family is mostly feline. And it would be a special kind of cruelty if you never got to see my hair turn white, so you are. You are going to. All of this.”

Deirdre’s shoulders slackened, her arms snaked lazily around Morgan. “Will you let me look at your arm now, please?” One note shy of begging her love, Deirdre leaned in for another kiss—soft, slow, lingering. Almost as if she wasn’t worried about losing them one day.

Morgan closed her eyes as Deirdre settled against her chest. It was so rare to be gifted with having her like this, and even rarer to feel it, that for several moments she let the bubble of their world shrink down to the size of this one moment. Deirdre smelled like flowers, oncoming rain, the forest, and cherrywood. She was soft, almost plush, with her hair bunched in a ponytail and Morgan’s own flannel shirt ticking her skin. Morgan pressed her gently and kissed her head.

“Yeah, we can cover the porch. Maybe we’ll put in a glass wall there, and a skylight, so we can still watch the stars from there if we want. In the summer we can make s’mores right before the rains come and run inside to eat them and still feel like we’re half outside. And I know you like to nap on the window seat in the cat room, but we can put in a bigger one, just your size so you don’t have to curl up your legs.” Morgan gave her love another chaste kiss and laughed. Her voice was bright with false hope as she spoke and it was almost enough to convince her body that she was really okay. This was just another soft moment in the week, an ordinary gift of time, abundant as the flowers Deirdre tended so lovingly.

But there was nothing ordinary about getting married or making another family. Morgan tensed with longing. She could see them so clearly: curled up on a couch in a dark cottage somewhere, a baby in her arms, making light of the child’s screams for attention, and being interrupted by three new cats or one absurdly happy dog. She wanted it. She wanted it as badly as she wanted to get better. Much as she cherished her life with the girls, she knew how fleeting it was, and there were days she felt more than eager to leave White Crest behind. As Deirdre kissed her, she was sure she could taste it. But what if you don’t? What if you die here without doing any of this.

“Hey,” she sniffled. “Hold on, we can’t talk about marriage stuff too much when I haven’t even proposed. Or you haven’t. Or maybe we both should, because I want the whole thing: an engagement ring to shove in everyone’s face, a pretty dress too impractical to wear any other day, cheesy music, and the chance to do a grand romantic gesture since you got the last one.” Her voice snagged on her longing again and she hid her face against Deirdre’s. She couldn’t imagine doing any of that in her state. She couldn’t imagine having the time. White Crest would claim her body for its own before she had the chance, wouldn’t it?

“You can go ahead and look if you want. But it’s—” Bad. It’s bad and I don’t want you to know just how bad. I can carry this myself. I can figure this out. “You don’t have to. I didn’t get around to taking care of it, but I can.” She nosed Deirdre’s cheek and kissed her again. “I love you. Have I said that since coming home yet?”

A covered porch. A skylight. S’mores. Marriage. Family. The reel of future domestic delight played in Deirdre’s head; each piece of film, one after the other. A fancy engagement ring. A daughter. Their library finally fleshed out. A sunroom with a skylight. A big telescope. Tea surrounded by flowers and plants that she tended. Five hundred years; would the world deny them this? “Maybe we both should…” she repeated. She could imagine it; one big gesture each; two rings; Deirdre wanted to show hers off too. “But…that future…” Deirdre pulled away again, wanting to look into Morgan’s eyes and find answers in their shimmering blue. She raised her hand to Morgan’s cheek and held her tenderly there. “We can’t have it if we don’t accept reality as it is; if we can’t work through things together. My love, nothing is ever so bleak if you’re still with me…and you are. You are.” The question of how long hung in the air, but Deirdre didn’t ask it. It would have to be long enough. It would have to be five hundred years, at least. It had to.

When given permission to look at her girlfriend’s arm, Deirdre nodded and then laughed. “You might’ve,” she turned her head and kissed her again. “Sometimes saying it is just like breathing, I think it happens all the time and sometimes without a sound. I love you too, of course. So much.” When she leaned back, she pulled the sweater-shield away with her, gently placing it on the table in silent thanks for its service to Morgan.

Morgan didn’t have to say it was bad, though Deirdre wished she had. “Bad” was a kind understatement to the torn up decaying flesh that she was looking at. Her cold fingers pressed softly around the wounded area, as if trying to coax out some secret remedy. There was no blood to stop from gushing free; no sense that Morgan’s body remembered how to repair itself at all. She looked as she was: dead, and no different from any corpse Deirdre might otherwise gleefully stumble across. The kind of wound a medical examiner would find redundant to try and patch up. She supposed it was a good thing she wasn’t Regan. “Stitches?” Deirdre looked up at Morgan. “I don’t know if painkillers will help you, but I don’t imagine trying them would harm you. We could maybe try numbing the area with ice—or I suppose my hands might work—first; it’ll hurt very badly, trying to close it up. But I think we should try.” Her eyes moved to the scratch Anya left; just the same as Deirdre saw it yesterday. She looked at her own hand, Anya’s work from an hour ago—when she wanted to be fed earlier than her usual time and Deirdre tried to distract her with play—had vanished as though it was never there. Her gaze moved down to Morgan’s ankle. “How’s that?” Deirdre asked. “Is there anything that needs to be done there, do you think? A bone to be popped into place?”

Deirdre looked over at her girlfriend again—future fiancée, future-future wife. Two rings. Maybe they’d try a cottage for a decade or two, a proper mansion for some other ones. If they got lazy one lifetime, maybe they’d get a chic condo in a bustling city’s downtown. Maybe they’d get several and hop around. One daughter. A son. Grandchildren. Wasn’t it novel to be able to live to see generations of their own family? Their kindness passed on. Cats. Dogs. Cows. Chickens. Neighbours that wondered how they stayed so young-looking. People who thought Morgan married for money, a nice fur coat and a wink to make them think they were right. Friends who’d known them a century ago. People to make jealous of their ever-lasting love. A wedding. Two rings. Maybe she’d wear a dress, maybe a suit. Why not both? “Don’t do it by yourself, Morgan,” Deirdre said, finally giving way to tears that once remained politely inside. “I love you. I love you so much that I don’t want that. I don’t care how scary it is, it’s worse if we’re not…”

Morgan didn’t want to look at reality as it was. Not this one; not with Deirdre. She could hold two worlds in her head just fine, and if the true one was just her secret, a little wrinkle she could iron out herself, then it hadn’t really been so dire in the first place. And wasn’t this what she had been conditioned for? To carry suffering and pretend like she wasn’t? She exhaled stiffly as Deirdre shifted and examined her arm. When she kept it still, the throbbing was dull and steady enough to be ignored. But, much like reality, the gash burned fresh with even a little close attention.

“I don’t know what to say about how things really are,” Morgan said quietly, stiff with restraint. “I haven’t found anyone else this is happening to. I haven’t read of anything like this being possible.” Technically, that meant that whatever magic was running its course could be merciful, for all they knew. Maybe the undead really could get sick, and this was just an awful zombie flu that would run its course and leave her alone. And maybe this would end her, or make her so vulnerable that something else would all too easily.

She couldn’t watch Deirdre do her examination. It felt too much like failure, even if it had been the fae’s fault more than hers. “We can try to close it some, yeah. Maybe just bandage the rest. I can put it in a sling if moving it still makes things worse,” she mumbled. “I wrapped up my foot without any problems, but you can double check me. We’ll do whatever you think is best. Although I…” It took Morgan a few seconds to find her nerve. Things were bad enough already, adding to the pile seemed cruel. But Deirdre would find out on her own, and it would only be worse if she realized Morgan had been sitting on more information than she’d given. “After what happened at the coffee shop, I tried some ibuprofen. It didn’t take. I healed in a couple of hours, but it still…” she shook her head. “We don’t have to waste any pain-killers on me, okay? I’ll numb the spot with an ice pack and I’ll be okay.”

But Deirdre didn’t want her to do it herself. Try as Morgan might, she had already failed in keeping this contained to herself alone. It was happening to Deirdre, too, and her banshee, who already carried so much suffering, was left helpless by everything Morgan tried to do to make things better. Morgan brushed away her love’s tears with her strong hand. Usually, that helped. It was like wiping something clean. No more sticky sadness, only comfort. But in this moment, it felt like peeling away her last bit of protection. If Deirdre was already hurt, then she already knew. If she already knew, then there weren’t two worlds to hold at all. Just the one, frightening and miserable and shrinking around her existence until it crushed her. There was nowhere to turn her gaze with distraction. No place to hide. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her own tears starting to flood her lids too. “I’m sorry. I was trying to make it better, I’m sorry. I love you, I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to be hurt, or disappointed…” She buried her face in her shoulder. “I didn’t want you to be scared too.” She swallowed down a sob, sniffled, and kissed Deirdre’s cheek. “Don’t worry about hurting me. Just patch me up as best you know how. Whatever you think is right. I’ll deal. I’ve already had a few days to build up my tolerance again. Okay?”

Once, Deirdre was sure she knew everything about Death; it was her birthright, her gift. By extension, her knowledge of the undead was extensive—similarly once considered whole. She stopped thinking she was right the moment she realized humans were quite loveable, the rest of her inaccuracies piling up. But she wished it all back; all that arrogance of knowledge. This was unlike any drug she knew of, any common disease. If it was a spell or a curse, she had no way of knowing. If this had something to do with the out-of-season winter, she didn’t know. She couldn’t know. The only thing she did understand was that none of this was normal, and that she should be worried. “It’s like you’re fading away,” she said. “You were pale yesterday, and all sorts of discoloured, but I know you ate. And you ate again just now. And you’re even worse today. And that’s just besides the whole…” Deirdre gestured to her arm. She pointed frantically at her foot. “If I let fear talk, it feels like you’re dying again. Or being more dead. Or—Fates, who knows what it’s like? But it is scary, my love. It is even without an injury. What does hiding it from me do? I can see you. I can see it. I should’ve said something sooner, but I thought I was being paranoid. I’ve been waiting and worrying and watching ever since you woke up that day. If you start doing this all alone, then I’m going to worry all alone. And that’s what it’ll be for us. And if this is some end—which it’s not, it can’t be—but if it was, then it’ll happen alone. And I don’t want…” Deirdre’s voice cracked; she sniffled. “I don’t want us to be alone anymore, my love.”

In silence, Deirdre worked the wound; icing with the cold of her hands, stitching and trying not to wince or cry and wrapping everything up tight, but not too tight. She’d only ever been used to doing this sort of thing on herself, but she didn’t tell Morgan that; Morgan already knew. She wanted to work fast, so the pain wouldn’t last, but not so fast that the pain was unfair. She wanted to worry, but not so much that Morgan cried along with her. She wanted to love, and this alone she could do without fear or limitation--no matter what, pretending she loved less, cared less, would not make the pain of loss any worse. So why bother? When she was done, she pressed a kiss to Morgan’s bandaged arm and looked at her with a smile. She had done her best to be gentle and where Morgan ached, she ached. Where Morgan was pained, she was pained enough to find a way to be more gentle. They existed in a see-saw, striving to find balance upon the fulcrum. “You don’t have to ‘deal’,” she said, noting the hypocrisy in saying it. “My love, with anything...whatever pain...I wish you’d let me carry it too. I wish you’d think of yourself not as one person--not as one damaged vessel taking in water--but as two people. Two boats. And then one--one big one. Both of us. I care about you more than I know how to say, and I love you just the same. As much as it might be convenient to pretend we are two people devoid of each other's pain, we are not. In your hands--” Deirdre took them in hers. “You carry not just yourself, but the chronology of us, and my heart. What I mean is: I love you, and inevitably, where you ache, I ache. And one day, though I won’t mention it much, when we’re married, everyone will understand that you’re the woman I love most--that I would spend eternity with, if only I lived that long. And that day, I hope that’s a truth that comes like breathing to you. I’d promise it. If you’d let me, I’d promise so many things to you.”

It took everything Morgan had not to scream as Deirdre stitched her arm together. She hissed, gasped, whimpered, and strained her hand gripping the throw pillow she’d bitten down on earlier. But this was her world, her life, and the cost of feeling like a whole, connected person again. She would not scream like some hysterical kid in the face of it. Especially not with Deirdre, who had suffered so much worse for reasons far more terrible. There were tears in her eyes by the time Deirdre finished. Her love’s hands weren’t cold enough to take out the sting completely and the skin around her arm was strained trying to make up for what was missing. But she returned her smile with relief, mouthing, Okay, okay, okay, when her voice proved too frail to speak. She took Deirdre’s hands and brought them to her lips. She let her cheek rest on them, and kissed them a few times more: one for apology, one for affection, one for adoration, one to appeal for absolution, one for abundant gratitude.

“I am yours, as you are mine,” she whispered. “And you don’t have to promise, not out loud. I feel it. Even more so now.” She hiccuped a laugh and released Deirdre’s hands, nodding that it was alright for her to carry on with the rest.

With a smile, affection and praise unspoken except for where they shone through her eyes, Deirdre turned to Morgan’s foot. “Thank you for wanting to protect me,” she said, unwrapping the haphazard bandaging. “I wish you wouldn't be sorry about it; I would’ve done the same thing and I understand what it means.” Her ankle wasn’t as bad as her arm, which prompted a sigh of relief in Deirdre. Good things were possible, perhaps. But the ankle was still swollen, giving it the appearance of a foot bent wrong. To the bite mark, which she surmised didn’t need stitching, she cleaned delicately and wrapped everything up as her mother had taught her was appropriate. She’d watched Morgan heal greater wounds in half the time. “I love you, you incredibly strong woman.” Deirdre leaned up to kiss her girlfriend, peppering her first aid with affection rewards and whispers of how good Morgan was being. When it was all over, all that was left was Morgan’s good behaviour to claim. She could only guess at how badly it hurt, and was eager now to replace pain with comfort. “Are you worried?”

Morgan tried to relax as Deirdre finished with her foot. It helped that her hands were soft and careful, that her lips were tender, and she assured her that she was being good, so good. Somehow with all her stupid deceptions, Morgan had managed to face this and be good. “I know you understand because you have done the same thing before. And it hurt. It hurt so awful that you wouldn’t let me in, it felt like you didn’t really trust me, like I hadn’t done enough for you. If I’d thought more about you and less about my own stupid fear, maybe I would’ve figured that out.” She tugged on Deirdre’s sleeve and overalls, silently asking to be held over her lap. “I should have known not to, but I wasn’t thinking about it right. I don’t want to make you feel the way I did. I trust you more than anyone else. You’re the only person I’ve been able to bear telling so far. It was just...as soon as I told you, I couldn’t hide from it. Not even a little bit. It wouldn’t be some little thing I can solve on my own before you get home and turn into a story with a happy ending.” She breathed carefully, shuddering through a rising sob. “I love you too, and I admire you, and you are so good to me…” She nuzzled her way into the crook of her neck.

She owed it to Deirdre to be as honest as she knew how to be. But worried barely brushed the surface of what she felt. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I mean, I know I’m decaying in spite of doing everything I’m supposed to. I know that makes me more fragile. And I feel all of it, everything. But I don’t know why or how. None of this should be possible, and I have begged the universe so many times to let me feel like I’m a part of life again, even just one day more so I would know not to take anything for granted. But that was just grief. I never thought it would happen. Because it shouldn’t. I’m dead and it shouldn’t. And now…” She shivered and kissed Deirdre where she was closest for strength. “It just seems so cruel. I feel like I’m being punished and I can’t tell if I deserve it or not.” She shivered again, harder, as she stared down the heart of the dark inside her. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t have a plan. I don't know how I should even make a plan for the plan. I don’t know anything except that whoever’s done this to me is powerful enough to break the laws of magic I thought I understood. And when does this stop? Do I get to keep my mind whenever it does? Is that something I should even want? Is that something we’re going to be able to bear? I don’t know. I don’t know anything, or how to learn better. That’s what scares me most of all, not knowing.” She squeezed her love and took comfort in all of her.

“You smell like outside. And cherries, but an orchard of them, and the sandalwood candles my dad burned to cleanse the rooms after a fight or an outburst,” she mumbled. “Now you. Tell me where you’re at. If we’re three ships in a storm you can’t carry your pain by yourself either. Let me at least be good at listening. Please?”

Once tugged, Deirdre obeyed, scooping Morgan into her arms. “My love,” she mumbled softly as her girlfriend spoke. She kissed her where she could; the top of her head, the side of her face, all careful not to interrupt the delicate flow of her words. “Don’t say that,” Deirdre scolded softly as Morgan found peace buried in her shoulder. “You deserve more credit than that. The desire to hide pain away isn’t a bad one, and it isn’t even one so easily disregarded. I understand, Morgan. I understood. Don’t blame yourself for wanting that. You didn’t break a vase and then try to sweep it under the rug, and even if you had that’s…Hey…” Deirdre shifted, pulling Morgan’s face up to meet hers. “I love you so much, my Morgue. No matter what.” And then she kissed her, hoping to seal that chapter away and move them on to the next page.

The next page being, of course, the bigger problem to tackle. “You feel yourself decaying?” Deirdre frowned, even as someone who enjoyed the feeling, she recognized well how unnerving it must’ve been to feel it; for Morgan to feel herself dying and fading, slowly and without pause. Deirdre whined at the thought. “Is it fair to say this is magic, then?” Deirdre tried, “if you pick an angle, and then chase one set of answers…even if the conclusion is that it’s not magic, it’s more than either of us knew before. So, what I mean is, would it be helpful if we looked into this? We could split it up? You could try the magic thing and I can…see if there’s some undead disease that does this? I think I’ve ruled any kind of drug out; I asked around and it doesn’t sound like anything in the market here. But if it turns out it’s not magic, or disease, then we’ll have to revisit that. Would this make you feel better? Would this feel like a plan?” It certainly made Deirdre feel better—she enjoyed being actionable—but it mattered more what Morgan was comfortable with; what she wanted. “I know you’ve had to research enough magic used against you for one eternal lifetime but…at least so we don’t have to dance around each other with library trips and…journeys to dark alleys and damp basements trying to look at someone’s collection of drugs. Sometimes they don’t let you leave without buying something. I have so many magic mushrooms; I don’t even like them that much.” Deirdre tried to laugh, the sound pittering off quickly. It felt funny in the moment, with the sneaking around and the stuffing mushrooms away where no one would look. It was a little less funny when some fae accused her of hoarding the substance. Not so funny when a spriggan tried to fight her until she relented and gave mushrooms away. Really unfunny when a group of fae congregated outside their house, demanding mushrooms. And finally, horribly inconvenient to constantly pretend as though she were filling up a glass of water when in actuality drugs were being dealt and high pixies had to be swept off their porch. All of it meant a lot of glasses of water, a lot of peeing, and naked leprechauns passed out in their bushes. And that none of it was really funny in the end. Morgan could be dying, and some fae thought their backyard was the hot new party spot.

With a pause, a sigh and a kiss, she explained all of that to Morgan. “And every morning I wake up at four just to shoo the fae away and tell the brownies—which are fighting, by the way—that we’re uninterested in letting one stay in our house. Which then starts up this whole thing about how our house is so big, we should let more fae inside. And then the pixies get on this thing about ‘are the mushrooms ethically sourced’ and I don’t know! I know I should’ve asked but I wasn’t thinking about asking, I was thinking about saving your life! And now I might also have mushrooms that were stolen from pixies and I’ve inadvertently supported the trade of unethical magic mushrooms.” Deirdre groaned, pressing the palm of her hands to her eyes. “And you’re fading away, and you might be gone for good. And the best I can do is deal drugs from our porch and get glasses of water which I feel so bad lying about that I do drink them all. Every glass. And then the constant toilet trips are just…” Deirdre sighed, throwing her head back against the couch and then turning to look at Morgan. She laughed again, longer and louder and true. “None of this is fair to you, my love,” she reached out for Morgan. “That dying meant you lost feeling. That having it back means this. Just one nice thing, without cost, that stays…it would be nice to have that. Mostly I’ve been worried about you; only so much cherry and sandalwood smell can make everything else okay. Watching the delight and wonder you have tasting and feeling and smelling things…Fates, I wish I knew how to tell you how good it is to see you happy. And this specifically, this thing I’ve seen you grieve over. I want that feeling for you forever, that kind of happiness. But no matter how badly I want something, it just…” Deirdre tapped her finger against Morgan’s forearm, observing again how pale she was and where decay bloomed. “I just want you to be happy, for a long time. A proper long time. Five hundred years, at least. And I want the shape of that happiness to be exactly as you dream it.” Deirdre looked up at Morgan and shook her head. “What’s been the best part so far? With everything to feel and taste and smell…”

Morgan listened rapt as Deirdre spoke. Her blue eyes were murkier than they had been before, but they sparked with an intensity that went beyond the simple spectrum of life and death. She laughed when she couldn’t help it, and tenderly brushed her love with her fingertips. The game was the same: how lightly could she touch without losing feeling? But it was more fun when she knew her fingers sometimes tickled and sometimes ‘accidentally’ found a spot that made Deirdre shiver or pause in her telling.

“I might be partially to blame for the newfound interest in ethically sourcing.” She cut in softly. “It’s one of their newest vocab words, along with organic, fair trade, and Willowbud and Appleseed may or may not have spoiled everything at Took’s that didn’t have one of those kinds of labels on it recently.”

She peeled Deirdre’s hand from her forehead and thumbed the little worry crease forming between her eyebrows as she went on until the desperate absurdity of the whole thing overwhelmed them both into laughter. Morgan smothered hers with little kisses. She didn’t need another reason to cherish her love, but she was happy to have one nonetheless. “First of all, no more fake-real glasses of water. If we can’t find a nice leprechaun cave or pixie hovel to donate your stash to so they can deal with the others, we’ll have to have regular business hours so you can get some sleep.” She arched a brow, beaming with her usual bright determination.

“Secondly, none of this has been fair for you either. You’ve sacrificed and suffered so much, and nothing I’ve planted for your happiness has grown without weeds and thorns. And I want ease for you, so much. I want a whole garden of joy for you, joy and love and nothing else. But the world we live in is too complicated for that. We live on a wheel, and it always turns. If it stopped completely, it wouldn’t be life at all.” Morgan draped her arms around her love’s shoulders. “So, we can’t always be happy so long as we’re in the thick of the world and we can’t make the wheel turn at our pace. But we can be in love. And I would take that any day, if I really had to choose.” She kissed her, soft and lingering to emphasize the point. It was easy to be confident and wise in the service of comforting Deirdre. Maybe that was why sharing the load was always better. The strength they saved for each other was so much more resilient than what they could summon for themselves.

Morgan kissed the tip of Deirdre’s nose. “Lucky for me, at least fifty percent of the shape of my happiness looks a lot like you. You are a wonder of a person and you do so much for me. I never know how to tell you or show you what it means.” Slowly, she brought their foreheads together and let them linger like that for a while before speaking again. “I like being soft again. That’s my favorite. Our pillows, our sheets, snow on my skin, the cats, your hair, your body, all my sweaters, and the wind when it’s gentle. And frozen yogurt, pudding, cream pastries, and pomegranate juice. I can feel everything that’s gentle, and I can give gentle back. I’m a part of it. I understand it. There’s no adapting or thinking or concentrating. I just connect like I’ve always belonged. Wonderful doesn’t begin to describe it.” She teased her lips around Deirdre’s skin to prove her point. “And there’s getting to try everyone’s favorite everything. And being able to hug the girls and know what they really feel like for the first time. Then there’s laying with you and not thinking about anything, and not having to ask you to do anything but be. And all the little in between touches and pressures I’ve half forgotten. Your teeth, cat claws, leather, the Subaru, hard candies. And the sun. It’s a shame it’s been so cloudy, because the few times I’ve run out in time, the sun’s warmth is so…magical? It’s so unreal I don’t really know what to call it.” Morgan kissed her love again and smiled against her lips.

“What’s happening to us right now isn’t balanced or fair. But we have a plan. And if I am fading away, for now, for a while, maybe—” Or maybe for good. The thought hooked through her voice and she stopped before persisting. “I want to steal as much life and as much good from this as I can. Whatever this is already wins if I don’t.”

With the truth spoken so clearly, so simply, the brambles in Morgan’s mind cleared and Deirdre’s plan materialized like guideposts on a path. The way out shimmered just out of sight, any day now the right turn would take them there and it would be funny to look back on how long it took to figure everything out.

“I know time is screwing us over again, but I want to take an hour from it. The house is empty, you’re already holding me, and we don’t know how many more good days we have. So be with me, right here. Take me. We can hole up in the library after, and I’ll make soup for dinner when you’re hungry, and we’ll stay up reading as long as we can. But after. I want you first. I want to feel alive with you. And I promise, I promise, we will do whatever it takes to fix this and make it to our wedding.”

Deirdre’s eyes remained far, staring forward. Her gaze narrowed on the wall. “Is that why the pixies suddenly have such great vocabulary?” She turned to Morgan. “You know I had an actual discussion with Willowbud about commercial farming; I didn’t think she knew anything about it. You should know the concern is with freeing all the cows and trampling the humans and that…” Deirdre continued in her best imitation of the high-pitched dialogue of the pixies. “Like ten pixies can ride a cow at once, so much better than a cat AND cows are herbivores—also a word you must’ve taught them.” And then she laughed again, because it was absurd, but mostly because she loved Morgan. And she was happy being kissed by her love, touched by her love, held and listened to. Her body felt light, as if in their laughter, they’d lifted up from the couch and away for all that pulled and pushed on them; abducted by happy aliens who only knew paradise and utopia. A nice beach, Deirdre figured.

If Morgan said there would be no more glasses of water, then Deirdre could believe it--she saw them replaced with piña coladas sipped through colorful straws. The memory of fae clamoring for free mushrooms was eaten by the waves, crashing harmlessly against the shore. But life existed on a wheel, and just as soon as the vision of a beach lived by Morgan’s words, it too was washed away. It was just them and their house now, trying to live in a world that would turn and turn and turn and never spare a thought to who it crushed. The beach didn’t possess the nuances of their life but this terrible, spinning reality did. Anyday, Deirdre would also choose being in love over uncomplicated happiness, but she didn’t understand why there had to be a choice at all. Morgan made her uncomplicatedly happy all on her own, it was the world that spun and pricked with its thorns. Was it so wrong to hope for the beach?

She could believe that Morgan was happy. She could believe that the two of them together would always find a way to be. But as long as the world was spinning, something would get left behind--that was the inevitable truth. Deirdre smiled, she wanted to coast along Morgan’s delight, but knew it was about to be knocked off the wheel, one way or another. Deirdre leaned into each touch, shivered where Morgan brushed her skin and hummed where she was kissed. One day when the world spun them out of existence, she hoped that feeling of love would still persist: if just one other person could know what it was like to be loved so completely, cared for so wholly, and held so warmly. If someone else could know a word brighter than bright, maybe something could exist beyond the spinning and the weeds.

Deirdre just wished it could be them.

“You said that last time, my love,” Deirdre shook her head, laughing the observation into the casual. “And you--we--say it so often. I know it doesn’t make it any less true--that we should steal our moments where we can--but...aren’t you tired of stealing? Can’t we just have?” Deirdre shook her head again. “I’m sorry,” she leaned up into Morgan, kissing her and lingering. “I’m sorry. I want you. I want to make you feel alive. I want you here, right now. And I want--well, I’m not going to accept that promise.” Another laugh. “Those don’t end well, but I believe you and I understand you and I love you.” Another kiss. “And we’ve got a wedding and a life and a family to get to one day. Right now, we’ve got an hour.”

“Of course I want to ‘have’,” Morgan said. She’d wanted to ‘have’ all her life, and it was the bitterest truth of all that she couldn’t cash in her suffering for a pass to a kinder world where pain never cut too deep. “Badly, Deirdre. I want it so badly. And maybe someday we will. Maybe we’ll figure out the balance, or maybe we’ll find the softest, quietest place to hide as long as we want. We’ll make our world real. Maybe after this is over we’ll rest easy for months and it’ll be almost as good.” Morgan didn’t know if she believed her own words, or if she should. Maybe they wouldn’t hurt so badly or feel so hounded by the world if they accepted these turns as part of their fate. Maybe they could have a more reliable sense of safety, if they accepted that they never truly would be. But Morgan had never excelled at playing safe with her heart.

She eased them slowly down against the cushions of their prickly-soft couch. She touched a finger to Deirdre’s lips and lifted her eyes to meet her love’s. Just let me say one thing more. I know we’re losing something every second, but one thing more. “Don’t be sorry for wanting to ‘have’. And don’t ever think for another second that I don’t want that too.” She combed Deirdre’s hair down so it fell down other their faces and blocked out the room, the world, the whole stupid thing that wouldn’t let them be. She was a meadow of the finest grass and silk and simmered like the sun over an earthy river; proof that their world could be touched and maybe kept. Five-hundred years was a long time to try. “We’re just not there yet,” she mumbled, thumbing open her overalls one button at a time. “It’s on the other side of this mess. Now take me there.” Take me, while there’s still a me left to take.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Coming Home || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: The night of Deirdre’s return

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

SUMMARY: Morgan and Deirdre are reunited after a long and difficult time.

And what we see is a world that cannot cherish us, but which we cherish. And what we see is our life moving like that along the dark edges of everything, headlights sweeping the blackness, believing in a thousand fragile and unprovable things.

-Mary Oliver, “Coming Home”

CONTAINS: brief references to domestic and emotional abuse, brief reference to internalized homophobia

The truth was a simple thing; it was or it wasn’t. Deirdre was home. There wasn’t a sound to greet her when she entered. Her suitcases did clatter to the hardwood. Morgan did not respond when she called her name, voice echoing off their walls. Deirdre moved through their foyer, their great room, into the backyard. The lights were not on inside the shed. Deirdre loved Morgan. There wasn’t a moment since her plane’s arrival in the country that her voicemail didn’t replay in her head. I was sort of hoping you could tell me when you’re coming back? I realized today I lost the post-it thing it was on and I can’t remember—it didn’t matter, she’d come home days early anyway. Because I need you. I know you have to be there so I’m not asking for you but I need you. I’m not okay and I need you—Deirdre was here.

The door to the shed was ajar, but the interior was dark despite the sun having set hours ago. It smelt like it always did: book musk and gentle florals. Deirdre’s eyes were not adjusted to the dark, but she could recognize the outline of Morgan in any circumstance. She moved slowly; she didn’t want to disturb her as she stared out into the dark. “What are you thinking about,” Deirdre asked quietly, “are you thinking about anything at all right now?” She wanted to hug her; she did not. She loved her; the truth was simple. She wanted to erase anguish; she could not. The truth was painful; they hadn’t spoken properly for weeks.

The truth, for Morgan, was that living alone in her house made her feel like a ghost. She could pass a whole day without moving if she really wanted. She could pass more without making a sound. And if the cats didn’t want her, and sometimes they didn’t, she could stand inside her still, silent body and hear the hum of the house powering a life that only nominally existed. The truth was she could pretend to be fine more easily in her studio. At least she was supposed to be the only one there. Once, she relished her weekly night to stay up in the space til morning and do as she pleased. But that night had since become every night, and though she was afraid to admit it, the truth was Morgan had lost the thread of giving time structure a while ago.

The truth was the only thing easier than pretending to be fine was pretending to be nowhere. After the house emptied, Morgan became better at it than she had ever been. Sometimes she didn’t even have to put much thought into it at all.

Tonight, for instance, she was reading and then she was looking out at the dark lawn and the empty pool and then she wasn’t. Like that moment of emptiness right before sleep, Morgan hovered in absence. She didn’t see the lights of the taxi that delivered Deirdre home, or hear her empty the space. She heard her voice only dimly, and blinked out of her trance, thinking it might have been one of the cats whining for attention.

Her eyes found Deirdre as if compelled, but she only stared with fascinated confusion. She spent a lot of her time en route to nowhere imagining Deirdre in the room with her. Sometimes she would set her phone down on the stool opposite her and play the few voicemails she had collected to help, so the sound would be coming from the right place even if it crackled with distance. But her imaginings didn’t usually come by surprise or look this detailed. This Deirdre’s hair was limp, her clothes were wrinkled with travel, and her expression wasn’t the dreamy look of happiness Morgan missed above all. It was sadder than that. So Morgan was either getting disturbingly good at this, or-- “A-are you here?” She whispered at last, still uncertain. Her hand rose to her love’s face, trembling in mid-air. “Are you really here? Deirdre?”

“I am. I am. Of course I am.” Deirdre’s answer was immediate, spilled from her lips like dirt shoveled over grave. She could fill it all up with her assurance. She could fill a cemetery. She met her love’s trembling hand and pressed it against her flushed cheek, hot from the sun and the travel and the worry. But withstanding it all, she melted only then, in Morgan’s shed. “I love you,” she mumbled, because she hadn’t said it to her in so long, “I love you so much.” And not knowing how to hold back a moment longer, she pulled Morgan into her arms and held her tight and close. One might have thought their reunion to be dramatic, but Deirdre didn’t care. As far as she was concerned, even one day apart was too much, and those weren’t bookended with vulnerable voicemails. I need you, the sound echoed in her head. I need you. If only she knew how to check her voicemail earlier.

“I’m sorry.” She felt it only right to apologize then, trailing kisses down the side of Morgan’s face. “I would’ve come back sooner; I would’ve. I missed you, and I thought--” It was so silly now, to even think Morgan must have hated her. But she had, and she did, and she booked her early flight silently and without update. “But I’m here now.” Deirdre moved her head back, holding Morgan’s face in her hands. Her bright blue eyes deserved to catch the sun, but they were just as beautiful finding the specks of moonlight that drifted into the shed. “I missed you.”

Morgan touched Deirdre’s cheek and every feeling she’d put to sleep came awake. “Deirdre,” she said, reverent and choked with tears. “Deirdre…” She fell against her love, crying and gaping insensibly. She pressed her palms on her back, her head, her shoulders, her hair, her arms, anything she could sense by the handful. Deirdre was real and here and holding her and loving her.

“No, I’m sorry,” she said through her tears. “I didn’t mean to make you think I was mad when I let your calls go to voicemail, I wasn’t mad, I--” She sobbed and pressed her cheek to Deirdre so she could sense how solid she was in as many places at once. “I just wanted to hear your voice. I hated spending an hour trying to parse out two sentences from you from that awful reception and our calls dropping as soon as I understood something and having to redial and  I wanted to feel like you were talking to me and I missed your voice. I tried calling you to explain, but then I couldn’t even connect and--it wasn’t to hurt you, I never wanted it to hurt you, I’m so sorry, I just missed you so much.” She sobbed again and pressed them together until she felt the pressure of Deirdre’s chest firm against her own.

“Will you hold me?” She asked in a small voice. “Can we turn on a light and go to the daybed and--will you? Please?”

“Well, I know that now,” Deirdre laughed. For the first time since she’d gone, the sound bubbled out of her free and happy. As Morgan’s hands pressed firm to feel her realness, Deirdre’s own did the same. Her body was quick to decide that the real Morgan was far superior to the make-shift pillow bundle she held in the night. Her retreat was supposed to go on for another week, but she didn’t care. “I heard your voicemails. I had to ask someone to show me how, and then I forgot my passcode and I had to call the phone humans but…” she breathed in, pulling Morgan closer to her. “...but I know now. And it’s okay.”

To show just how okay it was, Deirdre cackled again, filled with warmth. She crouched down just enough to pick Morgan up in her arms, spinning her twice for good measure and only twice to avoid knocking anything over. She pressed her lips against her neck, laughing and kissing and biting. She found a light switch with great difficulty, but no less delight, and then the daybed much easier. Morgan went down first, and with a grin, Deirdre crawled on top. With a moment to adjust, she was holding Morgan as if they hadn’t spent a single moment apart. “Did you want to talk about it?” She asked quietly, angling her shoulders so she could look at Morgan. “Do you want to hear about New Zealand? Or should I regale you with stories of just how much I missed you?” Reaching down, she brushed Morgan’s hair behind her ears. Her lips followed the motion, nipping at her lobe as she buried her face there; tangled together.

“I wished you’d asked for me,” she mumbled, “I know we’ve never really used those promises; but I wish you had. I would’ve come sooner. I should’ve.”

For all the time they spent together, Morgan’s imagination wasn’t talented enough to capture the sound of Deirdre’s laughter in the dark. She held on that much tighter when she heard it, ear pressed down to hear its echo in her chest. When was the last time Morgan had laughed without trying to offset how miserable she was? She couldn’t remember, but she whispered Deirdre’s name into her neck as a prayer that she would get to find out soon.

Morgan shut her eyes against the bright light and the spinning room and opened them only so she could watch Deirdre (the very real Deirdre who loved and wasn’t even mad about the voicemail thing and wanted to be back sooner and knew just how to touch her) climb beside her and wrap her up the way she liked best. For a few seconds she only stared, still crying with awe and relief.

“You’re so beautiful,” she marvelled. “I never knew anyone could be so beautiful as you are when you’re happy…”  She touched her fingertips to Deirdre’s sun-reddened cheek. She was all freckles and flush from being in the sun for so long, and there was a wildness to her travel hair that felt different, but these only made the mischievous curl of her smile and softness of her eyes, so gentle they were almost frightening, stand out. She had changed so much and not at all. And then Deirdre was in her ear, against her neck, Deirdre sprawled across her face and it might have been overwhelming if Morgan’s ache for her wasn’t so indiscriminately greedy.

“No. Don’t wish to be back sooner. You wanted to go and I told you that you should and they’re the only fae you’re really close to and after everything you’ve lost it means so much that you can be your real self with them without having to justify the choices that have made you so much freer…” Morgan pressed a firm kiss to Deirdre’s temple, then more down the side of her face. “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep it together. I didn’t want you to leave or worry. I wanted you to be able to have this.”

She pulled on Deirdre so she could kiss her lips three times over, tender with longing and apology. Then she settled back against her chest and latched onto her tight. “Tell me about New Zealand. Or tell me anything. I don’t care where you start, I just miss you telling me things.”

At mention of her trip, how good it was supposed to be for her and how she had wanted to go, Deirdre tensed. The truth sat plainly at the edge of her tongue; complicated in its confession. Selfishly, she wanted to be home. They were not fae she was particularly close to; she was close to Sundew, who was close to them, who had chosen to stay back. And without the outspoken pixie, she seemed to forget how to talk. And then she thought about how stupid and silly that was. And then she thought about how stupid and silly she was. And then one night sneaking away from the group turned into two, three, all of them. And then it just felt like the thing to do. And she didn’t much know who her real self was, and she didn’t like thinking about it. And they didn’t know, not really, what her murdering was like. And Sally the spriggan seemed to think the whole duty thing was outdated and weird and Deirdre never wanted to mention it again. And why wasn’t she murdering in the first place? Wasn’t this a weird thing to do? Why abstain from something that didn’t matter? And was being ‘good’ really achievable for her? And what if she liked being alone anyway? And what if the world didn’t care about her? And when she got lost one day in the wilderness, before coming back late, no one even seemed to notice. And she felt like a child again, sitting at the edge of the fae, watching them. And she didn’t have wings, and maybe they really didn’t like her because she didn’t have them. And sometimes they mingled with humans, and she didn’t like doing that, and maybe they didn’t like her because she didn’t like doing that. And she felt like a child. And she hated feeling like a child. And—

Deirdre gasped, forcing air into her lungs. She pulled back and stared up at the shed’s wooden ceiling. She didn’t want to think about that, she wanted to look at Morgan and be with Morgan and talk to Morgan. And so, she didn’t mention it. “New Zealand was beautiful. We got to go all over, which was nice. There was so much green, and these beautiful mountains, and I wish you could’ve seen it.” Deirdre paused, settled enough to look at Morgan again. “I missed you. I got to see cows and I thought about that time I took you out to that farm; how maybe in retrospect that was more of a gift to me than to you. We saw The Shire, and I felt like a real human tourist about the ordeal. But it reminded me of Ireland—the aos sí near the estate—even as Sally got into an argument about how she thought the hobbits were offensive and that J. R. R. Tolkien owed all spriggans some royalties. I thought about what you might think when you saw it, what you might say to Sally. I thought about what you might think if you could see the aos sí.” She paused again to kiss Morgan, reveling in the fact that she could. She had wanted to; for weeks she dreamed of the moment she could again. Dreaming of Morgan never was as good as having her here.

“I felt homesick. But when I tried to think of what home that was, Ireland kept coming to mind. It made me feel wrong. I hated how much my body had forgotten what our home felt like; all it could remember was the farm. I wanted to tell you about it, I wished I could’ve heard you tell me it was okay. Or what the cats were doing. Or how my flowers were growing. If I could just hear you, talk to you, I felt like my mind would’ve been set at ease. But I couldn’t. And so it was all farms and memories in my head.” Deirdre sighed, looking back to the ceiling for whatever guidance the woodgrain offered. “You don’t have to apologize. You shouldn’t apologize, not when I was thinking the same thing. You seemed really happy for me, to be gone and to enjoy myself, and I knew I couldn’t just ask you to come to New Zealand, even if I wanted you there.” And then back to Morgan, to soft blue eyes that gave everything she ever wanted. “This will sound silly, but every time I saw a particularly beautiful tree or lake or flower—there are these gorgeous lupines that are actually invasive—it would make me think of you. If that’s because you’re that beautiful–more beautiful–or because I wanted you to see them too, or because I happen to just like spending time with you...I’m not sure. But I missed you, and I really am not fond of not being able to talk to you; we’ve done enough of that.”

Morgan listened, her face growing wet and more adoring with each word. To hear Deirdre talk, she had been to another plane of existence. There was longing, yes, but so much room for thoughts to grow, so much life, so much. The world Deirdre had left for seemed ever expansive. Beyond another hill was another memory. Fresh wishes grew in a clearing just ahead. Flowers trailed into meadows where hope grew wild.

Morgan reached up to touch Deirdre’s cheek and  brush back her hair. What little resolve she had was crumbling and her breath trembled and hitched quietly as she searched for something to say. You should have made me. You should have asked for me, so I’d have to. It would’ve been so much better for everyone if you made me. She pulled herself back into the crook of Deirdre’s neck and stifled her sobs against her shoulder. She was trying, she really was, but the only words she could find were of regret and shame and she didn’t want to give that to Deirdre as a welcome home present. She wanted, more than anything, to be worth coming home to and worth keeping. She wanted to be laying Deirdre down in their bed and taking charge of her comfort. How many times had she imagined what she would do? The meals she would make? The sex they would have? The good she would show her? But everything in Morgan’s world had withered and broken, even most of Deirdre’s flowers. There was nothing to be proud of, nothing to share. Deirdre had come all this way to a mess she didn’t deserve, because Morgan couldn’t keep her shit together for a few weeks.

“Of course it’s okay,” she squeaked. “It’s always okay. If you want…” If you want to go there when it’s safe, you should. You should follow your instincts and do what makes you happy, was what she wanted to say. But she wasn’t selfless enough to suggest Deirdre leave again so soon. Only a sob came out when she tried. “Whatever you want, whatever you feel, it’s okay.” She clung tighter, shivering as her body begged her to surrender to Deirdre’s affection. For the first time in so long, she was held, she was loved, she was at home. It was everything she had ached and cried for and when Deirdre looked at her, there was no question of whether or not it was real or lasting. And yet.

“I want to see them. All those things. If you took pictures. I wish I’d been there too…”

Perhaps the truth wasn’t so simple. Deirdre could feel it in Morgan’s tears, wet against her wrinkled clothing. And her own truth, held still on her tongue. Morgan’s pain was not an ordinary loneliness, and Deirdre’s was not either. Neither of them moved to confess, but Deirdre arms tightened their grip around Morgan. Some things were simple, she conceded. That she loved Morgan. That she truly had missed her. That New Zealand had been beautiful and that parts of her did miss Ireland. She was happy to be back and would readily explain so. But her agony, its truth, was too shameful. Hadn’t she learned already that all truth was safe with Morgan? Didn’t she know Morgan never judged her; hurt her? Wasn’t this a game they’d played a hundred times? Isn’t it unfair? Yet, Deirdre, finally suspecting she might be an over-thinker, had over-thought her confession already. It wouldn’t leave her now until her mind had settled, and in truth, she felt it more right to make up for lost time than to start spilling her fears. “Thank you…” she mumbled along to Morgan’s reassurance, chasing each phrase with a kiss, “thank you.”

She lifted herself from the bed, or tried to. Their legs were tangled together, and their arms glued to the other. Deirdre laughed, realizing quickly that if she wanted to go anywhere, Morgan would be coming with her. And all the better, anyway. She wouldn’t want to suffer another moment apart. “I did take pictures. On the bigger camera, you’ll have to come in to see them. And I have gifts! Mostly bones, but bones are the best gift.” Deirdre leaned down and kissed Morgan again, and again, and decided she’d stop at five before she lost her thought entirely. “I love you,” she whispered with reverence, “and I’m going to move so I can carry you inside, alright? Is it okay to carry you, my love?” And with a whimper, either from herself or Morgan, an involuntary sound on both parts, Deirdre untangled herself quickly. The two of them were practiced in this sort of maneuvering, even with the weeks apart, and so Morgan was in her arms quickly again and they were out the shed. As they moved, Deirdre’s eyes finally took in the house.

The pool was empty. This was not so strange; Mina wasn’t always swimming around in there. The pool was clean. That was strange. Deirdre stepped into their house, flopping them both down on the couch with a laugh. She kissed her girlfriend again, and again, and paused only to lift her head up and run her fingers through her hair as it had fallen in front of her face. Then she looked around again. The house was clean. This was not so strange; they didn’t exactly live in squalor. The house was empty. This was strange. Their house was occupied by four women. It was impossible to have an empty home—not that the furniture was gone, if someone had stolen that, she’d have noticed sooner. But that the life was. And Deirdre was sensitive to such a sight, having lived in this house in such a state originally. She knew what it meant to have a house that wasn’t lived in. But their home wasn’t like that.

Deirdre loved to see some book on the table, to know that was what Morgan was reading. Some cup someone had forgotten to put away. Pieces of popcorn lost on the rug from the night before. A bag. A wet footprint. Footsteps in another room. A sock one of the cats had stolen. Jackets. Blankets. Scarves. Lip balm scattered around. Papers about tests. The TV remote always in a new place. Cat toys littered on the floor. Their house, in this way, was empty.

“Morgue…” Deirdre blinked, slowly shifting her attention back to her love. “....are Bex and Mina out?” Perhaps they had gone on a vacation of their own. It was summer, after all. She decided she would think nothing of it, and then...

As soon as Deirdre went quiet, Morgan knew she had begun to figure things out. Of course she had. She was Deirdre, and this was their home, and the life they had in it was supposed to be so full and beautiful and what Morgan had left her to come back to was only its shell. She didn’t respond to the question at first, just stared sadly at Deirdre’s shirt. She couldn’t bear to watch her face while she explained.

“...No,” she said, her voice wavering just above a whisper. “A couple of days after you left, Bex decided to go back to her parents. I-I did...I did try to convince her not to, but she didn’t feel safe and I couldn’t…” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “And M-mina didn’t want to stay after that, so she’s gone too.” And that wasn’t even the whole story. Morgan went quiet, crying silently, and wondered if she would really make Deirdre pry everything out of her one piece at a time. Was she that cowardly and stubborn, like some willful child trying to escape punishment? The thought brought Ruth Beck’s voice to Morgan’s ears and she whimpered. No. She would not do that. So she took a deep breath and tried her best to come clean.

“...I didn’t mean to ruin it,” she prefaced. But she never meant to. That was the problem. “I should’ve checked on Mina sooner, I should’ve tried to bring her in with me after Bex was gone but I felt like I couldn’t even stand and I just didn’t and then it was too late and she was off getting hurt somewhere. And later I met that girl again, that slayer, and I pushed her into a random interdimensional portal because I hated how she talked to me, how she looked at me and everyone like me, and she wouldn’t answer any of my questions and maybe I just wanted to be able to hurt someone back. But of course she found her way out and the only reason she didn’t hurt me when she tracked me down again was that Bex happened to be around and made herself into a body shield.” She smiled bitterly. That day had been so horrible, but she’d give a lot to go back to it. She’d had more hope then.

“But of course Bex’s mother, Odell, figured things out, that I’d been messaging her, trying to convince her to do anything else but stay there. Maybe she figured out that Bex had gone out of her way to protect me from my own stupid choices too. And so Odell shrank the department budget so there’s no TA or adjunct offices and me and my contract are now under re-evaluation. She was waiting for me in my shitty boxed up office to share the good news and she told me how much she wanted to break Bex and how powerful she was and when I heard that I--pinned her down on my old desk and broke both of her hands in several places because I thought if she couldn’t use them…” Morgan hung her head completely, the weight of her reckless stupidity was so much, she couldn’t risk seeing Deirdre’s face on accident. She couldn’t bear her disappointment and she didn’t feel like she deserved her grace.

“But Bex has a two parent household, so when her father came home, she was hurt worse than ever, to punish her for what I did, and I don’t know how much she will ever forgive me for it. Not when I spent the weekend yelling at her fake boyfriend, who also hates himself and is so far back in the closet he’s probably found Narnia. I probably just made them more excited to destroy themselves and each other in socially acceptable ways. And since hurting Bex isn’t enough on its own, Odell has all the butcheries in the county scared for their lives if they sell me any brains, so now I’m roughing it in the woods with the other wild animals and…” She shrugged. She had to be extra careful. She had to make meals stretch without becoming a danger to anyone. She had to do everything to make sure she only lost control once. She’d only managed to come back from the last time by more absurd luck she didn’t deserve.

“Sundew’s troop has been progressing really well with reading, but at some point they started sending out phishing emails for favors and promises, and they bound Erin into loaning them her cat, and it…” Stars, it was so stupid now. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “It was for some special secret pixie festival and it seemed really important. So I used my favor with them to get a promise that they’d take care of her and I was clear and detailed and I did try to think of everything, but the cat...I didn’t say enough about how they should get the cat home. And she got hit by something on the road and they let it happen and she died. Erin hasn’t really spoken to me since, so. There goes that too. I broke a lot of our things because I didn’t know what else to do and it’s all patched or replaced but I did it even though I said I wouldn’t and I know it doesn’t really do anything, I couldn’t even keep up with all of the flowers. You took such good care of them and I couldn’t remember even though I have so much time…”

Morgan pressed her palms over her eyes. Then she peeled them away and forced herself to look into Deirdre’s face. It was the bare minimum of respect she deserved. Her body screamed at her to turn away, to curl up and hide because it was better if she did it to herself, but she held still, trembling.  As she did, Morgan’s voice shrank, meeker and more ashamed as she went on. “I know I should’ve done better. Everything just fell apart. I couldn’t hold onto it and I couldn’t fix it and I kept trying, but I was trying wrong and when I wasn’t doing that I was just here surrounded by nothing and I--” Her face crumpled again. “I’ve been so alone,” she sobbed. “I don’t know how to do it anymore, I’ve been alone for so long, I should know how to deal with it, I’ve done it so many times, I should, but I don’t have that, I lost it. I never wanted you to come back to this when you’re supposed to be happy and free and working on yourself and being with your people instead of just me all the time. I wanted to make things good when you came back, but I’m just so alone...”

“My love…” Deirdre’s voice carried thinly in the air, dispersed quickly. She wanted to tell Morgan to stop, slow down, breathe, let them get comfortable, but as she understood Morgan’s bravery in sharing it all at once, her protests were quickly replaced with rapt attention. A lot had happened in her absence, and by the time Morgan finished, she wasn’t even sure she understood it all. But this time, her voice was steady, “My love…” Her hands went to Morgan’s face first, trying to wipe tears away and undo the wrinkle of her brow. She pressed her lips to her forehead, whispering softly, “you’re not alone now.” Carefully, she pulled herself flush against Morgan, holding her as tight as their current positions would allow. “It’ll be okay. We’ll make it okay…”

It was no secret that Deirdre and Morgan’s emotions worked in tandem; Deirdre hurt as Morgan did. To transmute their pain, the two of them needed to push together. “First,” she pulled back, just enough to look at Morgan. In apology for the parting, she kissed her, and pressed their foreheads firmly together--enough to leave a red mark on hers from the pressure and a buzz against Morgan’s. “First, I love you. I love you and I don’t want you to feel guilty about the flowers or how you feel. Never, okay?” Deirdre paused, wanting her first point to sink before she moved on. She spoke with warmth; slow and measured. She spoke one thing at a time, one moment at a time, waiting for confirmation after each sentence. “I know this isn’t what you wanted and to know you intended for things to be well is enough for me, just as I hope you know that I would never mind if they weren’t. Second, there is no right way to try. I know it feels like there should be, I know your life has been filled with so many things that have felt like trying the wrong way but...but you try and I love that about you, and I don’t think there is a wrong way to try--a wrong way to wish for the best. You have been trying to do good, and that itself counts, it counts to me. And it's not wrong. It wasn’t wrong. It can’t be wrong. You never meant for things to turn out so poorly, you said that yourself, and it isn’t your fault they have. I’m sure you can tell me all about things you should have done, but perhaps I should have stayed in Ireland. Perhaps I should have known better than to fall in love with a human.”

She shifted, kissing Morgan again and again and trailing affection down to the crook of her neck before she lifted her head again and held Morgan’s in her hands. “Third, on our walks, we can start looking for brains together. I still have that portable cooler from when I used to gather them for you, and maybe most of them will be mushy by the time we get to them but…” Deirdre sighed, shaking her head. She could imagine the kind of person Odell was, her own mother was shockingly similar, but everything seemed to pale in reality. “...but you shouldn’t have to worry about food. If you want me to, I can make sure of it. Whatever Odell said to the butcheries, there’s a way around it, even if I have to promise-bind all of them myself. The same goes with your job but...but we can figure this out later, okay? When you’re ready, the two of us can put our heads together and come up with a plan. And we’ll try--together, not alone. Not anymore.” Deirdre dropped her hands. “All of it. Erin, Mina, the slayer...Bex’s….gay boyfriend…” That one needed more explanation. “...You’re not alone anymore. You’re not alone right now. And you don’t need to do anything by yourself, okay? And fourth--and I swear this is the last thing--my love, you are the strongest person I know. You are the bravest and the most amazing and--” Deirdre laughed, tumbling over herself in effusive adjectives, “--and thank you, for telling me all this. I didn’t think you’d want to say it all at once, but I’m glad you did. Every day we’re together, you astonish me more and more. My strong, brave and beautiful Morgan--” She kissed her once, smiling too wide to try for another. “--I love you so very dearly. You’ll have to tell me what you’re thinking now, okay? What do you want to do?”

Deirdre spoke and Deirdre kissed and there was no such thing as forgiveness, only grace and kindness for Morgan. She collapsed in her arms, breaking with sobs she didn’t know she’d been holding in. She didn’t feel strong. She felt like her life was ashes around her. She felt like she’d trade her regrowable body for wounds she could have someone explain and show her how to treat. Like she never should have tried at all, like she never should have come here. What was she, that she could ruin everything so quickly? Everyone said it was her, so they had to be at least a little right, if they weren’t right altogether.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I know you’re not mad, I know you want to help, but you shouldn’t have to and I didn’t want any of this and I’m sorry I didn’t know how to stop it. I wanted to make it good so bad and I didn’t, and I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” She broke off again, shrinking in Deirdre’s arms so she could hide in there forever.

Eventually her emotions spent themselves into quieter gasps and she turned her energy instead to clutching Deirdre tight to make sure this was real and she wasn’t in the middle of some mental break. And eventually, she remembered something about being asked what she wanted. It felt like a trick question. Morgan hadn’t asked it of herself in a while, and most of what she really wanted wasn’t hers to have. She tried to still her mind and sift for the answer. What did she want?

“You,” she croaked in a small voice. “And I--” She shifted to look up at her and shook her head with disbelief. Nothing in her imagination could come close to the look on her face, so open and adoring it made her shrink with shame. (Why her? After all this? Why did she not have even a little disappointment?) “I want to do something for you or give you something. Give me something to do and I’ll get it right, e-even something hard, or stupidly simple, I don’t know, anything. I want to be with you but nothing about you being here feels real yet and maybe if I can just do one stupid thing right, it’ll make sense and I can rest with you.”

“Well, I know that. But I love you, and I care about you and of course that means I want to help. You might not need me to at all, but it means I would like to, and I would—readily. Even if ‘help’ is just holding you.” Deirdre smiled, knowing that in most cases, Morgan had things figured out for herself before Deirdre could even think of a good plan. Still, helping wasn’t really about being right. If it was Morgan, she’d take being wrong any day. “You want to do something for me?” Deirdre nodded very seriously, normally she might’ve chuckled—it was a very Morgan thing to ask for. But it made complete sense to her, she wanted to feel useful to someone she cared about, to know she could be again. And normally, Deirdre might’ve had a dozen and two arguments about how she didn’t need to give her anything, and how she really couldn’t think of anything anyway, but all usual remarks or objections were silent. Deirdre perked up and looked around; her suitcase was too far away for her to bring without getting up again, and all that was in there for them anyway was skeletons to articulate, which they also couldn’t do without shifting themselves. The house was immaculate and Deirdre wasn’t very hungry.

Then, in looking about, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She looked tired, her face seemed thinner and her eyes sat deeper inside her skull. It made sense for a woman who hadn’t done much at all to care for herself in a month’s time. Her fingers rose up to her head, tangling in her messy hair, lopsided from travel and heat. It had grown longer and now measured past her chest. “You could braid my hair,” she looked at Morgan, eyes wide with the excitement of a good idea. “I mean, look at it! It’s a real mess. Certainly in need of some help. A nice style would do it some good.” She grinned wider, adjusting herself and offering to twist around if Morgan thought the idea was sound.

Morgan had waited, worried, in case Deirdre denied her with that gentle, overwhelming kindness she didn’t always know what to do with. But then she answered, and Morgan’s heart leapt as if it had been shocked back to life. Her wet blue eyes lit with excitement that matched Deirdre’s own and she scrambled to sit up. “Yes!” She said. “Yes, I can do that. I mean, you’re not a mess, you’ve just been traveling for two or three days and you’re probably tired, but you’re beautiful, always, and I missed your face so much, I can’t believe you’re really looking at me again and yes, I’ll do your hair…” She ran her hands over Deirdre’s face, cradling it so carefully, as though it might break beneath her touch.

Now that she was letting herself look at Deirdre without fear or disbelief, she could see the harder lines in her cheeks and the thick purple circle under her eyes. “My poor love,” she whispered. She kissed each eyelid and then each temple, finally brave enough to give affection feely. “If I do something you don’t like, you’ll tell me right?” She murmured against her skin. “With anything? I know you probably won’t mind your hair, but maybe I’ll pull too hard or you don’t want to be touched somewhere anymore, or I’ll say something weird.” She kissed up into Deirdre’s hairline and started finger combing through the fine, silky mess. “I don’t talk to people very much out loud. Maybe I’ve forgotten how. So if I say something, maybe it’s just that I don't know better anymore, but I will if you tell me.” She kissed further, up to the top of Deirdre’s head where she brought her cheek down to rest. “I want to be good for you.” She stayed there for a few seconds, letting the variations in texture on Deirdre’s body convince her a little more. This was happening, and she could earn it.

The moment passed and Morgan straightened up and situated herself behind her love and started finger-combing and sectioning in earnest. “I missed you so much, I started telling people stories about you. Just the good ones. It always seems like the best way to explain how much I love you without sounding like a bad movie.” A sidelong braid might be nice, since Deirdre usually moved so much. “Do you want to tell me some more now, from your trip? I know I seem--” She couldn’t find the word, but she knew the sunken, lonely feeling well enough. “But I feel better already, and I want to know all of it. From the looks of you, there was a lot more roughing it than I thought there would be.”

“My dear, sweet, darling Morgue--” Deirdre smiled wide, bright-eyed and body relaxed into Morgan’s grip. Her voice took up a familiar teasing inflection, while her lips turned lopsided in their mischief. She felt like herself again, and her love was to thank. “While I find it absolutely impossible that you’ll do something I won’t like; I will. With anything. Because I love you, so very much, and I can’t help but to be honest. If honesty is loving you, and…” Her words dissolved when Morgan kissed her, she tried to start up her grand monologue again only to be lost under more affection. “I want to be good for you too,” she mumbled, “I love you.” It occurred to her, in a flicker, that she wasn’t being honest. In another, that she didn’t really know what part to confess; how to confess.

Deirdre adjusted herself, humming under Morgan’s touch. It only took a moment for her to start squirming--she wanted to be closer to Morgan, she wasn’t close enough. “I told people stories about you too. You were all I could talk about, somedays. I could tell the others were getting sick of it, but were too polite to ask me to stop but I just--I just wanted someone to know how much I loved you, and I missed you, and about the good that you put into my life and sometimes it feels like the only good and it really started to feel like the only--” Deirdre shifted again, twisting around to kiss Morgan properly. With a smile, she apologized and moved back into place. “I, um, the trip was,” Deirdre fidgeted, picking cat hair off her shorts. “It was--well, I already told you about the trees. And the water was, uh…” She figured she might have been better at discussing her feelings by now, but it often still felt like she was ripping her heart out--hearts weren’t made to be outside the bodies.

“Well,” Deirdre swallowed. Morgan had been so brave for her, she was due the same in return. And she had said a great deal about honesty and thought well about truth, and both those things ought to be respected. “It didn’t really go so well, actually.” She felt alone. She felt lost. She felt disagreeable to the world. She had begun to imagine herself like a stain. And in her agony, she had turned somewhere. To someone. To home. “I’m not sure what to make of it yet…” Deirdre trailed off, her head slumped involuntarily. “...but I think--well, I think I’ve got it figured out; what I need to do. So it’s fine. In the end, it’ll be okay…” Stains had a terrible way about them, spreading if they weren’t wiped up quick enough. So, she was wiping. “It’s just--”

She wouldn’t say it, and she wasn’t sure how many seconds passed in silence as she stared at her fingernails, picking imaginary dirt out.    

Morgan was delirious with relief as she pulled her fingers through Deirdre’s long hair and started working. She reveled in the way her blue-tinted hands looked combing through, caressing her love’s scalp just as much as she was folding her hair into a loose french fishtail. But she wasn’t so heady that she didn’t catch the faltering in Deirdre’s words. Her statements were flat and vague and simple. And then, as she peered over to gather hair by Deirdre’s ear, she saw her hands, picking and wiping. Something was wrong. Something was very very wrong. Or Deirdre thought there was and sometimes Deirdre’s worries were nothing at all. And sometimes they involved iron, blood, and grief.

“Babe…?” Morgan asked, her voice small in the silence. Was the world crumbling again. Was this moment of rest some kind of lie? Was Deirdre leaving again after all? Had she killed someone or bargained something foolish with someone? Given something? Promised something? She’d said ‘need’ to do and maybe that was her duty and maybe that was self-care. Everything good and terrifying was possible until she explained.

Morgan slumped against Deirdre’s back and wrapped her arms around her. “I’m sorry the trip was bad,” she mumbled against her shoulder. “Please tell me the rest. It scares me when you don’t. And I love you, and I know I didn’t take care of our home, but whatever this is, I want to start figuring out how to carry it now. I can take it, okay? Please tell me what you’re hiding. I’m here and I love you and I want it. Please, okay?”

“Do you love me?” Deirdre blurted, suddenly feeling very silly and stupid to even ask. Morgan just said she did, she had no reason to question it. She had been feeling a lot of silly and stupid. She flattened her palms out on her legs, and started to smooth imaginary wrinkles. “I don’t mean--it’s just--” She could hear the way her voice turned small and soft. Diminished. She winced at herself, sighing as she leaned against Morgan. She lifted her hands and found Morgan’s arms, smoothing the pretend wrinkles there instead. “You have your shed. And you teach the pixies and I...I don’t have much of anything, do I?” She closed her eyes.

“At first, I think I must’ve been jealous. I thought it was strange the way people walked around the house to get to your shed. Your...visitors. Your friends. Around the house, like it wasn’t there, wasn’t something to think about. And I could see them through the windows and I thought...well, it felt like it must’ve meant something about myself. Something to walk around. Forget. And the hobbies never worked out. And the group--you see, the thing about the group is--” Is that everything she thought was silly and stupid, wasn’t it? She wanted to stop speaking now, but she’d already started, and couldn’t think of a way to wipe the stain of her feelings up. It had spread where Morgan could see it. “I thought it must’ve meant something about me, how hard I found the whole thing to be. And they’d been at it for a while, the same few people. And I didn’t know how to…” Deirdre opened her eyes and moonlight greeted her. “...I wonder where my place is, in this world. I don’t know. And I did--well, I--” she sighed, shaking her head. “Can I tell you about it later? I just need, I need a--I don’t even know what it is yet. But I want to know, before I say anything. I need to know.”

Morgan pressed her face firmly into Deirdre’s back, grateful that she couldn’t see just how scared she was. It was something bad. Something desperate. She didn’t know what. Was Deirdre only here for a few days? Was she leaving her for Ireland, after all this time? Was she giving up on their life? Was she going to go looking for purpose at the sharp end of a knife? Morgan didn’t know. That was the thing. If she didn’t know, the only thing worse than the horrible possibilities she imagined were the possibilities she couldn’t. Morgan took a deep breath. Then another, when that one came out wet and slurping and awful and sad and stars, Deirdre would never tell her if Morgan looked like she was about to shatter, would she? Another breath.

“I love you,” she said. “I love you like not being able to be in our room without you, because it feels wrong. I love you like reading your letters and remembering how I felt reading them the first time. I love you like playing our favorite songs and singing them and feeling happy and sad at the same time because they remind me of us but you aren’t here to sing them with me. I love you like looking at your pictures over and over, so I can imagine your face better when I miss you too much and I don’t want to be alone anymore.” She shifted, and turned Deirdre’s face gently to meet hers. “I love you like….the future isn’t an empty void anymore, it’s you, and it’s quiet, and it’s good. I love you like you’re a part of me. You’re in me and you make everything better and more worthwhile.” She kissed her before her resolve collapsed again. If they were close, if they closed their eyes, neither of them would have to know how frail Morgan’s grasp on herself was. So of course she kissed her again, whispering, “I love you so very much, Deirdre.” Then she pressed their heads together as Deirdre had done only a little while ago. “Please tell me. I’m already scared and my brain literally never shuts off anymore. Whatever you did, whatever’s about to happen, please. It won’t be better later. Please. Please. I don’t think I have it in me to yell or be mad or whatever you’re afraid I’ll do. So please…”

Deirdre was crying. She hadn’t meant to, and her mind bubbled over with thoughts about stains and wiping and the echoed remainder of her mother. “I-I called my mother,” she confessed all at once, “it didn’t--I don’t know how. But I was so--I wanted her to help me. So I called her. And I flew to Ireland before I came back here. And I told her about--she figured out--she knows about you. And she--the thing is, she didn’t say anything. I thought she would say something. But she just started praying, and then she got up, and then she left. And she didn’t say anything about it. I thought she’d yell, or she’d hurt me again but she didn’t. And I don’t know--” Deirdre’s head fell into Morgan’s neck, where she sobbed and shook, unsure of why she was doing either. “I am trying to fit, Morgan! I am trying to belong in the world, I am trying to prove I deserve to. And I can’t--I just wanted her to be a mother. She’s always--she always has something to say. Even if it’s not right. But she didn’t say anything! And I don’t know if she’s mad, or if she’s going to come here and--” Deirdre choked. “--I don’t know what to do. About myself. About her. About anything. And you--and you--” Deirdre looked up. “You’ve been having such a hard time too and you’re always so good at--it’s just that--you have your shed, Morgan. And I have...And I…” Her sentence was lost again, offered up to more crying. She dissolved against Morgan finally, having thought her strength was in the denial of truth. Having believed truth to be simple.

“Oh….” Morgan whispered. “Okay. Okay. It’s okay.” She leaned them back against the couch so now it was Deirdre half in her lap and she steadying their existence. Stars, Morgan was tired. Whenever she imagined Deirdre coming back, she was carried, comforted, soothed and wrapped up in an existence separate from all her pain. She turned to slime on their bed and Deirdre laughed and said it was alright. But this was not her imagination. Deirdre was lost and breaking in her arms and at some point she would need Morgan to say something besides, it’s okay. She needed Morgan Beck, not Morgan’s shell.

“It’s okay,” Morgan crooned, combing through her love’s hair again. “I’m sorry. I know it hurts. But it’s okay. You can be like this…” She was so tired. She couldn’t remember the last time she rested. Only her moments of being nowhere. If she wasn’t careful, she might do it now. She couldn’t wrap her head around the next ten minutes, much less the hour, the rest of the night, the future. What could she offer that would be enough when Deirdre was this scared and lost? What was left of her after everything she’d gotten wrong?

Morgan breathed and counted. In, hold, out. Again. In, hold, out. Again. She pressed her lips to Deirdre’s forehead, then down the side of her face.”You’re just learning. It’s hard when you’re learning and no one’s shown you how. You’re not doing anything wrong, it’s just hard.” She wiped her love’s cheek and kept her fingers there, thumbing the familiar lines. “We can come up with a plan and some ideas, so you don’t feel so aimless while you’re figuring out what’s right for you. But we don’t have to do it right now, if you don’t want to. We can go to our room and crawl into bed and love each other first, if you’d rather. But I won’t leave you like this on your own.” She gripped whatever was left inside her soul and tilted Deirdre’s face up to meet her own, which was suddenly soft and certain beneath her sticky tears. “My dearest love, when will you accept that you don’t have to hurt by yourself anymore?” And she smiled, warm with her secret prayers for strength.

Deirdre had longed to hear those two words spoken by anyone but the shadows of her mind, and she cried to know them finally, said by a woman who loved her. It’s okay. All she had wanted to know was just that. She could believe it if Morgan said it, she could believe anything. But the two of them had been through so much pain, and what mattered most was being together. Tomorrow’s problems could be handled tomorrow. With that in mind, Deirdre lifted her head and sniffled. Slowly, as Morgan continued, she began to smile until eventually, she broke out into a quick laugh. “When will you, my darling love?” She laughed again, realizing that their pain existed mirrored; their emotions in tandem. “Oh I would much rather just love you, Morgan. I would much rather just do that about any time of the day. I didn’t ruin your braid now, did I?” She tried to look up at the strands of her hair, as if she might catch a glimpse of her head somehow. “I’m okay. I meant it when I said it was fine, at least, for now.” She kissed her. “But I do want to take a bath first, if you’ll join me. I could use a rest from the heat.” And she kissed her again. “And you know the same goes for you? Whatever it is, we can do it together; we can figure out a plan together.” And again. “I love you.” And again. “I love you always. I’m sorry for–well, you’ll just tell me that I don’t have to apologize anyway, so I won’t do it. But I love you, I love you, I love you.” And again. And again, until they were back to the way they’d gotten onto the couch in the first place.

“Since you’re all beautiful and blue, will you do my the honour of carrying me up to our bed, my sweet love?” Deirdre breathed after a moment. “I don’t want to leave you like this either, you know. The two of us…I think we ought to be happy, I think we already know how to get there together. And right now, I think that means you carry me up to our room.”

At Deirdre’s retort, Morgan couldn’t help but laugh, too. It was awful, especially when her mind began composing a very detailed explanation about why it was different for her. And it was funny, because sometimes the two of them were so foolishly, wonderfully similar. Her face sagged down to Deirdre’s shoulder. “Oh, you definitely shook out the braid, but it’s not your hair if I don’t have to do it over at least twice.” Her laugh was heavy and odd in her ears, and suddenly she couldn’t tell if she was still laughing or actually sobbing with delirium.

Deirdre went on with her wonderful answers and assuring kisses, but at the thought of carrying anything, even the woman she wanted so desperately, Morgan whimpered and sagged a little further into Deirdre. She made herself breathe again and searched for more of the endless strength she was supposed to have. At last she looked up at her love, but her composure was all spent, and every uncertainty showed in her pleading blue eyes. I don’t know if I can do what you asked, I asked for one stupid thing to do for you but I don’t know how to carry anything else anymore, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. But nothing sounded better than their bathtub. If she could just skip to the part where she was already soaking, where no one had to carry anything and the water was iced enough that her skin prickled under it, she might cry with happiness.

“I’m so tired,” she croaked, words slurring. She hadn’t meant to say it. The words were simply too true to keep themselves in. Either that or she wasn’t rationing her meals as well as she thought, and her grip on her mind was getting loose. Morgan couldn’t figure out if one was worse than the other, just that she didn’t care, so long as she didn’t have to let go of Deirdre again so soon. “I--can you do it with me instead? I feel awful about it and I can’t tell if it’s the kind of awful I should listen to or the kind I shouldn’t, and I know I’m not tired like you are, if I made my body move, it would. And if what I’m saying isn’t good, I can make my body do that in a minute. I just thought…” She lost the thread of her thought, taking in Deirdre’s own exhaustion and the softness behind her bravery. She was so very strong. How could she not fit in the world when she had so much to give?

“...Maybe we help each other get up and fill some buckets, and we each take one, and we make everything nice and cold in the tub together, and if you fall asleep like that, at least you probably won’t get hypothermia? My first idea was we should teleport, but that’s not a real thing for us.” A pitiful laugh burbled out of her lips. “I’m sorry this isn’t what either of us really wanted. And you can fit in the world. You fit with me so well, you’ll fit other places too, you will. But...after we’ve helped each other get upstairs and soak and wash, and I braid your hair again...or maybe just after you let me lay on you like this, because I miss laying on you, and next to you, and holding you, maybe then we can find our way to ‘better?”

“My darling…” Deirdre’s voice was muffled as she pressed a kiss to her love’s cheek. Morgan was normally very excited every chance she got to carry Deirdre, and she took her refusal now as the final proof that Morgan was really just as tired as she seemed. “It’s okay. We’ll save that part for another day, and we’ll just get ourselves into the tub as soon as possible.” She smiled, she wasn’t so tired that she wasn’t willing to grab everything herself; there was always a burst of reliable energy within Deirdre where Morgan’s waned. She needed just enough to carry her, just enough to push through. It was a strength she never failed to summon for the woman she loved above all else. It found her with ease now, and she kissed the side of Morgan’s face again before pushing off the couch and pulling Morgan up to her feet and in her arms. “I believe we always do find our way to better; I believe things can’t help but to be better as long as we’re together, trying. So, yes, yes, let’s do all of that, my love.” She paused, “I wish we could teleport. That sounds useful in a practical sense. But I suppose, even these moments grabbing buckets and tumbling up stairs are ones I cherish. Every moment with you is one I wouldn’t trade for anything else. Tired, or sad or—What I mean is, I love you very much, mo mhuirnín. All of you, however you are, always.”

Deirdre was tired too; when she walked, she felt like her legs were more liquid than solid. Her arms rejected the buckets and they protested in stiffness and aching. Her eyelids were heavy, often threatening to close for hours when she blinked. Her mind, normally buzzing with thoughts and solutions and calculations, was an incomprehensible jumble from which she could only reliably extract a few sentences. Her love for Morgan remained, as it always did, the brightest star. The one truth she could voice without fail was that she loved Morgan, and she believed with great faith that she always would. And if not, then certainly, she loved her so much it felt like she would love her always—as if her love existed in all time, at all times.

Morgan followed behind Deirdre, bracing her love with her body when her legs faltered. On the landing, she nosed Deirdre’s shoulder and smiled without pain for the first time in a month. She did not pause by Bex’s door. She did not look at Mina’s to check if the girl had mysteriously reappeared when she wasn’t looking. She shuffled into the bedroom she shared with the woman she loved, and just barely stopped herself from slipping off balance on their bathroom tile. She poured the ice. She started the water. And at long last she shouldered out of her clothes and helped Deirdre to do the same.

She looked up at her and smiled once more. The look of adoring reverence she’d held since Deirdre arrived, as though she were a constellation incarnate, faded and Morgan tapped the end of her nose with her finger. Boop. Deirdre was just a person. Her person. And she was finally here. “You are the most incredible woman I know, Deirdre Dolan. But you don’t know everything. And you’re not supposed to. Actually, I’m pretty sure having an existential crisis means you get a special patch for your ‘I’m a person after all’ sash.” She trailed her finger down to Deirdre’s lip, then her chin, and brought her down for a gentle kiss, for Deirdre and Deirdre alone. “Of course you belong. And the world and I are so very lucky to have the gift of you being ours. Welcome home, my love. Come inside and rest with me.”

Deirdre wrinkled her nose, laughing into her kiss and throwing the rest of her useless clothes away. “It’s funny how that works,” she started as she stepped into the cold tub, beckoning for Morgan to follow. “I happen to think you’re the most incredible person I know, Morgan Beck.”

After, the heat of the day cooled off Deirdre’s body and her skin returned to the paleness it knew. After, Morgan settled against Deirdre as she picked up the water-damaged collection of poetry they kept by the tub, reading through doggy-eared pages with a slow, soothing determination. Words of Oliver, Glück, Brooks and Dickinson rolled off her tongue and it was only after this, in their tub, that Deirdre finally slept. The book fell softly and harmlessly to the tile with Deirdre’s fingers dangling above.

An hour would pass before she awoke, with a yawn, eager to get them into bed. But until then, she found peace. She dreamed of meadows and wild horses; glittering lakes and wildflowers. Mostly she dreamed of Morgan, and their life, and the magical place where it was all better.

In an hour, with a yawn, she would tell Morgan that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with her and that she loved her, she loved her so much, and she was sure, like a prophet, that things would be okay. They had to be.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

A Taste of Fae and Croquet || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: the recent past

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

SUMMARY: An innocent game in the yard is crashed by a Stymphalian bird. The world cannot always be kind.

CONTAINS: animal death, soft gays

“The last croquet game I remember seeing was in Alice in Wonderland. And I felt so bad for the flamingos, with their heads bashed into the balls every turn, all those cartoon stars over their heads and how much they fought Alice because they didn’t want to play. I never wanted to look into the real thing because it looked so mean. But this is nice!” Morgan beamed at Deirdre across the lawn. She poised her foot over her ball, nestled adorably next to Deirdre’s, and took a big swing. Deirdre’s ball flew, bounced off the fence, and rolled somewhere back to one of the starting arches. With the extra swings she’d earned, Morgan got her ball into one more wicket and in good position to take the last two later. Smug, she skipped over to her girlfriend and gave her the requisite kiss Deirdre had insisted was customary when fae played the game.

“You aren’t making up the rules to go easy on me, are you?” She purred. “Because you should know by now, I like it when you give me a hard time just as much as I like to make you squirm.”

Deirdre laughed, both into the kiss and after, head tilted to the sky. “I am trying to give you a hard time, my love.” She grinned, staring at her purple ball in the grass. When she played the game with Maeve, she’d always won. And when she played with humans, she was more concerned about trying to hit the balls into as many of their heads as she could than she was with winning. Though Deirdre enjoyed winning as much as she did breathing, she was having fun with her loss now. It must have been something to do with the kisses, which she insisted occurred every time a ball passed through a wicket, or the fact that it was Morgan. “Besides, I don’t think there’s much else to the rules than ‘hit the ball through the wicket’ and then something else about bonus shots.”

She waved a hand in the air, uncaring for the propriety of croquet. There must have been a rule or something about making sure the ball stayed on the ground, but it was far more fun to send it sailing through the air, which she did. “Mind your head!” It went up and away and crashing into the wicket closest to Morgan. Deirdre jogged up to survey her work. “That counts, right?” she pointed at the wicket, bent out of shape and ripped from the ground, “I make the rules and I say that counts for two billion points, actually. Oh, and also—“ She leaned across, pressing her lips to Morgan’s. “—I just remembered actually you’re supposed to give these every time you hit a ball. Very important; can’t play the game without it.” She looked back down at their make-shift croquet field. “Oh, my love, you’re at the turning point now. You’re supposed to do something with that stake there...hit it, I suppose? And then start going back.” Deirdre took a look at her own ball, and her own standing in the game; she couldn’t remember what wickets she went through, and which she still needed to, and what order it was she was supposed to follow. Deirdre slung her purple mallet over her shoulder, maybe croquet just wasn’t the game for her.

Morgan jumped back to duck the flying ball. She wasn’t sure how Deirdre did it, and wondered if there was something innate in fae that made them do things as chaotically as possible. Clumsy with happiness, Morgan took a swing at the stake with her mallet, leaving her ball right in the choice place where it was. “You mean like this?” She teased. “And that means you kiss me again, right? I feel like  there was something you said earlier about having to give affection for other swings.” Deirdre had said no such thing, but with balls flying and wickets getting crushed, Morgan could tell that naming a winner wasn’t going to be a very important part of the day. She pulled her girlfriend close and kissed her neck, teasing her in the places that usually made her squeal. Then, flexing her body to its best advantage, she took her swing and guided her ball perfectly on course.

She backed away to steer clear of her girlfriend’s next shot when a shadow flew overhead. She shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun and pointed. “Is that a gull? Aren’t they supposed to migrate?”

Deirdre hummed, delighted under the feeling of Morgan’s lips against her skin. A sound which quickly bubbled into laughter. “You’re distracting me from winning!” Not that she was winning, of course, but that was the joke. Deirdre sighed, pleased, and readied herself for her swing. “No, that’s a heron, my love. It’s got the long neck thing going on, and it’s far too big to be a gull,” she commented casually, sparing only a short glance up. She had a game to lose, and birds were of no concern to her. As the shadow grew larger and larger, Deirdre in turn became more irritated. It was hard to align her shot in the dark, and she grumbled as she adjusted herself. “You know those things are almost as tall as you.” She wound back, mallet swung far behind her. “On account of your being short and all. There were a couple of them in Ireland, but I’ve never met one that didn’t want to—” She swung her mallet forward, waiting for the collision of wood to plastic. When it never came, she stumbled back, staring wide-eyed at a mallet missing its head. At the end of the handle now was a steaming goop, falling off the wood in thick droplets, leaving nothing in its wake. She stared at the ground, steaming holes where perfect grass once reigned.

“—eat me.” Deirdre blinked, throwing the mallet aside. For all her lack of concern for birds, she didn’t notice that the heron had landed or that it had spread its wings wide. Nor that it had flapped its wings, setting free a volley of feathers, whistling through the air. If she’d cared a little more about birds, she might have remembered something about iron. Instead she stood there, waiting for her brain to catch up with her environment.

Morgan couldn’t stop staring at the mallet. There was supposed to be a hammer head at the end of it. A few seconds ago, it had been there. She’d seen it. It was the purple stripe one because it almost looked like Deirdre’s favorite shade of plum and purple went first. But the head was gone. Not broken, just gone. Something Morgan didn’t know the words for was dripping from the ends and this wasn’t part of the game, this wasn’t part of anything that made sense. Dimly, she heard Deirdre say something that sounded an awful lot like eat me, but Morgan couldn’t find the words to the question she wanted to ask about it. Her eyes had finally caught sight of the heron, red and bronze and so much bigger than any bird had a right to be. It opened its beak to squawk, bright and sharp. Was it yelling at them? Was this just how giant scary birds said hello?

The heron flapped its wings and rose over their heads, squawking again. Its feathers spread and then they were flying, red and purple and shining. Morgan raised her arms to shield her face and whimpered at the pattering sound they made as they went through her skin. The heron swooped down to peck them both and flew up again, circling with menace. And then, Morgan finally found her voice. “What the fuck? What do you mean eat you?”

Deirdre hissed in pain, erupting in quivering gasps just a moment later. Feathers stained red with Deirdre’s blood stuck out of the ground, leaving bubbling slashes where they’d hit her. She’d done what she could to protect her face and neck, but the only thing she could think to use was the rest of her body. She trembled, faltering, moving just in time to evade another feather. Her body was on fire. Deirdre opened her mouth to explain before she was caught by another whimper of pain. “This!” She hissed, gesturing to her red, blistering body, “this is what I mean!” Trembling, she could do nothing but wobble where she stood, finding a measure of fear in looking up and risking a feather finding her throat. And of all the fae to try and eat, Deirdre knew there was some amount of pride in knowing she was the worst kind, and some peace knowing Mina wasn’t around. “T-th-they–“ Deirdre watched as her hands dripped blood to the ground, pieces of her robe hanging loose around her. For a moment, she lifted her head up and let free a small shriek, just enough to send the heron tumbling to the ground. The rest, she wasn’t sure she could manage between the spasms of disorienting pain. “Y-you–“ Her footing slipped and she bumped into Morgan’s side. “They eat–they–” An explanation refused to find a home on Deirdre’s trembling voice. Her mother had trained her to withstand the sting of iron, but not so much at once, not in so many places, not while she was happy. “M-Morgan,” she pleaded, though for what, she wasn’t sure. “Morgan.”

The heron righted itself, angrier and hungrier than it had even been. Deirdre was panting at Morgan’s side, head lowered. If only she could have a second, if only she could have a moment. The cuts on Morgan, marked by where they tore into her sweater, were healed already. Deirdre smiled warmly at them. “Don’t...let it get your head…” She glanced at the heron; at best, the fall had injured its wing, at worst, it’d only served to make it more determined. She didn’t have the time to figure out what both of those things might mean.

“Deirdre!” Morgan caught her banshee in her arms, gaping at the blood and burns that streaked down her body. “I’ve got you. But, what do we do? How do we distract it or stop it or--fuck!” Her words curled off in a shriek as the heron dove for its prey again. Morgan threw them to the ground, covering Deirdre’s body and curling around her, but that didn’t stop the bird from releasing another rain of feathers and snapping at Morgan’s back in frustration.  “Me! What about you? I’m just in the way, it doesn’t want--!” This time when the bird dove, it pulled at her hair, trying to pry her off Deirdre. Morgan gasped, trying to keep still, but it was trying again, pulling and pecking at her scalp and neck. Her head snapped up and for one awful, dizzying second she could see the bird’s talons, the iron glinting in the feathers, the single-minded determination in its dark eyes.

Morgan panicked, this time into action. She shoved Deirdre the last few feet across the lawn and into the pool. Then she flattened herself on the ground and covered her head, praying she’d find a way to dive in too before she was bashed into fertilizer.

The burning ceased, by miracle, it seemed. Her body was submerged in cold where it belonged. Deirdre opened her mouth to share the good news with her girlfriend, but the burning shifted suddenly to her lungs. Where there should have been air, there was water. She floundered, panicked, trapped in memories of her mother’s hand on the back of her neck. She kicked up and gasped when she reached the surface. Deirdre shook her head, wiping water away from her face. “Morgan!” She called out, surveying the scene. “Morg–“ Deirdre laid her hands on the pool’s edge, determined to climb out and help, but wherever she found hold, her grip quickly slipped. There was something to be said about water in freezing temperatures. “Morgan!” She tried again, slashing her hand on the cement. “My love–“ The bird turned to her, another volley of feathers for her pleasure alone. Deirdre sucked in breath and dove down, watching feathers cut harmlessly through the water. When she re-emerged, a plan became far more clear to her. “Morgan! Morgan, I can scream! I just need–“ She dove again, kicking back to the surface. “I just need it to not be–I can’t aim like this! Morgan–“ She dove again, this time swimming around in quick laps. It occurred to her then that heron weren’t birds that were shy of water, in fact, they excelled in it. What seemed like a good plan, might have served to make her a much more delightful target. Deirdre refused fear. Morgan was more than capable. Morgan would figure it out. The heron wouldn’t be a match for a woman that had come back from death.

Morgan would have rather the bird peck her down to stumps than sting Deirdre with another feather. That wasn’t good, or helpful, but in the awful silence when the heron stopped pecking and snapping at her body and swooped over the water for Deirdre, it was the only thing she knew. Not her. Anything but her.

“No!” She croaked, scrambling forwards to the pool. She tried to get her love’s hands, to make out the words and process anything but the one useless thought circling her head. Not her, anything but her, anything but her…

Scream. Right. She just needed to buy Deirdre time without being in brain liquifying distance. Morgan searched the ground nearby. Not much, but she hadn’t known that today would entail fighting for their lives. The heron swooped down to the water again, its beak skating the surface, searching for the right place to take aim.

“Hey!” Morgan shouted. The heron took no notice. She scrambled to the other side of the pool and lifted one of the rocks they’d put in to make the pool feel like more of a lake for Mina. She hefted it in her arms and threw it as hard as she could at the bird. The heron squaked and flapped into the air, dodging the blow. Now recognizing a persistent obstacle, it narrowed its eyes and shot out for her. But Morgan had already reached for her second weapon, her croquet mallet, and when the heron was close enough, she swung.

There was no mistaking the thunk of wood against bird-flesh, but the bird didn’t act phased. Instead it turned, plumes flared furious, and went again. Morgan swung and gasped as the bronze beak burned across her vision as it splintered the mallet in its grip. “Shit.” The heron flew back, circled, and there was nothing else at hand. She ran feet first into the pool and let herself sink as it came for her. They had seconds, at most, before it would start fishing the water for them. Morgan would think of something clever, a way to stay just out of reach of the sound, a way to put her panicked thoughts to good use. Sooner or later it would come to her. It had to.

As far as screaming went, it was a hard thing to do when flailing in the water. Deirdre laughed when she thought of how her mother hadn’t prepared her for this circumstance; the woman seemed to have thought of everything and yet, she’d never once been stoned by a mob of humans but she was in a pool trying to scream. When her wounds had become a manageable burn, she swung her arms over the pool’s edge, trying to get her angle. The heron flew wildly as it tried to fight Morgan, and as skilled as Deirdre knew she was, she couldn't manage a clean shot. There was the delay to account for, for one thing, and the worry of Morgan, for another. When she thought she had it, Morgan was running towards the pool, and before Deirdre could ask, she was jumping in. “Nice hit with the mallet,” she smiled, water splashing into her face. “Very good form. Have you done this before?” Concern did not exist in Deirdre’s features; a by-product of personality or upbringing or desire to soothe Morgan, perhaps. All that mattered to Deirdre now was the presence of her love beside her, and that the heron was over there. Deirdre swam up to Morgan, grinning even as the heron pecked at the edge of the water. “Do you come here often or…?”

The heron squawked, a deep gurgle of a sound; large wings spread wide and angry. It squawked again, pecking viciously where Morgan and Deirdre were just out of a beak’s range. And perhaps it was the fae in her, all along, that gave her such delight to see the creature struggle where she knew its life was over. And to prolong its death was just a treat, for her. It lifted one long, thin and spindly webbed foot into the air, squawked one last time, and released a final assault of feathers. Deirdre dove in time, pulling Morgan down with her, and in the blue water tainted by plumes of her red blood, surrounded by iron feathers leaving bubbles in their trails, she mouthed ‘you did good’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘I love you’ and then she winked. Deirdre kicked up and screamed, finally, watching the heron fall over like a lawn ornament in the wind, as though it had never been yelling and fighting. As though it had never lived at all, and certainly not as though it had once tried to kill them. The creature lay unconscious, not dead, and perhaps it was the fae in her that delighted in the promise of something more to be done.

Or, perhaps rather, despite her grinning and winking, her body burned even in the cool water, and rejected being pushed to scream any harder. Or, in spite of her calm appearance, her heart thrummed loud against her chest, and her mind swirled with terror for what screaming in water did to a zombie’s brain. The creature lay unconscious, not dead, because Deirdre feared to do more. She turned to Morgan, weathered and body-heavy; in truth, she might’ve liked to just sleep and let the pool carry her like a leaf in a river to a place that didn’t know the cycles of predator and prey. Perhaps it was the woman in her, the person, that closed her eyes and imagined just that.

Morgan could only stare wildly at her girlfriend as she mouthed her affection, grinning with wicked delight as only she could. Morgan couldn’t remember being more in awe of her, or more frightened of the loss of her. The only words in her head were no, be careful, and don’t go. What if the bird was faster? What if it took her neck in its beak? What if--but Morgan knew better than to say these things, or to imagine anything at all. She clung to the lilly reeds to keep herself down to keep herself from pulling Deirdre back and waited.

She didn’t have to wait for long.

The sound shook the water and struck through the depths, keening in fury, in pride. Distorted as it was by the water, the scream still shook something inside Morgan. When it was done, she rose slowly, half dazed, half frightened. “Deirdre?” She called. Her love was floating off into the cattails. The heron was on the ground, suspiciously in one piece.

“Hey--” She swam with her into the shallows and cupped her cheek. “Are you okay? Did it get you again?” She couldn’t tell one set of burns apart from another, and there were so many all over her. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come up with anything better. I kind of panicked. But we can get you dried off and inside, and I’ll get the burn salve and take care of everything…”

Later, when the memory of this day broke past her defenses and replayed itself in her mind, Morgan would not be able to tell if she trailed off because she heard the heron’s wheezing breath, or if her own innate sense of having come up short signaled that something was amiss, or if she simply ran out of things to say, and finally had enough quiet to hear. It trembled through the air, unmistakable, and Morgan stared at the bird’s chest with each shallow, rattling sound.

It was still alive.

“It’s going to wake up eventually, isn’t it?” She whispered, already knowing the answer. Of course it was. And when it did, it would release more feathers, or it would fly away to eat another fae. And what if it found Mina on campus? What if it found Jared on his farm? Morgan stared at the bird, trying to peek into another world where suffering only existed in nightmares, where life thrived in peace. Some place where no creature was put forth to be a menace, to be something that could only take or be taken. But if that place existed, she could not see it; it was not here. And what kind of an idiot was she to think otherwise? Who knew better about the turn of the wheel of life than a cursed witch? Who knew more about the grip of death than a zombie?

“You should get out of the pool before any of the feathers touch you,” she said, climbing up the steps.

She crossed over to the croquet set and picked up one of the mallets from the stand and dragged it over to the heron’s body. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I can’t let you hurt my friends and I’m sorry.” It felt like a long time before she could summon the will to swing the mallet, but when she did, fissures lightninged up the handle and the heron’s skull cracked beneath its poisoned feathers. Morgan swung again.

It was a lake; shielded by thick forest, surrounded by ribbons of wildflowers. The stalks of cattails brushed Deirdre’s skin, balm to the burning that claimed her flesh. It must have been the countryside, the house in her head. It must have existed somewhere where the world would not touch them without permission. It was a lake, and when she opened her eyes, it was Morgan’s glistening face under the light of morning, where the fog that claimed the water had just begun to lift. There must have been a picnic set about in the grass; a book for them to come back to. And a house, cozy but not tiny; she liked to imagine it with red brick. “Did it get you again?” Deirdre blinked; nothing could get them here, didn’t Morgan know? She reached to brush wet strands of Morgan’s hair aside. That would puff out when it dried, surely. In their swampy lake, away from the world. Morgan apologized and Deirdre shook her head, smiling gently as the sun rose behind her. “You’re perfect.” It was a lake. Then it was a pool in the afternoon; their picnic was a croquet game, ruined. Their house was a clean white, and bigger than either of them knew what to do with. Her body was on fire. There was a Stymphalian bird.

Deirdre moved slowly, half in pain and half in mourning for a dream spurred by the fervor of pain. She hadn’t noticed the feathers at all until it occurred to her that the strange tickling cattails were too low to the water, and didn’t tickle so much as they burned--which only felt like tickling against the rest of the burning. Their lake--pool--was covered by an array of them, all having floated to the surface. She rose out of the water, picking a few out of her flesh; there was no imagining them as the hooked burs of her dream wildflowers now. Deirdre dripped blood and water where she moved. It was Morgan’s swinging that woke her up, just as it insured that the bird would never.

“Morgan--” Deirdre rushed to her side, hands on her shoulders; hands at her arms; hands clutching hers, mallet held still and fractured. By the time she got there, the bird was paste on the ground, like roadkill without the road. “You could have ate that.” She said, looking at it. Well, it wasn’t so soiled, maybe it was more like tenderized meat now, and Morgan did enjoy those gummy textures. “Hey,” her voice softened as she pulled the cracked mallet from Morgan’s grip. “It’s okay, my love. It’s okay. What are you thinking?”      

Morgan’s thoughts didn’t come in words, at first. Looking down at the bird, beautifully colored but lean in the chest, maybe malnourished, she could only see the unfairness. When her dad had explained that the universe wasn’t all one thing or another, it sounded like there was something soft or gentle in everything. The wasps that frightened her helped the flowers to grow, the lightning that reminded her of her mother’s yelling improved the atmosphere, the people who were cruel to her sometimes turned kind. She had put that thought away sometimes, when it made her stomach clench with guilt, but she had wanted to believe in it. But looking at this dead, beaten heron, she felt as though there were threads in the universe that were just cruel and when you tripped on them, you had no recourse but to touch some of that cruelty too.

“It only knew how to hurt people,” Morgan whispered. “Hurt fae. Even if I tied it in a sheet and dumped it at the town border, it was just going to eat another fae. And if it came back and hurt you…” She didn’t dare finish the thought and trusted her love to hold the missing piece. “I can take it to my studio to get the rest of the feathers out, so we can do something with the rest, so it doesn’t go to waste. And I’ll...c-clean the pool, before Mina gets back. I don’t want her to…” Morgan’s voice choked on the sorrow she was trying to drown with reason. “I’ve got this. I can take care of the rest.” Her throat filled with water and a sob cracked through her lips. “I just hate this world sometimes. I hate how we can’t just leave each other alone. I hate some of these choices…” She searched for Deirdre’s hand and gripped it tight. Hate them as she might, she didn’t regret any choice that protected Deirdre. She didn’t know if that was best of all or worst, but she  knew it was true.

“Oh, my love,” Deirdre held Morgan close, pulling her tight against her body. The truths of her world were known to her since birth, tales of the food chain were her mother’s idea of a bedtime story. “It’s just an animal, my love. It doesn’t know malice, or prejudice. It doesn’t hurt fae, it doesn’t know what a ‘fae’ is. There’s food and not-food and it can’t help what it was made to eat. Just as you know that it must…” Deirdre trailed off, remembering covers pulled up to her nose, questions she knew better than to voice as her mother held firm in her stories. The little bird ate the grasshopper, the snake ate the bird, an owl swooped down. Life was cyclical, and none immune to death. Deirdre shook her head, and laughed softly at herself. How many times had she heard and parroted the sentiment, how many times had she lived shackled by it? She didn’t care much for things and their places; she wanted Morgan and a lake, in the place where life could be more than its cycles. Deirdre pressed her lips to Morgan’s cheek once, then twice and a third as she held her head to her chest. “Thank you,” she said finally, “for keeping me and my people safe, even though it was hard. Thank you.”

She pressed another kiss to Morgan as she leaned down, using her blood for some good to write a message on the stone. ‘DON’T GO IN THE POOL’. Mina would recognize the bird and know better anyway, whenever she came home. Deirdre rose and kissed Morgan again, and again, trailing to her lips, where she lingered. “Just leave it now, it’s not going anywhere,” she said against them, breath tickling cold flesh. “Don’t you want to come inside with me now? Into our good world? You did what you had to, and that’s okay, come inside with me now. Rest.” She smiled, “and we can handle the rest later. Doesn’t that sound better?” Deirdre pressed closer, determined in her coaxing. “The world is unfair, isn’t it? It’s terrible and chaotic and filled with horrible, complicated choices.” She leaned in. “But it’s also the most wonderful thing, when I get to hold you. When we’re together.” She kissed her, firm and steady. “Let’s go in, my love,” Deirdre breathed, “tell me all about how much you hate the world, sometimes. How much it hurts to make the necessary choices. And love me, let me love you, and let us feel how good the world is too. How good these choices are. Come--” She pulled back, taking Morgan’s hands in hers. “We can experience the world as it is, bad and good; terrible present and hopeful future. And whatever it is you need to do, you can do later, when it all starts to feel a little easier to carry. Come inside, my love. Come with me.”

The heron’s ignorance didn’t make anything better, Morgan wanted to say. That only made the creature innocent and unteachable. It hadn’t been doing anything wrong. And how often did Morgan insist that you shouldn’t judge the way someone was made, the way they needed to survive? The heron’s mistake was flying over Morgan’s yard, in trying to devour Deirdre in front of her. If animals were worth screaming for, that moment must have sealed its fate. How could she do anything less to protect her love? How could she pass on that pain to another fae, knowing what they meant to each other, knowing the grief that would follow?

Morgan shut her eyes and squeezed out the tears that had gathered beneath her lashes. She wrapped her arms around Deirdre and pressed her face as hard as she could into her chest, not minding how it made her feet stumble on the grass and the porch steps. Like this, pressed close with her face mashed in, she could capture the softest whiff of Deirdre’s scent, sweet fruit and musky trees. Like this, the wood and tile beneath her feet transformed into the soft, giving earth of a dream, the sounds of distant cars became the song of a tide that burbled with good memories and longing wishes.

She burrowed into that place they’d first imagined in their letters between wet kisses and long silences. She had thought it abandoned, since she had almost no reason to think about it these days, but under a blanket, cradling herself against her love, she found her way to that shore as if summoned. She saw fear slip through their fingers like silt and sorrow drip away in the lake. Death had no sting and love and love alone colored their sky. Outside, in the true world, the sun sank, the snow melted, and the dead heron’s feathers flitted up and scattered like autumn leaves. But Morgan held fast to her love and stayed in their painless world as long as she could.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

A Good Death || Morgan & Deirdre (feat. Lydia)

TIMING: Current

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

SUMMARY: Deirdre smiled, “And I promise you a good death, Lydia. No matter what.”

CONTAINS: death, gore

“You’ve gone over that spot at least three times now, my love.” Deirdre said, hands steady at her love’s waist as she came up behind her. Watching Morgan clean was entertaining, in some strange way, if only so she could offer her praise and hone her skills of distraction, but she wasn’t sure exactly why nows was the time Morgan had chosen to tackle the dust. There were better things to be done, namely, each other. Deirdre fingers tugged at the hem of Morgan’s sweater, slipping her fingers under to pinch her skin. “I’m nearly jealous of the dirt, you’re giving it so much attention.” She always thanked Morgan for the cleaning, eventually. After her game of distraction, teasing and praise, all wrapped together in a package she had just nearly perfected the art of. She pressed her lips to the flesh between her neck and shoulder, nipping at it. “Have I finally won?” She asked, referring to the battle she waged for Morgan’s attention. She moved her hands from her waist to wrap around her instead, pressed tight as she hummed with simple peace. These moments were not new between them; how many times now had Deirdre fought Morgan’s interest against the allure of household chores? And yet, every time she delighted in the response. There was delight in simply being with Morgan; in doing something as inane as distracting her from cleaning. Deirdre’s peace was so bright, she could sing; sometimes she did. For now, she hummed an old tune against Morgan’s skin—a silly ballad about a leshy that fell in love with a flower. The November chill rolled in through a window they’d left open, beyond them, sounds of life flourished; leaves rustled loose by the wind, the neighbours pulling out of their driveway and off to that cabin trip they’d had planned for weeks now, the pat-pat of Moira padding away to go sleep someplace else. The two of them, bundled up together where everything was okay. “Mhm, can I take you to bed now?” She asked quietly, as if not to disturb the peace of the world.

Weekend mornings were Morgan’s favorite everyday treasures: hours of luxuriating in Deirdre’s company, her boundless kisses and touches and adoring gazes, warmer than any down comforter to protect them against the Sunday that was doomed to follow. Everything would break and Morgan would spend her week putting them back together again, and that was frightening and awful, yes, but this was the prize: arms tight enough for her to feel and a sweet voice singing Gaelic in her ear. “Hmmm, I don’t know,” Morgan crooned, rising up to nip Deirdre’s ear. “I think I should tackle the library. There’s one little spot behind the bookshelf that really needs my attention, which is gonna be a lot of work, moving books out the way and--” She cracked into a fit of giggles and jumped to get her arms around her love’s neck. “I’m teasing. Everything’s done and I don’t want anything else but you now.” She turned her face towards hers, trailing hard, greedy kisses down her jaw and neck. “Take me.”

A pout pulled down Deirdre’s lips, as quickly dissolved as Morgan’s teasing. Their world was one with facets; humour and mischief just as frequent as passion and calm. It laughed with them, carried through the quiet air. It yearned just as they did, heated with their longing. There was peace here, there was— Deirdre quivered. 

Her world was broken in three parts. First, her arms failed to hold Morgan. She tried to grasp her, pull her up tight in her arms and carry her off to bed—she had done it a hundred times. But her arms failed her. They trembled, and couldn’t summon the strength to do anything but shove Morgan away. She stared at her hands and wondered if an earthquake had claimed their part of White Crest; she shook too much for one body. Her eyes caught glimpse of the steady outside. The second breaking reaped. Her legs gave in. She fell to the floor with a loud thump as though they’d dissolved—they hadn’t; there was just enough energy left to use them to clumsily push herself across the floor. Her hands, still subject to personal tremor, clasped around her mouth, nearly poking her eyes out in the process. She whimpered in confusion, their house swung back and forth like a chandelier. The last part of her world had not broken yet, and so there was some modicum of peace she held herself afloat on. Her body knew what was happening, but her mind protected her—or had refused to accept it, for what little it could, it wanted to exist in a world where the last piece did not break. Milliseconds ticked in the dissonance of her state. She watched Morgan in the space between her lashes, and wondered what a gift it was to still be in the land of peace. And then what a shame, that for all her cleaning, she’d have to do it again. 

The world splintered. It twisted and frayed and like the glass around her as her whimpers turned to shrill cries—like a wounded animal shot in the neck—it shattered until there was nothing left whole. The last part was not one terrible domino falling down, it was flashes and screams. It was a million things, all horrible and all at once. Dark, branch-like veins spread down from her inhumanly black eyes. She hadn’t meant to scream like that, curled into a trembling ball on the floor, but the pain that ruptured inside of her was one she had only felt once before, when Morgan died. That day, she had welcomed the vision to her, because she had it set in her soul that she would defile Fate and preserve Morgan’s life. This time, she tried to reject it out of instinct; she couldn’t believe it was true, she didn’t want to. Of all the people who could die, there was just one she never thought it would happen to. 

The world stilled in all of its pieces. Deirdre didn’t think much when she grabbed her phone and started running out of the house, she only knew she had to go. Her mind was still numb with incredulity; she had seen it, she had heard it, she had felt it and she knew it...but she could not believe it. She didn’t consider Fate, she just ran—half-naked in her silk robe, down her neighborhood street. Death would not find Lydia today; Deirdre would. 

Morgan understood as soon as she was pushed away that Deirdre had a scream inside her. What she didn’t understand was anything else that followed after. Deirdre fell, whimpering like a frightened animal, curling into herself, and Morgan’s nerves spiked. “Babe, what’s wrong? I’m here, okay? Just--just--” She knelt down and tried to scoop Deirdre’s trembling body into her arms, but then the scream itself came, breaking her nerves along with all the glass besides the windows. Morgan went stiff, sinking the rest of the way to the ground and curling up tight. Her muscles snapped taut, unable to move even to cover her ears. “D-deirdre, Deirdre, please, I’m- h-h…” The world was snapped in and out of focus, ringing with the sound of Deirdre’s pain. When Morgan was able to move again, one clumsy limb at a time, Deirdre was gone.

“Deirdre!” She screeched. She ran for her keys and bolted out the door, barefoot in her sweats.

Her banshee was easy to spot, robe billowing behind her, hair loose and wild as she stumbled and ran. Morgan called her name again, running with all she had to catch up. “Stop and let me help!” Her mind raced as she tore across the road. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck… she didn’t know who this was for or if there was some terrible banshee sickness or crisis going on that she was about to learn about the hard way, but what did it matter? Morgan reached out for her arms and gripped with more of her strength than she had ever dared. “Stop. Talk to me, please. What do you need? What’s going on?”

Navigating to the person Deirdre wanted to call on her phone was easy, actually getting an answer proved to be much harder. She tapped the name—A dheirfiúr—a dozen times as she ran, all she got was ringing and a robotic voice telling her to leave a message, which she did, though she couldn’t muster anything more than “where” and “call me back”. She tried texting, a difficult feat while running and shaking, but couldn’t manage anything more eloquent than her voicemails. She tried the calling again—ringing and robots, ringing and robots. Deirdre wanted to consult her vision, but her mind was stuck on all the wrong facts. It told her again about the pain, the anguish, and the holes, so many fucking holes—in her shoulders, her wings. Her wings, wasn’t that just the worst of it? Didn’t they know how much Lydia loved her wings? Didn’t they know what they meant? Of course they did, that was probably why they did it. But whatever the motive was, however it was going to happen, she didn’t want to think about it. All she needed to know was where and that was the one thing her mind refused to give. She hiccuped a sob, trying another call—ringing and robots. She stumbled, scraping her knees across the asphalt. With a hiss and a curse, she stood up and continued to run. As though emotional turmoil wasn’t enough, her body flared with a strange searing kind of pain. Before she could place it, she was spun harshly around. 

“Can’t!” Deirdre didn’t have the time to explain, a second wasted talking was a second Fate marched closer. Morgan had interrupted her thoughts, and she’d lost the place she’d been trying to pick apart in her vision, and which direction she ought to be running. She swatted her hands away, shoving with more force than she ever wanted to. How long did she have? She couldn’t remember; her mind fluttered in panic, her body twisted with pain. She continued to run until, suddenly, she couldn’t. Deirdre pushed herself off the ground to run again, but her body won against her raging mind. She shook, she coughed, she clawed herself across the ground ripping her nails from her skin. She wouldn’t allow her brain the capacity to consider what was happening to her, she needed to get to Lydia, and she’d do it even if it killed her. 

With a groan, she shoved herself up and took off again, in less of a run now and more of stubborn limp. She teetered from one side to the other, determined to move, desperate to. 

As Deirdre fought her way out of her grip, Morgan relinquished and gave her a count of two before running after again, growling with frustration. “We are not doing this, Deirdre! You are not doing this isolation bullshit and you are not okay!” She caught up to her within a minute, but only because Deirdre had resorted to dragging her body along the asphalt, tearing her skin one stroke at a time. Morgan caught her around the waist as she staggered to her feet and tried to limp away, blood trailing down all her limbs. “Stop.” She pressed their bodies firmly together, hugging Dierdre’s stomach with both arms. “Stop. Wherever you need to go, we can get there without destroying your body. Just stop. Let me help. I’m here to help, Deirdre.” 

Whose arms were these around her, holding her back? Deirdre clawed at them with her bloody fingers, which she soon realized didn’t have anything to claw with. So she struggled against the arms, lacking the power in her legs to fight but possessing the great determination to anyway. The world had blurred into simple shapes and colours around her; the houses were two long streaks of white, the sky was a block of blue. It was just her and the road and the arms. She groaned, the pain that blossomed under the arms was blinding, but she clawed and fought and clawed and fought. “Let,” her voice was hoarse, garbled with thick blood spitting out of her in coughs. “Go. Of. Me.” She battled against the arms again, with the last of her power. If the owner of the arms had said anything, Deirdre didn’t listen. She needed to get to Lydia, she didn’t care about anything else. She pushed harder, rubbing the bottom of her feet raw against the road. 

“Not until I know what this is! I don’t care about your secret, isolationist bullshit, I need to know what’s happening! ” Morgan said. She wished she’d had the sense to get Deirdre’s arms pinned down in her grasp. She could feel her girlfriend’s fingers digging into her skin, trying to peel away enough of Morgan to slip through. But whatever skin she cut patched over. Morgan held steady, until she heard the now familiar sound of blood gurgling in Deirdre’s throat. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, but I’m not letting you destroy yourself,” she said. She dropped an arm to scoop up her girlfriend’s legs so she could carry her back to the car. She needed her doctor, someone to make this stop, someone who could explain why a scream had flipped a switch inside Deirdre and pulverized her insides. But Deirdre’s legs flailed and kicked and Morgan struggled to walk fast without dropping her. “Just tell me what this is,” she whispered, stuck on a loop. “I can fix it if you tell me what this is. Just tell me and we can make it stop, we can make it stop. Make it stop…”

The arms were strong. Deirdre gave up on her clawing, it was ineffective and hurt her raw fingers more than anything else. Instead, she wrapped her hand around the stranger’s wrists and tried to pry them off. She could scream, but something dull in the back of her head advised against it. She thought about it again, and the more she fought the logic, the worse her pain turned. She would do anything to get to Lydia, she had to. But she couldn’t scream, something else told her not to. “Let. Go.” She hissed, spewing another glob of blood against the ground. Then her body lifted into the air, and her eyes settled on shapes and colours she never wanted to forget. “Morgan?” She coughed, and then the rest fell into place. She couldn’t scream now, she couldn’t flail or shove—the first promise she ever offered Morgan was one to never physically hurt her with intention. “I’ll die,” she explained, “if you don’t let me go.” Because for all the promises she offered, there was one that now struck her as a little idiotic. 

A good death was a terribly subjective thing, wasn’t it? And, also, impossible. But she had wanted it so badly for Lydia. She wanted the calm passing, the peace of a bed—devoid of pain. She said she’d do it no matter what it took. Lydia had been so horrified of the drowning, it was the least she could offer her. She never thought she’d have to deliver, she never thought Lydia could die. She never thought about it because she’d sooner die herself, then ever let it happen. Now, she tried to explain this to Morgan, but every time she spoke, she sputtered out blood. As she tried to gesture it out, her body convulsed. A good death was also a terrible thing to break a promise on. “You have to let me go,” she pleaded with what was left of her voice, “please, Morgan, I won’t live if you don’t let me—“ she coughed, her body took with great tremors of uncontrollable force. Pain seized her; she wouldn’t live anyway, and it was just a waiting game to see if the next thing that left her lips was a cough, a garble or a scream. She turned her head; why were they back at the house already? “No…” she croaked. They were too far now. She couldn’t make it even if she mustered the energy. She needed to follow her body’s compass, now there was nothing left. 

For one short burst of time, Morgan believed everything was going to be okay. Deirdre saw her, she said her name and went still, and Morgan was able to break into a run. “Yes, it’s me, babe! We’re taking the car. Wherever the hell we’re going, we’re taking the car, and when you stop bleeding, you’re gonna tell me what’s wrong.”

And then Deirdre did. Not enough, not anything Morgan could understand, but she said enough to make Morgan stagger to a halt and nearly drop her with fright. “No.” She set Deirdre slowly to her feet, still holding on. “You can’t just say things like that, if that scream was for you, if this is how we…no.” She tried to pull her to the Subaru. They were less than ten feet away. They could just run up and hit the road. They could go to Lydia’s or Jared’s or the airport for all Morgan cared. As long as it was the place where Deirdre wasn’t talking about dying, she’d take them.

Deirdre sagged in her grip and collapsed to her knees, held up only by Morgan’s arms. “No, babe. We’re going. Just tell me where and we’re on our way. It’ll go by so fast, like you wouldn’t believe. You aren’t… this isn’t it, this isn’t how we’re gonna stop. We’ll fight it. Just get up with me, babe. Get up, please. We can get out of here, we can make this stop, we can be okay, we can…” Her own voice turned hoarse and ragged as she ran out of air. Morgan sank to her knees with Deirdre, eyes pleading as she fought her body for oxygen. “I can’t lose you,” she rasped. With another desperate burst of energy, Morgan tried to lift Deirdre once again. 

Deirdre fell over. She didn’t have the strength to help Morgan lift her, she didn’t have the mind to try. She tumbled backwards against the driveway, the shock of the impact eliciting a gasp and then a bout of coughing. She turned her head away from Morgan out of politeness, but it rolled back as if her neck couldn’t spare the energy to hold it up. If she looked straight, blood would pool in the back of her throat, and she began to choke, which she thought she might die from first. But her body had already started to turn cold, and she could feel death coil inside. She was afraid to cough, lest she scream, but she hardly had the strength to stop either. She wanted to tell Morgan not to touch her, she couldn’t control herself if she screamed now, and that’d be dangerous. She wanted to tell her that the scream had been for Lydia, and that she’d promised her a good death. She wanted to ask if Morgan’s death had been good (no of course it wasn’t) and tell her that this one would be okay (no of course it wouldn’t). She wanted to tell Morgan she wouldn’t mind if she made a snack of her brain. She wanted to laugh about that, would Morgan gain an Irish accent if she dug into it? What did that sound like? She wanted to be around to hear it. She wanted to tell her that too. She wanted to tell her that she wasn’t happy about being picked up and carried back, but she understood why she did it. She wanted to explain just how much, how badly, she loved her. She felt dying finally gave her the key to figuring out the right words. But everything she wanted to say came out as incoherent mumbling. She couldn’t string a sentence together even if she could stop coughing and gurgling long enough to say it. But she tried anyway. 

I love you, was a cough. We need to get to Lydia, was a long, anguished whistle between her teeth. Her arms flailed at her sides, even now and even then, she had been trying to push herself to Lydia. Part of it was the promise, leading her forwards, the other half was desperation and love—she wanted to be where Lydia was; like a child lost in a crowd, running around in circles in search of her family. It was common sense now, she figured, that she’d want to be by Lydia’s side. She just wished it wouldn’t be like this. Deirdre still wanted that good death for her, she didn’t regret offering it. She turned and slapped her phone--which had tumbled out of her hand long ago--closer to her. She lacked the energy to pick it up and call Lydia again, but she wanted it close. “L-l-l—“ she sputtered at Morgan, using her spasms as movement to propel her closer to her girlfriend. “It—“ she croaked, “okay.” Morgan seemed distressed, Deirdre tried to lift her hand up to smooth away the wrinkles, instead it bounced lamely off the ground—up and down as though she were knocking on the driveway. If she sat still, if she breathed in right, she could dispel enough of the trembling and swallow back enough blood to speak more clearly. “I’m sorry,” was all she managed for her breathing and steadiness. She hadn’t screamed for herself yet, she wanted to say, but that was what made it worse. They couldn’t run away from a broken promise. She smiled, she wasn’t worried about herself, anyway. She thought Morgan’s panic was alarming, and she was horrified for Lydia’s state, and angry that she wouldn’t pick up her phone. But she wasn’t worried. She wanted to tell Morgan that.

Morgan went down with Deirdre, unwilling to let her go. Her head hit the pavement, and Morgan screamed. Deirdre’s blood trailed down her body, staining the driveway a wet, ruddy brown and if everything was okay this wouldn’t be happening. She gathered Deirdre into her arms on the driveway, pressed into her chest as if they were embracing each other. She grit her teeth against the sound of her love choking on her own blood. She remembered the way her body fought and held Deirdre tighter. “You have to stay up,” she said. “You have to breathe. Don’t try to swallow it, babe, do whatever you have to and breathe. You’re gonna be fine. I’m gonna call the doctor and get her here and you’re gonna be just fine.” She kissed her cheek and came away streaked in blood. 

Morgan pawed around for her phone. She’d brought it, right? She wasn’t stupid enough to be without her phone in the middle of an emergency? Morgan continued to feel around, still talking to Deirdre in a shrill, steady, stream. “It’s okay, we’re gonna figure this out, okay? I’ve got you and when the doctor’s here she’ll fix you up and we’ll take a bath together and you can sleep as long as you want after…” No phone. Morgan grit her teeth, whimpering like a stricken animal. “No…” 

Deirdre was shaking in her grasp, and Morgan couldn’t tell if it was just the pain or if she was still, still trying to tear herself away from her. “No!” She bundled Deirdre’s arms into her grasp. “Please, just stop! Stay with me! Stay with me, please! Please, please, stay with me, babe. Just stay here. Stay here with me.” She caressed Deirdre’s cheek, squeezed her mutilated fingers. Blood dripped down their hands and soaked through their clothes. The driveway drank up the runoff until it was brown as dirt. Everywhere Morgan looked, there seemed to be more, splatters and rivilents and trails from the path they’d made down the block. “Please,” she begged. “You’ll be okay, please…” Her voice keened. The tears she’d been holding in began to fall and Morgan had to take a breath herself before she forgot how to speak. “Please,” she cried. “Please…”

Deirdre’s palms scraped the ground. No, something metal. Morgan blinked back her tears and saw Deirdre’s phone. Stained and a little cracked, but still working. Morgan snatched it up and tried to put in her password. Tried again. Tried again. “Fucking--Fuck!”

It-- okay--

Morgan looked down at the woman cradled in her arms. “Babe--? Hey, I’m here. I’m here.” She brushed back her hair and thumbed her cheek the way she would to ease her awake in the mornings. “I’ll make it better, you just have to hang on for me. For me, okay, my love? You don’t have to do anything else--” Her own words began to garble with sobs and she coughed, trembling as she fought herself to stay in control and get enough sense together to do something.

I’m sorry.

“No, don’t be sorry. I’m not mad, okay? Don’t be sorry, just be here…” She touched their foreheads together and squeezed her eyes shut against more tears. This wasn’t happening. They were supposed to have centuries to make this work, to live dozens of different lives together, to argue about having children. They were supposed to spend Yule together. “I can fix this. Help me…” She cried. But there was no conviction in her voice, only desperation. Her shoulders heaved, aching with the weight of what Deirdre seemed to already know. “I love you,” she whimpered. “Please... We can...we can try…” Morgan shivered, breaking with sobs that tumbled into rapid, shallow breaths, air trapped at the top of her lungs. She couldn’t let in oxygen any more than she could let in the truth.

Deirdre’s breathing had turned to pained wheezing, but the trembling ceased. Under all the red blood and dark veins, her skin had begun to turn blue. With her body’s energy claimed, there was nothing left to stop death from clawing its way around her. She did not fight for herself, but instead for Morgan’s peace and Lydia’s life. With all that was left of her, she spoke again, “you...have to...go…” Deirdre mustered a weak gesture to her phone, slapping her finger over the zero key six times to unlock it. “I...I...lov…” Her voice died, carried away by the wind. She laid still against Morgan’s body, breathing turned slow. She hadn’t screamed just yet, but now she felt like she’d miss it in her sleep. All the better, anyway, at least she wouldn’t hurt Morgan’s ears. But despite herself, despite everything she’d been told about acceptance of Death, she wheezed. She fought with what little breath she had to offer. And though it was slow, she breathed just as Morgan had taught her. In. Hold. Out. In. Hold. Out. In. Hold...

Deirdre’s phone vibrated to life, ringing loud and uncaring. The bright of the screen offered one name: a dheirfiúr.

Deirdre unlocked the phone and Morgan’s heart leapt with hope. “Yes! That was so good, babe. You’re doing so good, thank you.” Morgan started to scroll through Deirdre’s recent calls for the doctor. They had needed the woman’s help for Deirdre’s iron burns only a couple of weeks ago. But her head turned at the sound of Deirdre’s voice, so faint and broken. Her lips hung open, the ghost of her words still hanging on. “Deirdre?” Morgan patted her cheek. She shook her. “Deirdre, I know, babe. It’s okay. I know. You don’t need to say, you just need to stay here with me. Stay here. Stay…”

The phone rang as her voice broke. Morgan looked down. She’d seen that screen often enough to know who it was even if she couldn’t say the phrase in Gaelic. She fumbled to answer, almost dropping the phone. “Lydia! I know we’re not-- Please, she’s dying. It happened so fast, I don’t know what’s wrong or what to do! Please, you have to tell me what’s...What do I do? She wouldn’t tell me what’s wrong and…” She sobbed, out of words and out of time. Deirdre’s breath was so slow, rattling like the fall leaves in the yard. What little of her skin wasn’t stained with blood looked all wrong, too white, too blue. But Lydia, for all her terrible faults, was good at being fae. She knew things no one else in town did. Just holding her voice in her hand, Morgan ached to have hope.

Lydia’s voice broke through her cries. “Deirdr-- Morgan, DEIRDRE, NOW!”

Morgan pulled the phone away and jabbed her thumb on the speaker. “She’s here! You’re on speaker and she’s right here, but I don’t know if she’s conscious, if she’s still…” Morgan whimpered. She couldn’t say it, lest she breathe her death into being. 

“I relinquish you,” Lydia breathed.

“Relinquish? Relinquish from what? Lydia, what did she promise you?” But the pieces, so few, so obvious, were assembling themselves in Morgan’s mind. She just didn’t want to see it. The scream that had been personal and horrifying enough to send Deirdre in a panic. The sad timbre in Lydia’s voice. How else had she known to call? What kind of promise would do this to Deirdre except something so sentimental and stupid? “...Lydia, where are you?” She asked, her voice barely more than a squeak.

“I love you!”

“I--We love you too, we both do,” Morgan whispered.

“You’re the best fae in that town, you mean the world, you’re like a sister to--” Lydia’s voice cut off with a gasp.

“Lydia?”

A whimpering sound creaked through the other end of the line, shuddering until it turned into a keening scream of pain.

“Lydia, no!” She didn’t want this. Morgan wanted a lot of things where Lydia was concerned, most of them impossible on account of her stubborn, sickening fae supremacy ideals, but above all of them: she wanted Lydia to die more peacefully than this. “Run. Just run, Lydia! We’ll--” What? A banshee’s scream was fate’s seal. Morgan dropped the phone, held Deirdre closer, and listened.

Out. Deirdre gasped to life, freed from her bind to Lydia. But relief did not find her; dread creaked against her chest. “No…” she whimpered, a quiet sound under Morgan’s shouting and Lydia’s desperation. She wanted to say that she loved her too, but like everything else, it was too late now. She listened to the sounds on the other end of the phone; screams, cries. A good death was not the image summoned to her mind. “She’s not dead just yet.” Deirdre stood, pushing herself away from Morgan as she wobbled to her feet. She wasn’t dying, but her body was far from recovered. Even so, she stood stubbornly as though nothing was wrong with her at all. “There’s still time for a good death. We just have to get there.” It burned to speak, her body felt like a foreign mass of wetness and weight. She reached down and plucked her phone back from Morgan. She had seen more death than she knew how to count; some terrible, some kind. Fae, human, supernatural or not, she’d seen them all go. She delivered her own mercies where she could. For Lydia, she had been prepared to die, she still would. “Get in the car and drive,” she commanded weakly. “I’ll tell you where.” Lydia continued on the other end, Deirdre imagined her phone forgotten in some dark corner. She listened. “We don’t have time.” And then she moved, a limp over to the passenger seat. 

Morgan’s mind was stuck in a lag. She saw Deirdre fall out of her arms like the last few minutes hadn’t happened. Maybe they hadn’t. Maybe this was one long terrible nightmare she was trapped in and in a few minutes Deirdre would shake her awake. Morgan watched her rise, more rag-doll than woman. The blood down her robe was so red, and Morgan couldn’t even see her fingers for all the blood clotting them. Whole features vanished just like that, like they’d been melted. How weird. Distantly, there were screams, crackling and in and out, an echo of an echo. Lydia. But Lydia didn’t scream. That wasn’t who she was. Even when she was scared she was brave. Morgan thought  she remembered her ears hurting. That had been scary, but they never sounded like this before. Could screams run through you like that? Deirdre was moving toward the car, about to tip over any minute. Morgan knew she should get up and go to her, but the pathways between knowing what to do and doing it were jammed or broken. Morgan couldn’t feel her own feet, much less the ground under her. Inside, she screamed that this was all wrong and why wouldn’t anyone explain to her what was the matter and didn’t this Deirdre know she was going to fall? But maybe Morgan’s limbs had melted in all the blood too. She tried to open her mouth, wait for me, don’t go, I’m stuck, just wake me up already. Only a pitiful wine made it past her lips. 

Deirdre pulled the handle over and over again, waiting for it to unlock. They didn’t have the time to be doing this; in her hand, the sounds continued. They ebbed and flowed, moments of little silence followed by horrific scream. It didn’t even sound like Lydia anymore. “Come on, Morgan….” she tried the handle again, giving up with a huff when she figured it wasn’t going to happen. If she thought about it, she might’ve realized that Morgan was prone to shock, but she wasn’t thinking. She left Lydia on the hood of the Subaru and gripped the car as a crutch as she circled around. Morgan was still on the floor; they didn’t have the time. They couldn’t just— “Hey,” Deirdre called out softly, she couldn’t make it over to Morgan by walking (limping) and so she dove at the ground, peeling back wounds that had just started to clot. “Hey,” she called again, slow and careful. She wrapped her heavy arms around her love, unable to muster the strength to hold her as hard as she needed, and hating herself with each second for it. “Lydia is going to die, okay? She’s being, right now she’s being—“ Deirdre couldn’t say it. She swallowed, wincing at the sting in her throat. “I promised her a good death, because that’s what I do. I promised her a good death and I couldn’t do it. So, please, my love, we have to get up and go find her. If we’re quick, we can do something. If we’re quick, we can…” Save her? Get her assailants? It didn’t matter to Deirdre, she just wanted to be by Lydia’s side. Or wake up, find this was all a terrible dream. It must’ve been, Lydia couldn’t die. Lydia wasn’t the type of person that died. Not her. “Hey,” she cooed again, “I’m not strong enough to drive, so I need you to do it, but if you can’t or don’t want to...I need you to give me the keys, okay? I know it’s hard, my love. I know it’s confusing, we can figure it all out together when we get to her, but I need you to decide right now. Can you drive, or can you take your keys out and give them to me?” Deirdre wasn’t looking forward to trying to drive in her state, but she had no ideas of forcing Morgan to try. Caring for Morgan wasn’t something she took lightly, then again, neither was Lydia. She clenched her jaw, the more time they spent like this the longer Lydia was— “It’s okay,” she said again, voice cracking from use. “It’s okay. I’m here. You’re okay. I’m okay. I need you to stand for me, my love, my darling. You did so good, you brought us here because you know we have to take the car. You—“ her voice had reached its limit, and she croaked, raw and rough. “Please—“ she sobbed from the pain, from the situation. “Morgan, please…” 

Morgan thought she heard Deirdre’s voice, twisted and all wrong. The world was so slow and strange, flimsy in her mind’s grasp. There were questions she’d wanted to ask, but she couldn’t come up with the words. She was all fear and confusion, whimpering as tried to answer. “N-n-no…” she managed, barely a whisper. And then Deirdre was holding her but not, and she was alone and not, on and on two pictures sketched themselves out in her mind, a Spot The Difference game dialed up to grotesque. This wasn’t happening. But if it wasn’t happening, why wasn’t she done already? Morgan pressed in, testing the fabric of the world. Deirdre held, not right, but not the way she vanished in Morgan’s worst nightmares either. “I’m--I--” The car. The car had been important a while ago. She remembered trying hard to get to the car. Morgan looked at Deirdre, her eyes unfocused and full of fear and confusion. Deirdre was telling her things and the words were familiar even if they didn’t make sense. A promise for a good death? What did that even mean? And Lydia, a good death for Lydia… but she wasn’t even that old. That wasn’t right.

On the phone, still open, someone sobbed.

None of this was right. Deirdre was crying, pleading with her. Morgan couldn’t think of what she’d done wrong but she wanted to fix it. She tried forcing her arms to move. “Mm...s-sorr…” Her bones felt stiff and made of air at the same time. They had to do something. She always tried for Deirdre and she’d been desperate to do something before, right? She tested her hands. She couldn’t feel them right, but they looked like they were holding on. Morgan’s breath hissed through her teeth as she tried to stand, her questions dying in her throat in breathless cries. How many times had she been stuck by the roadside, watching her world fall apart? What had they done to make the universe take and take and take? Maybe this was a nightmare, but it was one Morgan had been in before. 

Morgan squeezed her eyes shut and brought them up, nodding mutely at the rest of Deirdre’s words. She didn’t realize that she was crying too, or that she was just as likely to drop her love as she was to break her bone with her grip on her body so tenuous. “Do something,” she tried to say, the sounds frail and garbled in her throat. She didn’t know if she believed it, but saying it was how most of her days went, nightmares or otherwise. “We can...do something…”

She reached into her pocket for the keys. She didn’t realize they were red and sticky because her hands were still covered in Deirdre’s blood, she just marveled at them with detached confusion and clicked the button. The Subaru blinked to life. The doors clicked, unlocking. In time she made it inside the driver’s side, buckled and keyed up and ready more from muscle memory than from any sense of hurry. She stared at the console. She knew what came next. Reverse. Steer. Drive. Go. But where? They were going to see Lydia, right? Morgan looked over at Deirdre, who had dragged herself into her seat by now. What now, she tried to say. I don’t understand where we’re going, you never told me. And when do I get to wake up? But Morgan’s hands, knowing better, followed the motions they knew and they pulled out of the drive.

As much as she wanted to soothe Morgan’s worries, they didn’t have the time. She hissed with pain and regret, forcing herself to her feet. She had seen too much death to be startled by it now. Deirdre stumbled to the front of the car, grabbing her phone--still playing the music of Lydia’s agony--and winced her way into the passenger seat. She threw her head back and heaved, the pain in her body was blinding, and she couldn’t tell so much if she was crying or if Lydia was. “Alley.” She groaned, shakily reaching her hand across the console in search of Morgan’s. “Some alley, it looked like. Not any of the one’s downtown, I think. So let’s go to Amity first, and then The Bend, and work our way up. Just drive past them, we don’t need to stop. I’ll be able to tell if she’s there.” They’d get to Lydia because they had to. They’d get to Lydia because she wanted them to. They’d get to her because, even relinquished, she burned to give Lydia her good death.  

Morgan clutched Deirdre’s hand, whining softly as relief mixed with panic. If she weren’t already driving, she might have fallen over the console trying to press it to her face. She still didn’t know how to process the shifts in Deirdre, happily holding her, shattering on the floor, running away til she bled, taking her last breaths in her arms, smiling like it was over, and now this. Morgan wasn’t convinced she’d reached the end, and half expected Deirdre to throw herself out the window or simply vanish into the ether. But Deirdre had been clear, and as much as Morgan feared she would vanish again, her instructions were the best thing to cling to. She drove fast down the residential streets Lydia couldn’t be, and braked abruptly down Amity when she felt a jolt of fear that she might speed too quickly and miss Lydia completely. She never stopped except for at the red lights, when she cowered in her seat and begged the universe to wake her up and make this stop happening.

On the phone, metal shook and crunched. A fall breeze picked up over the sound of flesh sucking in a blade and Lydia’s anguished cries. Morgan whimpered at each rising sound, knowing that there were points when even a fae body could hold no more pain. 

She cast a guilty, frightened look at Deirdre as they entered the Bend. Was she doing this right?  Was Deirdre really here? Would they make it in time? The world was becoming more real and solid and her fear was crystallizing around her along with it. As they turned the next corner, the phone went silent. Morgan flinched, eyes flickering to Deirdre again. Had she hung up? Was it too late? The silence was suddenly so loud and so much worse than the sounds of pain and violence. Morgan hadn’t been told to stop, so she kept rolling from one alley to another. But she had to know. Her voice came out as barely more than a gasp when she forced the words out.  “What happened…?” She asked, already shrinking in her seat, fearing the worst.

Deirdre, eyes closed, leaned back against her seat. The world rumbled around her in the hum of the Subaru’s engine, the crunch of gravel under its tires--interspersed with the Lydia who didn’t sound like Lydia at all. And as if her body were a jungle, she cut aside the thick vegetation of her pain--nauseating grip around her innards, limbs that felt fake--and searched for the feelings that went beyond herself. The death, the tug to fae, everything that would bring her to Lydia. The car moved, and in her silence she spoke not here, not there, keep going. At some point, not-Lydia faded into white noise; Deirdre knew those sounds already, she’d seen them ripped from Lydia’s mouth. The phone at least, was her tether to what remained. As long as she screamed and cried and begged, she lived, horrible as that living was. And as long as she lived, they could reach her. It was that way that she noticed whimpers to her left, and opened her eyes to the source. “You’re doing good,” she told Morgan, another hand outstretched to weakly clasp hers. She watched her for a moment, wishing she had more to say. For once, her rabid mind was silent; she thought of Lydia, and felt no space within her to worry about anything else. 

She found humor in the sudden silence. As if the world thought her clinging to shattered pieces was too pitiful to let continue. Deirdre turned to her phone, picked it up and stared at the red symbol of an empty battery. She laughed, loud and crude and unlike herself. “My phone died.” Her tether severed again. “Just drive,” she laughed louder, loud enough until the phone was shards digging into her blood-stained hand. She stopped just as abruptly as her phone died. “Just drive.” Her voice lost its warmth, Deirdre finding that there was nothing inside of her after all; she was pain and then nothing. She withdrew her hand from Morgan’s a moment later. “If she’s not here then drive into the outskirts, and if she’s not there then we’re heading out of town.” She closed her eyes again, and waited. 

Morgan reached back for Deirdre’s hand, scrambling through the air. “I’m sorry,” she croaked. “I’m sorry...I’m sorry…I’ll...W-we can still...” She pulled on the fabric of her robe around her thigh, her sleeve. Deirdre’s hand had been her stabilizer, and without that tie to this strange, wrong world, Morgan was off balance, floating down and away and into the deep. Morgan drove faster, clinging to the last sounds of Lydia’s screams in her memory. She barely sounded like herself at all. Lydia was so collected and proud, she would never want them to hear her like that. Morgan hated to imagine what her face must be, what must be happening to her, but if she could picture her whole, and only scarred, not bleeding, she could imagine that they might still get there in time. Morgan’s breath hitched, trapped at the top of her lungs again, but still she drove. 

The roads grew sparse, and the White Crest City Limits sign came up the horizon, and still she drove. In time, Deirdre’s arms went limp and her hand flopped into her lap, passively open to be held. Still Morgan drove. The sun sank behind the treetops, the stars blinked to life, the road gave way to freeways and bright white lights, and towns with twice as many lights and coffee shops. Then the last light vanished, and there was still nothing, absolutely nothing. Morgan gripped Deirdre’s hand tighter. Morgan veered out of whatever town they were in and back onto the freeway. If it wasn’t here, then where? And how many hours had it been? Only a few cars were driving out in the boonies at night, Morgan sped onto the entrance ramp without disturbing a soul. The Subaru drifted in and out of its lane, signs passed in a tear-coated blur, and there was nothing, only dark, and the echo of Lydia’s scream so distant, Morgan wasn’t sure if she was remembering it right. A sob broke through her. Morgan bit her lip and gripped the wheel tighter. She sobbed again, the sound cracking through her clenched jaw. Still Morgan drove--into a guardrail. Paint and metal peeled off the side,sending sparks down the road. Morgan screamed and slammed the brake. The car stopped. The clock flipped: 10:30 p.m. Morgan saw the numbers, and the crunched metal along the passenger side door. There was nothing. Nothing they could do. The scream Morgan wanted to let out whistled past her throat in a shrill cry. Her muscles tingled with a pain that went beyond her dead nerves, suddenly too heavy for her body. Morgan slumped down against the wheel and covered her head as if all the sobs breaking through her were full of flying debris.

Deirdre thought a clear mind would bring her to Lydia. She didn’t think of her pain, or of Morgan’s, or of where they were driving, really. She thought of Lydia as she was, the curve of her shoulders, the swoop of her hair. She thought of her as she knew Lydia would hate for anyone to see her; crying in her arms, bloody and beaten and tortured without the dignity of a good place to die. An alley, it had to be. She’d be just another stain against brick. Her blood would mix with the dampness. She’d die like she was nothing, like Deirdre didn’t love her. Her body would be ruined by the world, touched by the dirt, claimed by the rats. It wasn’t right. Lydia didn’t deserve to be twisted into something she wasn’t; so much of her life was spent embodying perfection, why should she die like trash, thrown aside? The clear mind didn’t provide any answers, but Deirdre thought it would lead her well to where she needed to go--to the place that would. Instead it broke apart by the shrill sound of metal against metal, and rubber against road. Her eyes snapped open and she was back in the world again, where Lydia wasn’t. Deirdre slammed the passenger side door against the guard rail, trying to open it and hop out. She tried it again and again as if the space for her to squeeze out would magically grow large enough for her to fit. She turned to Morgan to explain her predicament and found her slumped against the wheel. 

In another world---the good world, the one that was peaceful and warm and brighter than bright---Lydia was laughing over a glass of wine. She was explaining the process of her latest restoration piece, and though the topic was not interesting or of importance to Deirdre, she leaned up to the edge of her seat and smiled wide as if being told a story. She looked to Lydia with bright eyes, and an expression that was horribly transparent for all the love and awe she held inside of her. In that world, Deirdre explained that she was an only child, and that she didn’t know what it was like to have a sister. She called her dheirfiúr and said she thought she knew now. Then she said she was sorry; for many things, but this one betrayal more than all.

Deirdre turned the car off, the Subaru’s rumbling now dead as the night around them. She crawled across the console, reaching out to push the driver seat back, leaned back just as far as she knew was comfortable. She pulled Morgan away from the wheel and pressed her into the seat. Clumsily, painfully, she fell into Morgan’s lap, and pulled her into her bloodied chest. They didn’t have time. But in the good world, they would have found Lydia already. Deirdre’s curse was not the death she carried, but the truths she knew. “It’s okay,” she rasped, her throat still sensitive to speech. “Let’s take a break; it’s okay.” 

Morgan gasped through her sobs, trying to make her words come. She was sorry she’d fallen apart in the driveway, she was sorry she was falling apart right now, she was sorry she’d wrecked the car, she was scared, she thought Deirdre was going to die, she didn’t understand, she didn’t know what to do, and where else could Lydia be? Why couldn’t they just find her, why wasn’t she anywhere? Didn’t they at least get to have a body to bring with them, to shroud and burn the way fae were supposed to be? Why was there nothing? Deirdre’s body pressed into hers, familiar and right and Morgan finally had enough air to scream the way her body needed to. She latched onto Deirdre, shaking her head as she wrapped herself as tightly as her small limbs would let her. Was Deirdre really even here, she wanted to ask. Was she going to vanish too? Was all of this a living nightmare that left Morgan alone in the world? Scattered pieces of her thoughts made it through her sobs, “...so, so sorry...Lydia...please...Deirdre, stay with...please…Lydia...” But just as there was no more Lydia (terrible, thoughtless, incredible Lydia), there were no words to trade away her pain. Like death, it simply was.

Choice was a horrible thing. Maddening, freeing, precious, but terrible. There never was a right one, and Deirdre hated that. She felt sick thinking of how lonely Lydia was, how abandoned by people who said they loved her, and how she was doing the same--leaving her body to decay in some nameless alley. This was her own fault, she should have fought harder against Morgan and just kept running. She would’ve known where to go then, and if it meant she’d die, then at least she’d be where Lydia was. But even for the pang of regret, she couldn’t look at the Morgan in her arms and say what she’d done was wrong. She thought Lydia would understand, because Lydia always did. “It’s okay, my love.” The space she carved out in her numb body for Lydia she carefully dug out and filled anew. She’d make it up a thousand times over when they finally reached her murder scene, where she’d commit to memory every face involved and subject them to the same suffering. She’d make the death good, somehow. But for now, life was for the living, and she tried to hold Morgan tighter. “Don’t be sorry. It’s okay. Look at me---” Deirdre cupped Morgan’s face. She smiled down at her, as warmly as her worn body could muster. The dark veins had long since faded away, and though she was still crusted with blood, some color had flushed back to her pale skin. Her soft brown eyes didn’t reflect any of the agony that claimed her. “Look at me. It’s okay. It’ll be okay. You don’t have to be sorry for anything. I’m here with you, I’ll always be here with you.” 

“But...you were gone…I didn’t...But I...” Morgan hiccuped, trembling, confusion wrinkled all over her brow. But Deirdre’s face let no room for question or doubt. She was no nightmare doppelganger or ghost. She was solid and blood caked and soft and she loved her. Whatever had been behind the last few hours, death and everything in between, that much was still true. Morgan nodded, accepting her word as gospel even if she didn’t understand it. The tension between her shoulders crumbled and Morgan sank back against Deirdre, nuzzling her cheek as she burrowed into her comfort. “Tell me how to make this better and I’ll do it,” she whispered, her voice squeaking with pain impatient to unload itself. “How do we heal you after this? You stopped breathing for so long, you must be...and your hands, and your poor feet...and…” And there was another question, too awful to be asked aloud. And how do we get Lydia back? How do we re-balance the world so she can stay here long enough to change? “What do we do for her now?” Was all she said.

Deirdre always felt more like herself when there was a plan to be discussed. Her whole life was plans; she had the mind for it. A good plan always made her forget that she never really believed what she was saying. “You take me to my doctor, and I’ll stay overnight at the clinic. They don’t allow it, but I’ll argue, and you’ll stay the night with me. I’ll heal. I always do.” She had no nails left after scraping them across the asphalt, to try and rake over Morgan’s skin for added pressure, but she didn’t have the strength to anyway, and so she didn’t mourn the loss for long. “We go find Lydia. And we take what’s left of her body, and we worry about your hunger when we get there--but we take her home, and we’ll freeze her. I’ll call her family. We’ll go to her house and pick out a nice dress for her; she’ll want to look good, that’s important. And we’ll take whatever else we can so she can be remembered just the way she wanted to. We’ll take Niamh in, because we have to, and Anya and Moira will just have to adjust. And then I find the people who did this and---” Deirdre swallowed back the anger that roiled in the back of her throat. “---and it’ll be okay. We have to find her first, but we will, and then it’ll be okay.” 

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Negative Space || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: Current

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

SUMMARY: Following Lydia’s death, Morgan and Deirdre search for ways to pick up the pieces.

CONTAINS: discussions of death, dying, and grief. brief mentions of Lydia’s human captives.

“The clinic was a mistake.” Deirdre grumbled as she drove, hissing her complaints as she pulled the Subaru to a stop, massaging her temples in a desperate attempt to summon back her vision and the senses it offered. Her mind had been imprinted with the beeping and whirring of the clinic’s machines, the very same that had kept her sustained, and lent her the energy now to be driving at all; the doctor’s droll voice, asking her to stay another night, because she needed it; and the whispering of other fae, annoyed that a non-fae was in their presence, in their space, and her own voice, shushing them. She slept well, with Morgan in her arms and medicine in her body, but time had a horrible way of eating at memory, and a worse way of moving things around. Lydia’s body might not be in the alley she was murdered in anymore; if someone went to such lengths to kill her, they’d be disposing of her too. The two of them weren’t just too late, it was like they were operating on a whole other timeline. Deirdre hated it. She hadn’t touched the rest of her vision of Lydia’s death; the faces, the voices, the sounds and scents, those she wanted to save for when her mind needed them. Right now her mind needed a location...and a drink. Deirdre groaned and threw her head back. “If she was trying to leave town, then she should be here. But I’m not feeling anything.” She eyed her doctor-recommended crutches and then the sidewalk. “Maybe we should go by foot.”

“The clinic made you better,” Morgan mumbled. She didn’t especially enjoy being looked at like she was a dog wetting the living room, or being whispered about in Gaelic like she hadn’t made time to learn the words for ‘human’ and ‘filth’ online. But Deirdre had held her all night and she’d been able to follow the monitors tracking her recovery and listen to her heartbeat and believe, to an extent, that they would be okay. “I can pop out the wheelchair they gave us, if you want to take a swing around the next block or two,” she suggested. “I can take over driving, if it’ll help you concentrate. I won’t go so fast, or slow or…” Or whatever she’d done that had contributed to missing Lydia and her body. She knew by the light of day that there wasn’t much to be done about having a mental breakdown under the double trouble trauma, but having some responsibility meant she wasn’t completely helpless.

“Not the wheelchair,” Deirdre grimaced, turning the car off. “Anything but the wheelchair.” She didn’t have the energy to be wheeling herself around, and there was something deeply embarrassing about having Morgan push her. By comparison, the crutches were slightly less embarrassing, though still enough for her to forgo them as she stumbled out of the car. “Let me use you to lean on?” She called out, hobbling towards the passenger side to meet Morgan outside. “It’s better than anything else.” She smiled bright, and though she’d spent most of the car ride tensely silent or cursing at the air, even in her state, it wasn’t hard to see Morgan wasn’t doing well. Lydia’s death was a rumbling echo, but time had moulded her sadness into anger—her depression to urgency; guilt to stubbornness. She hadn’t asked what plagued Morgan, she’d almost forgotten to. Maybe she didn’t conduct the same alchemy of emotions that Deirdre did. “Do you want to take another break, my love?” She asked, for all her desperation to find Lydia, she was continually astonished and horrified at the ease in which she could offer pause and rest to Morgan. Caring for her girlfriend was not a task that she deliberated on, or regretted, she only hoped that Lydia beyond the grave didn’t hate her too much for wanting to care for the woman she loved. Even if respite was the last thing she wanted. The clinic had been agreeable only because pain and medication captured her brain, if they stopped now, she would start thinking. In that moment, Deirdre could think of no greater torture—except, of course, everything Lydia endured. But that was just it; that was the thinking. “We can think of this as a nice stroll if you’d like. Like we’ve always taken.”

“Sorry. I just thought…” The wheelchair would be faster, smoother, easier on Deirdre’s hands and the rest of her body. Morgan could wheel them around in a few minutes. Even sidewalks without accessible ramps wouldn’t be a problem with her zombie strength. She was three days without a meal now and could bust through or lift most things she put her mind to. “Anyway, you should at least bring your cane. I’ve already ordered a nicer one, but it’s not going to come in for a couple of days.” She stumbled over her words to appease Deirdre’s hardened grief so much she almost missed her love’s gentle offer. “Of course you can lean on me, if that’s what you want,” she said. Her eyes nearly watered at Deirdre’s smile. It wasn’t even twenty-four hours out from when she had stopped breathing in her arms, since she had run and disappeared and fallen apart in bloody pieces and stopped speaking to her altogether unless it was to give instructions. As Morgan got out of the car to meet her girlfriend and pull her into her arms (gently, so as not to upset her healing sores), she couldn’t help but feel like some part of her was still cowering in the driveway, stuck to the ground with all that blood. “We don’t need to stop,” she said into Deirdre’s shoulder, carefully giving her a squeeze. “I know we need to do this. I know why we’re here. Just tell me what you want me to do. I’ll--” She shivered. “I’ll do it. I’m doing a lot better today, and I can carry you if you get tired, and I um…” She couldn’t think of anything else to specifically offer. She looked up into Deirdre’s eyes, promising her anything with desperate intensity. I’ll be good. I’ll find a way to make this better.

Deirdre glanced over at the shoddy stick, more tree branch than cane. The fae enjoyed their ties to nature, Deirdre would sooner use the crutches—which were grey and dull but notably not dirt-stained. “I...think I’d rather just lean on you.” Even in sickness, there were standards to be upheld. And while Deirdre found a measure of humour in it, she looked to her girlfriend to see that she didn’t. “We have time,” she smiled softly. They really didn’t, her stomach churned and her mind battled with her to assert a timeframe. They didn’t have time, except that Deirdre smiled as though they did, and spoke slow, measured, as though there was no rush. She pressed her body beside Morgan’s, just the way the two of them knew how to walk tangled in each other, with added weight against the zombie’s shoulders. “It’s okay,” she gestured for them to walk forward with a careful pace, seemingly unbothered. She felt fractured; there was the part of her that cared so deeply for Morgan that even against her own desperation, she could summon whatever kindness Morgan needed. And the part that burned for Lydia; the slow growing storm that just wanted to find her. In these moments, it was easy for her to remember that Morgan was suffering too. When left to herself, everything else seemed to slip her mind. Storms were often consuming, but she had practice taming them. “We can talk about it, if you want; whatever’s bothering you. Besides the obvious, I guess.” She laughed weakly, staring up at the sky. Something about the early morning air was always acrid, it stung her eyes, but it was of great importance to her that they left the clinic as soon as she woke up. She’d forgotten to ask what Morgan thought. “I’m sorry I haven’t been exactly…” she looked to Morgan with her own desperation. “...like I should be. I just want to find Lydia, I just want to get to her.” Deirdre shook her head, sighing. “You’ve been very good to me, despite everything. And I haven’t even thanked you for it. I’m sorry, my love. Will you let me ask after you now?”

“O-obvious?” Morgan wasn’t sure what counted as obvious and what didn’t. She averted her eyes and started to hobble with Deirdre the way she wanted to go. “No, we can just…” Morgan swallowed thickly, trying to summon up some wall to put between herself and the fear and guilt she didn’t know how to relocate. But she was always herself around Deirdre. She didn’t know how to pretend around her, even if it was what would help the most. “You don’t have to be anything more than how you are. We can go find her, we don’t have to stop for anything, I’m sorry if I’m...I’m not trying to hold everything up, I don’t mean to be so…” Her eyes were burning again and she tried to focus on walking with Deirdre. She never would’ve thought walking up and down their house wrapped up in each other would come in handy before. But here they were, stepping in the way they knew so well, enough that Morgan could remember how they usually were. Not the happiness, but the ease, the intimacy of their openness.

Morgan met Deirdre’s eyes for a flash of a moment, hoping that she could be good and find whatever strength she needed, however unfamiliar, to pull herself up and help Deirdre find what she needed to. But as Morgan held her gaze, the tears came free and her insides crumbled. “You don’t need to thank me, or be sorry. Honestly, I don’t really feel like I--” she hesitated. “I know I...I tried, I did, but I screwed it up...” she clenched her jaw and tried to keep her composure as much as possible and brought them slowly to a stop near a sidewalk bench. “I know I can’t do anything to fix what happened, but if I could just do something to make any of this better or easier for you…” She clenched her jaw and breathed again. “I know you’re angry. And I know I’m at least partially responsible for us being in this situation. But…I’m sorry. I feel like I’m making everything worse right now. I should be comforting you. You shouldn’t have to worry about me after losing your best friend, your family, but...you were gone. I got off the floor and you were gone and then you were bleeding and you wouldn’t tell me anything and you wouldn’t stay or take me with you and...I should’ve just gotten the car, fucking stars above, I should’ve just gotten in the car and picked you up and maybe then we… but I just thought ‘she couldn’t have gone far, we’ll figure it out.’ I didn’t understand what was happening, and...you were dying! You went from running away to looking me in the eye and saying you weren’t going to live and then you couldn’t walk or use your hands and there was so much blood everywhere and I was scared! Out-of-my-mind scared! I would do everything different now, I would, but...I didn’t know anything except that the world was ending. You were dying and it was the end of everything and I was scared and it broke me. I didn’t even realize you’d gotten up after the call, you were just gone, and nothing felt real anymore and I couldn’t...be what you needed. I tried, but I couldn’t. And I’m still--between failing you and almost losing you on the fucking driveway with no warning, I’m just not back together yet...” her voice petered out. Morgan could only just push through her shame to look at Deirdre again, searching for someplace safe in her gaze to hole up in.

“Lydia, I mean….” Deirdre breathed with trepidation; confessing the truth so bluntly was not something she had grown accustomed to in the time between her scream and now. She would have preferred, in fact, to never speak of it. But such wasn’t fair--Lydia deserved to be spoken of, remembered, loved. Even if it would just be her who held the leanan-sidhe in her heart. She frowned and anchored herself to Morgan’s side, pressed as tightly as she could manage. With great imagination, she could pretend this was one of their strolls around White Crest, at some point they’d turn a corner and make their way into a cemetery. But the gravestones in her head all read Lydia’s name. “You didn’t screw anything up…” She fell on to the bench, gesturing for Morgan to sit beside her, nearly pulling her down too. “You don’t have to be sorry about anything, my love. I wouldn’t have gotten myself anywhere on foot, you know that, and it is true that my body needed rest. You can imagine the state I would be in now if you hadn’t chased after me.” Deirdre tried to laugh, the gentle, light way she did when she wanted to lift Morgan’s spirits, but the sound came out as a cough. And then another. And then a tug, taut and strange in her chest. She grimaced, leaning forward to clutch the rough fabric of the clinic-lent sweatshirt she was wearing---equally as gaudy as the cane and wheelchair. Morgan’s voice throbbed in her ears, she made out a few sentences and a handful of words. Distantly, she knew Morgan was talking about her near-death, and the trauma that followed it, but her head pulsed; vision spotty. “You don’t need to...do anything...different…” She spoke through clenched teeth. “It’s okay. Don’t be sorry. I don’t need you to be anything but how you are. It’s oka---” The cemetery with the Lydia gravestones screamed at her, ringing loud and demanding. Deirdre stumbled off the bench. She stared down the road, watching it narrow. The pull she had been searching for was clear, and it was persistent. It tethered her, strung her limbs up and pulled her like a doll.

If she was thinking, she’d realize it was in poor taste to be running off again. But she wasn’t thinking, she was sprinting down a foregin street. Pain forgotten, she burst forth with temporary speed and composure. “Morgan!” She called her girlfriend’s name just once before she turned the corner. The cemetery. The Lydia gravestones. They lived in a nameless alley; not that alley’s often had names, but she’d make sure people knew this one--the place where good died. Deirdre stumbled into it, filled with perverse relief to find Lydia. To find Lydia. To find--Where was Lydia? Deirdre threw herself to the ground, equal parts frantic and too weak to hold herself up. Where was Lydia? She committed herself to vision, to everything her death-cursed body could drum up.      

Morgan thought the clinic and the waking up and the sitting tensely in the car was a trick and this really was a magic nightmare drummed up to torment her. Deirdre coughed, ragged and painfully unlike herself. Morgan scrambled for the water bottle in her bag and handed it off to Deirdre. “Drink slowly, babe,” she whispered. “Slow, okay?” She felt brave enough, forgiven enough, to stroke Deirdre’s cheek the way she liked to when it was her turn to comfort her. But Deirdre shuddered and sank against her body. “I’ve got you. What is it? Hey—” And then Deirdre was up, running away from her again, knocking her way through the street, drunk with pain. “Deirdre! Deirdre, please!” Morgan didn’t care about the pedestrians turning their heads to look at the crazy woman shoving past them. She was just seeing their street and the trail of blood and Deirdre’s dead, icy look. Morgan couldn’t do this again. She didn’t have it in her.

Morgan turned the corner and caught Deirdre’s hand as she called her name. “I’m here. Tell me what’s happening, just fucking tell me, I don’t even care what it is!” She pleaded, falling to her knees with Deirdre, holding her up in her arms. “Are you in more pain? Do I need to drive you back to the clinic? What do you—did you find something?” She brushed back her love’s hair, searching her face for some tell about what new twist of the cosmic knife was working through them this time. She held onto Deirdre, too tight for her to break away from easily. “Please. I can take it. Just talk to me…”

Where was Lydia? Deirdre burned, clawing at her skin with bandaged fingers. She felt cut upon cut across her chest, the weight of wounded wings she didn’t own, spear through her shoulder. She felt Lydia’s pain, splashed up against the walls and spilled across the floor, but she didn’t know where she was. Her body took flash fever, starting at her knees against the ground. Where was Lydia? She heard voices, saw figures in the dark of her vision–one, two, three...just how many people had watched Lydia die? How many of them caused it? At the center, a blonde girl flared to mind, but Deirdre already knew about her; had already committed herself silently to dealing with it. She began to paw at the ground. Perhaps Lydia had been buried below, somehow, but she searched and searched and found nothing. Her body burned.

Deirdre blinked, turning slowly to her girlfriend. The apology for her actions that wanted to sit on her tongue had been swallowed down. She took dirt and ash into her hands, letting them stain once pristine bandaging before peeling Morgan off of her. The process was slow, she was in no rush now. She had found Lydia, after all. Once unfurled, she opened Morgan’s palm and dusted ash against her skin. “That’s Lydia,” she said, “we found her.” Deirdre turned back to the ground, the ash was nearly indiscernible from the rough cement, but she leaned down and scooped it all up into a pile—every grain of dirt along with it. In time, by hand, she would pick everything that wasn’t Lydia out. For now, she just wanted it all. She thought she could mold her back, like clay. She tried it; holes for the eyes first. But the nose wouldn’t stick. “How is she going to wear something nice, for the funeral?” She asked, “what if she wanted to be buried? Didn’t they ask her? Didn’t they think about her family? This is all they get to see of her now. Who would want that? Who would want ashes?” In her scraping the ground, the charred remains of Lydia’s phone mixed with the pile. Deirdre plucked it out. There was Lydia, pile on the floor, and this was the place she died. This was the place she saved Deirdre’s life. And they gave her ashes. “Didn’t they know…” she sobbed, unaware she had begun tainting the ash with her tears (she would apologize for this later, seek repentance in the familiar places she knew). “....didn’t they know? Didn’t they know that I loved her. Why would they—what did they think I would do with a body? Couldn’t they have just left her in a river or—“ Deirdre curled up on the ground, pulling Lydia to her chest. There wasn’t much left of her now, even with the ash; a byproduct of the time she wasted (she would apologize for this too). “She couldn’t stand looking at a dead body, not the beautiful decayed kind. But I think she—I think she wanted a coffin. Didn’t they ask her? Why didn’t they ask her?” Deirdre sobbed, a horrible and pathetic whimpering sound, but she knew the answer.

Morgan tried to fasten Deirdre’s hands together in her grasp to no avail. “No! If you can leave me behind like I don’t matter you can use your fucking words and tell me what’s happening!” She shook her, aching and desperate, but Deirdre was somewhere else, and nothing Morgan said meant a damn thing, if they’d even registered as words at all. And then she spoke and all of Morgan’s fear and grief punctured, crawling miserably into some dark corner inside herself to hide. There wasn’t time for this. If Deirdre was right (and when it came to death, Deirdre was always right), then Morgan didn’t get to matter right now. She quieted and let Deirdre have her way, carefully folding away her hurt in box after box to fester out of sight.

Morgan had never looked at flesh ash before. Somehow she thought it would look different, more distinct and impressive. But aside from being a little paler, there wasn’t anything to differentiate it from the dregs of a regular bonfire. Morgan closed her hand around the grainy nothing Deirdre had put in her hands. Lydia. If she hadn’t been an alchemist in another life, she wouldn't know the connection between these little particles and the woman they had both known. But Morgan did, just as she knew that whatever kind of soul fae had, Lydia’s was off becoming part of something else. Strangely enough, Morgan couldn’t find it in her to hope for peace for Lydia so much as a second chance, an opportunity to be kind, to understand that the world wasn’t stratified the way she’d been raised to believe, to feel connected to the affection that had vanished from her life over its final weeks. That’s what Morgan wanted.

But death didn’t care for wanting. Deirdre had explained that to her plenty of times. And as Morgan held her girlfriend, rubbing her back and stroking her hair as she sobbed, she reminded herself that she was part death too. She could hold and speak and not want anything. She could, if she remembered the pit inside her and let it take her a little. After watching her tiny world implode on a loop so many times in less than a day, it was almost easy. “I don’t know, my love. I’m afraid I don’t know.” she said faintly. “But I do know that her soul and her energy have already passed on and transformed. Maybe she’s in the winter flowers, or the wind, or some happy, gentle creature that was just born. But we can put what’s left of her in a nice urn, maybe something from her house. I don’t think she’d mind her house pieces being with someone who can appreciate them. Or we could get an alchemist to turn her into something you can keep with you always. She would like her body turning into something beautiful, I think. When you’re ready, you’re going to finish the water bottle, and I’ll clean it out and we’ll put her in there for the time being. And we’ll go home, and you’ll decide what you think is best for her remains when you’re ready for that too.”

“There’s no winter flowers in an alley!” Deirdre bellowed, rumbling the world around them. Her tears felt like fire against her cheeks now, and she pushed herself off the ground. “This stupid man-made shit. She doesn’t get to go anywhere! Not back to the earth that bore her, not the forests of her ancestral home. This human garbage is what she gets. You can’t grow a tree in cement! They killed her here! And they didn’t even leave a body.” Deirdre slammed her fist to the ground, shattering bone on impact and undoing her body’s attempts at healing her torn nails; she reacted to neither, an instrument of pain and anger. “You don’t know what they did to her,” she spoke to Morgan now, trembling in the force of her words. “We didn’t even get to hear all of it. But I saw, I heard, I know. They took Lydia from this world, she begged and they ignored her and now she’s ash. She didn’t want to die this way. And I promised her, I promised her—“ ‘A good death’ shouldn’t have been something impossible to give. It was her job, her livelihood; everything she was born for. “She was my sister and they took her.” Deirdre huffed, calming herself just enough to remember who she was speaking to, and what had been said. “Not unless you can dry it all out,” she gestured at the water bottle, gently taking it with her good hand. If drinking water would please Morgan, she would do it, but the point of the gesture was lost on her now. “Water will ruin the ashes. Or taint them. Nothing touches Lydia anymore, nothing that will hurt her. No water.” She took a sip, hissing as it went down. Drinking water felt like a waste of time, so much so that she stopped at just the first sip. “And no home. We go to Lydia’s.” Deirdre pulled off her sweatshirt, pushing the ashes onto the fabric. She considered that the water bottle just might have been better, but she wanted everything and she wanted it pure. “No one will be turning her into anything, not unless I know I can still feel her like that, and, anyway, not a human. I’m not letting another human touch her. Her family will decide what’s best. I’ll leave that to them.” A work of art might’ve sounded good to Deirdre, if her mind could bear to stir itself from thoughts of rage. “Are you good to drive?” She asked Morgan, speaking mostly to the ash though. “We can take a break, if you don’t want to. But we’re not going home. I don’t want to go home now. We need to go to Lydia’s, as soon as we can. Time—“ she snarled, “—clearly has done terrible things to my sister.”

Morgan took back the water bottle as soon as Deirdre made her disgust for the idea apparent. She had dumped out the rest and begun cleaning it with her sleeve when Deirdre dismissed the idea. Morgan stopped, screwed on the lid, and put the empty bottle away. Nothing to do about it now. Taking off the sweatshirt from the clinic was a stupid mistake. The ash would get caught in the fibers and almost impossible to fully separate. Some of Lydia’s remains would end up in the wash, or some cotton blend would end up in her urn, or whatever happened in the end. And Deirdre shouldn’t have promised a good death, not when she knew from Morgan’s death that sometimes there wasn’t time enough to fix anything. But nothing in Morgan’s head mattered, and nothing broke the surface of her blank face except a ‘fine,’ and later, when the silence had been long enough to make Morgan sure that Deirdre was finished, she said flatly, “You just re-broke your hand, of course I’m driving. We’ll go to Lydia’s and then swing by the clinic again.” Deirdre didn’t have enough clarity of mind to set her own bones, and she probably couldn’t, with her fingers in their state. She scooped Deirdre up in her arms and walked them back to the car. She buckled both of them in, started the car, and took them away.

Time washed away funny when you were in the pit. It was both a long time and a short time back into town and up to Harris Island. The light had changed, bright and desaturated. Morgan pulled up the drive and turned off the car and came wordlessly around to wait for Deirdre to let herself out whichever ways she was going to insist on next. Deirdre had been right about time, the air crackled with the sound of tarp bubbling in the wind. New windows still had the stickers on them, ready for the final approval that would never come. At least the security team was absent, now lacking someone to follow and crime scene tape had been strung around the perimeter. Morgan only needed to twist the handle hard enough to break it free and let them in.

Deirdre hated being carried, despite its convenience. It made her feel like a child, and of all the things to be, a child was the worst. But she did not argue this time, she had her eyes glued to Lydia, and they remained there. In the car, which she hadn’t noticed they’d gotten into, she tried whispering her friend’s name, as if coaxing her out of her ashen hiding place. Then she spoke to her softly in Gaelic, mostly nonsense, but partly apologies she could not find the words for in English. Every so often, she subjected herself to the vision again, this time she took account of every detail. She had been cataloguing sounds by pitch by the time they came to Lydia’s. “We’ll be back,” she told the ashes, which was a silly thing to do, but Deirdre’s mind had gone to a strange place. A different place. She made sure Lydia was comfortable before she left, wrapped safe in the cheap sweatshirt. Inside, there would be nice vases for Lydia to go in until she found a more permanent home. It would be better than her shirt, at least. Deirdre looked at the ashes. “Do you want to come?” She asked them. They did not respond, but she turned back and picked them up carefully, unable to part with Lydia anyway. Lydia’s house was not even in an acceptable state; too messy, too taped up and put together all wrong. Lydia wouldn’t want that. “I should clean up,” she announced to no one in particular. “But first a good home for the ash—for the ash—for the—for Lydia.” But everything was toppled over, not where it should be. Her mind was still reeling from visions, she didn’t have the capacity to log every change here. Her eyes raked over the sheer number of them, and she felt sick. “This isn’t good.” She said, sitting on Lydia’s couch. The same place she would sit, feet tucked under her, as her and Lydia chatted over wine. Deirdre’s gaze settled on Lydia’s empty spot beside her. “This isn’t right.” She looked to the ashes again, bundled with more care than she had ever held anything. “What do you think?”

“You’re not gonna clean anything. It’s a crime scene,” was all Morgan said. She walked through the first floor of the house, or as far as she could manage while keeping Deirdre in her sight. There had been a struggle, and there had been an investigation underway. Spots were marked up with numbered tags as evidence. If they only knew the worst of it, they wouldn’t have bothered, Morgan thought. She went systematically through each room, stopping in the kitchen to work on the cabinets. It was fitting and cruel and pitiful, to put Lydia in something meant for food, but there weren’t going to be many options on this floor. She took out a sculpted rice serving pot and a ceramic sugar tin, both more form than function. She washed and dried them carefully by hand. There was a lot wrong with this place, a prickling awfulness that wanted to pull Morgan out of her numbness and shoo her out the door. But Morgan didn’t matter right now, and neither did Lydia’s crimes. Maybe another day, but not right now.  Morgan brought the two vessels out to the living room where Deirdre still sat. “You don’t care what I think,” she muttered, setting them down in front of her. She’d found fault with everything Morgan had put forward so far, and this was probably going to be more of the same, so Morgan stepped away in an effort to get ahead of the next blast. “I’m going upstairs. Don’t do anything to hurt yourself.”

“What crime happened here?” Deirdre turned to the ashes, whom she thought might laugh and tell her something silly. But with things numbered up, the humans hadn’t infested Lydia’s home to try and look for her; they didn’t care she was ashes. But what crime happened here? Lydia had never done anything wrong, as far as Deirdre could think—which wasn’t very far, now. “The vases and art are missing.” She assumed because Regan had done her number against them, but it was wrong to see Lydia’s house so barren. She would’ve hated this. Likewise, she would’ve hated the options Morgan presented. Deirdre eyed them, and a moment too late, spoke softly. “I always care what you think, Morgan.” But Morgan had gone already and left Deirdre in the place that was wrong and empty. She pulled the serving bowl close, and carefully poured Lydia inside. “I’m sorry,” she told the ashes, and though she was vigilant not to spill anything, she couldn’t help but think she was losing some of Lydia in the transfer. She slipped the sweatshirt back on, bundling the ash-stained front in her hands, tugging them close to her chest. Deirdre turned her attention back to the house, she thought about mixing the numbers around, rubbing dirt over the places they thought were evidence. She didn’t know what crime they assumed was committed here, but they were wrong, and Deirdre needed to protect Lydia’s legacy. But instead she hobbled to her feet, and stumbled her way up the stairs. Falling down and over, revisiting old scrapes against her legs, wasn’t so terrible now that she had no space in her mind to think of it. “Morgan?” She crawled to the bedroom, “what are you looking at?”

Morgan had only been upstairs to visit Remmy before, and so wandered the rooms on rooms on rooms without purpose. She found Remmy’s first: empty. Morgan frowned to think that she and Lydia felt the same way about them and their absence. But there it was, a hollow shell where a life used to be. If Morgan didn’t know any better, she would have taken it for some overly personal art installation. It could be called something like, ‘regret’ or ‘disavowed’ or ‘why the heck did you stick around for so long if you were going to make me feel bad for what I need and fuck off’? That last one was more about her than Lydia, she liked to think, but she shut Remmy’s old door and moved on all the same.

There were more spare rooms and suites, some that looked lived in recently enough to make Morgan’s stomach clench. Clothes folded with neurotic care. Pencils and paper on a desk. Shoes tucked under a bed like they were hiding. It had to be Chloe. Other, too, from the looks of things. Where had Lydia found the time to take more people? How long after leaving Chloe or Sammy dying had this happened? Morgan lingered for several moments. She was one of the few people who could begin to understand the crimes that had happened here, she owed Chloe that much. How many times had she been tormented here? How many times that this felt like some sick safety compared to the torture basement? How much harder was it to bear this alone? Morgan didn’t have the stomach to bear it at all, not with the memory of Chloe’s cries in her ears. She stumbled backed away from the hallway and turned down a different one. The house seemed to change, performance and display falling away to simpler aesthetics, cozier furniture. Morgan entered the room at the end of the hall and found herself in Lydia’s bedroom.

It was the kind of room someone’s mother would have liked: soft textured fabrics fresh out of a bedding catalogue, warm light coming through the curtains, fat photo albums and well-loved poetry books stacked on the nightstand, and on a vanity shelf, miraculously intact, were arrays of trinkets and knick knacks. Morgan went up to look at each one, noticing the particularities, the mish mash of styles. This wasn’t curated the way the sculptures and paintings downstairs were. If there was any logic here, it was known only to Lydia, mysterious and personal. There were runes and gaelic dialects that must have been fae and off in a corner was a collection of bones, including a bell jar terrarium arranged around a racoon skull.

“My bones,” Morgan whispered. She had given Lydia the gift on their last planned meeting. She always came with a gift for Lydia, but this one had been her most involved; crafted by hand instead of purchased. “I thought you hated this,” she said. “I thought you hated all my presents, but I worked on this for days, hoping you’d be impressed. I wanted to remember what it was like creating something, and I thought you of all people would understand. But you never really said you liked it, so I figured you put it in some reject closet...” But it was here, carefully tended to along with Lydia’s other treasures, the moss even looked like it had been nurtured recently. Morgan surveyed the collection again, the strange hodge lodge of it, and the care they were curated with. These were gifts. These were people she wanted to keep close to her heart, and for some reason she had chosen to remember Morgan along with them, even after everything. And looking at this, how could Morgan not think of Lydia over at the house, sipping wine with Deirdre, or next to Morgan in the car, begging silently to be accepted? And then all the times they fought online and Lydia’s patience when Morgan said something stupid and offensive to her fae ears and that time they sat in the warmth of a fae funeral pyre, pressed together with Deirdre in the middle? That was real. As real as Chloe’s cries in the basement and everything else that had happened here. This stupid terrium that only mattered because Morgan had made it--this was Lydia too.

Morgan lifted the bell jar terrarium and held it to her chest, bundling her arms tight until the glass broke. Morgan whimpered. No, she didn’t matter. None of this mattered. Not the glass pressing into her skin, not her hurt, her betrayal, her grief. And yet. “What was wrong with you?” She asked Lydia. “Why couldn’t you have been this kind to—what was wrong with you?” She sank to the floor, staring into the broken offering like it might hold any answers. She reached deep inside herself for that calm, dead balance again, but it was no good. It wasn’t a place Morgan had ever known how to keep herself in. As she curled her body over the mess, sobbing into hand, it seemed that it, too, had abandoned her completely.

Morgan sensed Deirdre only faintly. She gasped for control, scrambling for something inside her heart to protect herself with. She wiped her eyes furiously and curled her body away, crunching the glass further. It came apart on her shirt, but Morgan didn’t care. She wasn’t ready to get off the floor and face whatever Deirdre would do to her next. “...Stop.” She said, her tear-choked voice just above a whisper.

“Morgan?” Deirdre called out again, crawling across the floor. If she had sense, she would have hated the child-like quality of it. If she was thinking, she would have apologized for it. “Are you oka—“ Stop. Deirdre flinched, Morgan would not catch the flicker of pain across her features, though her whimper was audible. “But—“ her argument caught in her throat. Somewhere beyond her, there were the words of care and love: you’re not okay, I won’t stop. But there, right then, all she had was quiet. Tell me what’s wrong, turned into the slow reaching for Morgan, grimacing at her flinching of the touch. Whimpering as it happened again when she wrapped her arms around her love. The Lydia spilled across her shirt spread on to Morgan, but Deirdre’s mind was a simple beast now; it did not possess the intelligence to consider intricacies. “Let me see your hands,” she asked softly, then set about picking the glass out of her. That, like all of the Lydia that had been defiled around her, was also wrong. She was learning that she didn’t like seeing the people she loved in ways they didn’t belong; Lydia to ash, Morgan to pincushion. “You were right about the water bottle,” she said, “but I do like wearing Lydia. It feels like she’s hugging me again….almost. I miss that. I held her while she cried, in that bed right there, and at the time I didn’t think to cherish the feeling. I thought I’d always have it.” She paused, trying to pull Morgan close to her, like always was—like she also imagined she would always be able to. But she had lost Morgan once, a few times before if loss by her own doing could be counted, and she knew to always hold her as if committing the feeling to memory. “What’s wrong?”

Morgan continued to cry, shrinking and cowering from Deirdre’s touches as she searched for the cold, effortless grasp of death, and a voice that at least resembled her own. She tried pulling her hands away (the cuts didn’t matter) and she tried dissolving out of Deirdre’s arms and slithering back to the car alone. But Deirdre had her, and she was trapped, and maybe it would have been the only trap she wanted to fall into if it wasn’t all a meaningless lie. “I said stop…” she croaked. “Stop lying, stop touching me like you…” Her voice snagged and whined in her throat. “Like you suddenly care. Just stop, please…” The back and forth felt more cruel than the rejection; at least when Deirdre had abandoned her before, Morgan never had to question their reunions. She could count on at least a week, often more. Deirdre’s strong, slender arms had pushed her away so rarely before today, Morgan had thought they were the key to knowing she was safe. But that had been before the nightmare day, before she’d stopped being able to do anything right or important in Deirdre’s eyes.

“I can’t do this again,” she begged in a whisper. “Don’t act like you want to stay anymore. I believed you—I believed you last time and—” And Deirdre couldn’t have been bothered to do things differently even once. For all Morgan knew, she hadn’t been listening all. “I can’t anymore. Please just stop and tell me what you’re angry about next. Were the dishes I picked out too ugly? Do you hate the windows being messed up? Do you hate me for wanting to go back to the clinic? Or do you—stars, I don’t even fucking know anymore because you’re never going to tell me what’s really wrong or listen to when I try to explain, you’re just going to leave!” And in that case, why was Morgan saying so much now? Catching the irony, Morgan slumped in on herself, trembling as she searched in vain for the dead, nothing parts of her for comfort. “Please, don’t lie anymore. I don’t understand what I ever did but doesn’t matter, so just do it...” Just go. Leave me behind.

Deirdre pulled her hands back, tucked carefully in her lap, as she listened to the strange words tumbling out of the strange Morgan. She thought it was a dream, for a moment, until a dull pain throbbed across her hand, and she noticed for the first time how swollen and misshapen it was. She couldn’t remember when or why, but she noticed it. And she looked at Morgan, and she noticed more—the betrayal claimed in her features, the torment in her voice. “What did I do?” She asked quietly, she tried to search her mind for the answer but could not remember anything outside of entering the peculiar dimension that housed this wrong imitation of Lydia’s home. “I do care about you. I always care. I don’t understand…” she blinked, found herself crying, and blinked some more. She wanted to touch Morgan, but Morgan had told her to stop, and in her obedience, she did not dare. She thought the good Deirdre, the one that could have kept her promise to Lydia, would have known how to fix this. She wouldn’t have brought Morgan to this point to begin with. But as she was now, she couldn’t logic out what was wrong, what she needed to apologize for, and what she could do to make it better. Her mind was jumbled with thoughts of Lydia, memories intertwined with regrets. She could feel the leanan-sidhe on her chest, holding her steady. “The dishes were ugly.”  But that was only because any dish would be ugly to hold Lydia, it wasn’t Morgan’s fault. And she didn’t like the windows being all broken either, but Morgan had nothing to do with that. “I don’t understand,” she said again, usually Morgan was good at explaining for her. And so she waited. And waited. And blinked, and cried, and waited. “I love you. I promise I love you. I’d like to spend the rest of my life with you, I promise I do. More than my life, if I could do that. It would be such a great honour. It is the only thing I want, everyday.” Deirdre cocked her head to the side, as if the new angle might provide answers. “Do you….want me to leave?”

There were limits to how much a zombie could shrink her body, as it turned out. Morgan’s bones bent as she tried to shield herself from Deirdre’s next absence and the hateful, drowning feelings that would take her after. There were limits to her nerves too. How did Deirdre not understand? What part of anything she’d said had been unclear, now or anytime before. She lifted her head, bewildered and horrified. Was this some sick joke? Was she toying with her now? (She wouldn’t. Even like this, she wouldn’t, right?) “All I have ever begged you to do since yesterday was stay with me!” Morgan tried to scream, as if climbing near banshee decibels would make Deirdre finally hear her,  but her voice came out ragged and choked with the hurt she was too frightened to let go of. “How can you…” And Deirdre cried and promised and Morgan couldn’t bear it. The two pieces didn’t match up and she couldn’t keep guessing wrong forever. “Do you not even hear me right now? Did I die again with you in our driveway? Because I have told you and begged you! All I did today was try to please you, to make anything up to you from before, and you told me it was okay! You told me you were here, you asked me what was wrong like you wanted to know and it mattered and I believed you! And then you left me! You can’t say these things and make me feel--” Safe. So safe that she never had to hide, that even when it made no logical sense, she mattered in a way that was only possible with love. “You can’t do things like that and then leave me behind like I’m not even there!” Morgan’s voice broke with an ugly sob, forceful enough to make her sit up on her knees. “If I didn’t do anything wrong, why are you punishing me like I did? Why...why are you acting like everything I say is awful if you’re not mad at me? Why can’t you stay with me when I need you if you don’t hate me for letting her die? Why can’t you tell me anything if you love me? My whole stupid little life is built on you, and you were gone. You were dead! And then you couldn’t get away from me fast enough or bear to talk to me and I know I was too busy being broken over your bleeding fucked up body to get to her in time, but you keep acting like you forgive me and then taking it away!” In a way that struck Morgan as cruel now, she still felt too safe around Deirdre. She could hear the pitiful, child-like anguish under her cries. There was no dignity, no mask of anger or cold, deathlike apathy. She was just hurt and afraid, and though she hated herself for the pathetic quality of it, in a way she was still begging, too.

Deirdre sat very still and listened. She repeated Morgan in her head to make sure she was understanding the words, she asked herself their meanings and parsed them from English to Irish to English again until she was sure she understood. “I would’ve died for Lydia,” she said softly, picking at the ashy remains of Lydia on her shirt, rolling them against her palm. She wanted to weave Lydia into her skin, she wondered if it was possible. “I would die for Lydia. Still. My only regret with that promise was that she had to take it back. I would’ve died on our driveway for her. I would’ve died and thought nothing of it. I think of dying for her now. I think it’d be nice. I understand why my family spoke of our lives having no value, why we take no ties. We are fae, we carry their deaths, we avenge them; no matter the cost. I would die for Lydia.” Dread dug its cold fingers into her stomach, churning and pulling. “I’m so sorry. I would’ve died and left you, and I wouldn’t have regretted it. I would still do that now, and I can’t---I can’t shake it from my head. I want peace for her so badly I would wrench it from myself. But that’s not fair to you. I’m so sorry, my love.” The things she had to do, and the new life she carved with Morgan, never had learned how to fit nicely together. But her love for Morgan was not a whim to be cast aside, and not a treasure she would so easily give up. It was that same perseverance that marked her love for Lydia, too. “It’s not your fault Lydia died. It’s not your fault she’s ash. I don’t blame you, I’m not angry at you. I’m trying to stay with you. I’m trying because I want to. But it’s hard because---” Deirdre lifted her bandaged hands, one bent wrong and one normal, and tried to demonstrate a split road. “But I’m sorry.” She dropped her hands, lacking the energy to keep them up. Deirdre, unlike Morgan, had no torrent of emotion inside of her. There was anger and pain, neither she showed now, and then deep, unshakable, sadness. Something like self-loathing, but more desperate around the eyes. “I’m sorry.” Was all she could think to say; was all she knew how to say now. “I’m sorry.” And she sat very still and straight as she offered it, just the way she’d been taught. She could be a stitching of instincts and half-feelings, a mannequin of memory. But she could not be Deirdre anymore.  

Morgan shook her head. In her awful, bleating explanations, she’d closed some of the distance between them on instinct. She was close enough to touch Deirdre now, and her arms twitched, aching for her, but she held back, still tense with fear, like an animal that had been hit too many times. Morgan scoffed at the idea that Deirdre was trying, that forgetting her not five minutes after insisting she bare herself counted as trying. “I knew,” she croaked. “You would never choose me over a fae. I knew that when we started. I just thought… you would care enough by now to try to take me with you. Or to tell me that’s what you were doing. I would’ve driven you anywhere if you’d just said she was in trouble. You think I don’t still love her? That I don’t hate what they did to her? I would go with you anywhere if it would just occur to you to ask me, especially for her. I’d pack you a bag if you swore to me you could only do it by yourself. I don’t need you to look at it like it’s one or the other. I needed you to choose me too.” She looked up at her, eyes searching her strange, faraway face. “How do I know you aren’t going to drop me in five more minutes if I believe you right now? How do I know anything will be different? That this isn’t going to be like every other sad choice I trusted in before you? How can you tell me that you can choose me too?”

“I did choose you.” Deirdre blinked. “Always. I did when I said I loved you the first time, I did when we drove to the clinic instead. I am choosing you. Do you know it’s sacrilege to let a non-fae hold a dead fae’s body? But I gave you that ash.” She didn’t exactly get it, but she understood enough to try and wrap herself around Morgan again. “But this isn’t about choosing, I don’t think…or maybe...maybe it is. I don’t know. Is it? Is it?” She buried her head into the crook of Morgan’s neck, taking her in by way of her senses. With her nose pressed up against her like this, she could smell the decay--Morgan was due a meal soon, she realized, then tried to think back to the last time she ate. “I’m sorry.” How had she let them go so far without noticing? Why didn’t she stop to ask if Morgan wanted something to eat? “I could give you a promise,” she said, wincing as she realized her offer was in poor taste. “I don’t want to leave you, Morgan. I just don’t know what to do. I didn’t think Lydia could die, and I didn’t think there was time to say anything about it. I don’t---I don’t know what to do. I said it’d be okay when we found her, but it’s not. She’s ash, Morgan. Ash!” Deirdre trembled, clinging tighter to her love. “Y-you don’t know, I suppose. Can you trust me? Can you trust that I love you more than that?”

Morgan sank into Deirdre and let her hold her. “I didn’t ask for her ash, I know she’s yours. I just want us to have gone together,” she whimpered. “I just want you to take me with you next time so we can go together. Or talk to me. I can be strong with you. Don’t you believe in me enough for that?” She latched on tighter as she felt Deirdre shudder and cry. She could’ve sworn they’d each been so strong before, that they could each stand on their own two feet without being afraid. Maybe, when the worst of this was over, they could be again. Morgan flinched and clutched Deirdre tighter at the mention of a promise, but in this moment, it still looked to her like salvation. She was so tired of holding herself in, she ached with hunger and grief, and even as her heart expanded to accommodate more anguish, there didn’t feel like enough room to mourn Lydia as just herself. (She didn’t want to, she didn’t have the same blinders that Deirdre did. She knew too much, enough to think that she and Deirdre might be the only ones crying over the good in Lydia that was lost. Grief was a cruel feeling, but grieving alone was punishing.) One death she was old hat at managing. Two, this close to her heart, and she didn’t know which end was up, even if Deirdre had come back in the end.“But I trusted you before--” she said pitifully. “You can’t do this to me again, Deirdre. And don’t tell me you’re ready for something you’re not. I would’ve waited for you to ask me later, I would’ve tried…” She might not have succeeded, but she wouldn’t have given up everything to Deirdre’s deaf ears if she’d known better. “I was right there with you on the bench, you didn’t even take my hand. I would’ve gone with you…” She shuddered, crying into Deirdre’s shoulder, trembling with tension her body was desperate to release. None of this was fair, or right, she didn’t even want to be crying over Deirdre when there was someone else who was never coming back. Not by zombies or necromancy or anything else. Her fingers dug in, heedless of any limits or habits she’d learned. Her body wanted to fasten itself to safety and hear the heartbeat that she had come to think of as safety. Somewhere, in that desperate, pitiful place, Morgan realized they already had a promise thread between them she could pull on. “Can I ask for you…?” She said in a shaky voice. “I feel like I lost you too and I need you. I want you. Can I ask you to come to me? Stay close for just… you haven’t even let me have you back for a day, can I at least ask for until morning? Can you love me enough to give me that?”

“No, you have to hold her,” Deirdre explained quietly, “you know who she was, so you have to hold her. No one else knows and loves like you do.” But her words fell away in a matching whimper, her body slumped against Morgan and the rest she just gave up on. All the fire and brimstone raged quiet and frail. She was tired now, as she had been for so long. But that was only this Deirdre; the woman who loved Morgan. She was not whole; she was part anger, part sadness, part ash. As the parts could not exist together, not any more, she hand-picked the one that needed to perform. “I’m sorry,” she said again, “I love you.” The only things that remained feeling right inside of her; apology for her inadequacies and love that would forever hold for Morgan. “Of course you can,” Deirdre pulled back and smiled, running her broken hand against Morgan’s cheek, as if nothing was wrong with it or her; a facsimile of the affection she knew to offer. “Of course.” She couldn’t tell the promise apart from her own desire to be by Morgan’s side, and she didn’t exactly know where she had been lost, but she nodded and urged for Morgan to take it. “Ask for me,” she smiled again, a small thing though her face pulled in memory of a larger one. The corner of her lip twitched. “I love you. Ask for me.” She pitched her voice up, the way she remembered warmth and affection sounding. She was trying, but she wasn’t sure if it looked more like lying. She wanted to be good, that was it. She summoned the woman who loved Morgan and told her to sit still and smile, even if emotion was a strange taste on her tongue now. She wanted to be good.

“Okay, I’ll hold her. We won’t tell anyone, but I will,” Morgan whispered, her voice smoothing out as her body eased to the tune of Deirdre’s assurances. The tune was familiar, even if it was off-key. Deirdre was hurt. Deirdre was lost, in a way. Latched onto her the way she was now, with permission granted and settling over her like a shock blanket, she could sense that as easily as the tremor in her love’s voice and the quiet outside. The rest of Morgan’s heart unlocked and she sagged,nodding and nuzzing into Deirdre’s hand as she stroked her cheek. “I need you. Will you please come to me, Deirdre? Just until morning?” She said softly. And in the saying, she knew that it was a question and no question at all. Not just because of the magic threads Deirdre had given her outside Al’s that sad night, but because that was how Deirdre loved her, as a matter of course. Morgan took Deirdre’s broken hand gently in her own and kissed her wrist, pressing in as hard as she could. “I’m sorry I need you,” she murmured. “I love you too.” She took several deep breaths. “Thank you for trying for me right now. I just need a minute…” She breathed deep again. “We shouldn’t stay here much longer, in case the police come back, and you can’t set your bones with your hand like this, we really do need to go back to the clinic. But we can take a minute…” She breathed again. Deirdre was here. Deirdre had promised. Deirdre loved her. They were both just lost and spun in different directions, groping clumsily for some kind of stability. They’d never both needed each other so badly at the same time before and they stumbled through the crisis like idiots. Morgan looked down at the terrarium pieces on the floor. Would you be angry with me, for using our promise? She silently asked Lydia. Would you be proud that losing you didn’t break us? Morgan breathed again. “We can take that jewelry box on the vanity for her ashes, if you think that would be better than what I brought you downstairs. I think everything up here is a gift.” Morgan gestured to the array of knick knacks above her. “It could be like being held by a friend…” Morgan stroked Deirdre’s cheek and searched her eyes, wondering if there was enough of Deirdre leftover to latch onto her as dearly as Morgan latched onto Deirdre’s efforts at gentleness.

Deirdre sighed in relief, falling against Morgan like the steadiness of a bed. She could rest there, she thought, and maybe when she woke there would be more of her to work with. “Of course,” she mumbled, and couldn’t tell if the promise blossomed warmth in her chest or if her love for Morgan did. She always felt tethered to her with something far stronger than a promise. “Don’t be sorry about that,” she breathed, “I need you too.” And though the fact made her feel horribly selfish to admit, it was a truth she could unearth from herself despite her state. “We can stay here for a minute.” It sounded nice, or it sounded like it should be nice, Deirdre wasn’t sure. She only had one hand to cling desperately to Morgan with, and she gripped the fabric of Morgan’s clothing tight between her fingers. She didn’t want to lose her, that was another truth easy to unearth. “And the clinc’ll be okay. I’ll be okay to go there.” Her gaze followed along to the jewelry box. “I’m worried…that if I move her again, there’ll be less of her. I know that box is better looking, I know she’d like it more, but whenever her family comes, they might want to move her into something else. And I was thinking---she gave me that vase, the one I have the magnolias in. Maybe she’d like it there. Just for now.” She closed her eyes, and shooed away the sight of Lydia’s empty bedroom for her memories of the one she occupied. Deirdre had always been so pleased to watch Lydia go about her day, as if she might learn from her how to be just like that. This house would never know her again, and she’d fit so well here. She’d been Lydia for so long, Deirdre thought it suited her. Maybe she liked it too. Maybe she found a place to stay. Maybe this was home. She wouldn’t know now, no one would. “Lydia cared about her friends,” Deirdre opened her eyes, “people didn’t care enough about her, as it seems. But she was good. She loved, just like everyone else. And she did care. She did. I know it seems weird to you, because of how she could treat--” Deirdre swallowed thickly, leaving those words about Lydia in a different place and time. “---When I first came over, I gave her this deer skull. I thought she hated it. It wasn’t pretty like a work of art to her, and I knew she didn’t like death much. But she kept it, and she liked it. And she cared. About me, about the people she loved. They’re not going to see that, are they? They’re going to find the basement and--” She swallowed again. Deirdre didn’t know how many people knew how Lydia liked to feed, but she had a feeling that the number of them that knew and were okay with it was something she could count on one not-broken hand. Except for the fae, she reasoned, they’d get it. “I want to take some things she liked; dresses, art...I don’t know what’s going to become of this house and its belongings. But I want some things to be hers, for as long as I can keep them.”

Morgan stroked Deirdre’s hair and wove careful kisses around her temples as she spoke. There was relief in knowing that she wouldn’t have to fight her on going to the clinic, or on staying huddled together on the floor. Deirdre had promised, and so there was no need to hold onto her fear and no need to cling, except to give comfort to one another. “Then we’ll keep her where she is until we can put her in the vase. Nothing else will be lost, not anymore.” She listened to Deirdre’s story, more attentively than she had the others, and made a note to ask her for more, as many as she would give, over the next several days, which were doomed to be awful. “I know she did. I don’t know if you could hear, but her last words were to you. She loved you more than anyone else here. And I have to believe that love goes somewhere too. No energy is completely destroyed. Her love still exists, and it’s yours. And--” Morgan swallowed thickly. She had just regained her composure, but with her fear for Deirdre abated, Lydia rushed in to fill those empty spaces. “I know she loved us. I don’t know why she loved me too, we argued so much, and I think I got on her nerves--” Morgan sniffled, gasping out a sad laugh. “But I know she did. She wouldn’t have kept this stupid terrarium if she didn’t.” Morgan looked down at the mess she made of her own present. There was no more chance of repairing it now, just as there was no turning Lydia’s ashes into the woman they knew again. “And I...I don’t understand how what she did was good, but I would’ve given anything for her to be here to explain and argue with me about it.” She shook her head. “No. No, they aren’t going to understand. But we know she wasn’t just anything. Stars, she was so many things. And we’ll remember the truth, okay?” Her heart sank at Deirdre’s simple, heartbreaking request.  She pulled away enough to look at her girlfriend so she would know how disappointed she was to not be able to grant her this to the extent she wanted. “We can’t, my love. Not as much as I know you want to. This is a crime scene, and people took pictures and inventory of the things that happened here. It’s risky enough taking one of her dishes to put her in. Whatever you take, it has to be small. Something easily missed. She wouldn’t want you to get involved in this mess. She spent her last time protecting you, and I want to do that too.” Morgan stroked her love’s cheek. “One or two small things. Nothing more. Do you want me to help you up?”

“I wish I could feel it, the energy that’s left. The only thing I get is her death.” Deirdre slumped further against Morgan, as if she might mold their bodies into one. Shell of herself, she would’ve died to be filled with something else, someone else. If only she could let Morgan carry her all the way, out the otherside of time where everything was okay. “But it’s better than nothing. It’s always better than nothing.” She had heard enough prattle about grief and bereavement, some she had offered and some offered by her family. But in actuality, loss was something she had experienced very little of--a child by banshee standards, emotionally unattached by every other. She didn’t know what to do about it. But Morgan did, Morgan understood it very well. “When you lost your father…” she started quietly, “...how long was it until you started to feel whole? Did you ever?” She couldn’t live like this, she was admitting in her own way. With all the pain she held for Lydia. She felt each cut, every stab, the desperation in her cracked voice--she knew her death, and she knew the ways to cleanse herself of it. The peace she could bring was not one she wanted to commit, for the quiet of the moment, sheltered in Morgan’s arms, she felt safe enough for one last truth: she didn’t want to hurt anyone, not really. She had grown tired of it, and she knew better now. Quickly, the thought would be swallowed by ones of anger and revenge, but she offered it to Morgan, asking her to keep it. One day she would need to remind her that she didn’t want this, and she feared that day would come very soon. Lydia’s peace would be a hurricane. “We’ll remember the truth,” she repeated, “Lydia as she was.” With weak strength, she tried to nudge Morgan up; silent answer to her question. Her own legs couldn’t hold her, and she needed Morgan in more ways than she knew how to admit. “Then I’ll leave it. I can come back...later, maybe, when it’s not a crime scene anymore. I-If it’s---If they found the---this stuff might not be Lydia’s anymore. I don’t know what they do about kidna---kid--” Deirdre swallowed. “A-are you good to leave now? I think I want to---I think I--I just---I don’t want to think about huma--people--people...t-touching her things. I don’t--” Her words trickled off into whimpers and sobs.

Morgan cradled Deirdre as close as she could. Without her fear clouding her mind, she had enough wherewithal to take care with how she used her hands, her grip firm but not painful, her soothing strokes gentle but not too soft. “Oh, my love…” she sighed, pressing a long kiss to her head. “It felt like so long. It felt like...there was this heavy spiked weight inside me, and I couldn’t move without getting hurt or crushed by it. For the first week, it felt like that pain was all there was of me.” Another kiss. “But in time, the weight gets smaller. The cuts it sliced into you scar over. And eventually it’s so small and light, rattling around your chest, you don’t really feel it cut you at all, except on a bad day. You’re whole already, my love. There’s just something else for you to carry now. And you can. It’ll be a little while, but you’ll be able to as it gets lighter. And I’ll help however I can.” She looked into Deirdre’s face and smiled as tenderly as she could, trying to offer her the best hope instead of the recollections of her worst nights. I came out okay, right? I was happy again, and sometime so will you. I’m here, and I carry this, and I love you.

Deirdre’s face seemed to be reaching out with a message of it’s own, some strange thought, embarrassed, even ashamed. It seemed to be asking Morgant to help her, to get her out of whatever sunken place she was in. If it were as easy as getting to her feet and lifting Deirdre up, she would have done it in a moment. “I’ve got you,” she whispered in her ear. “We’re together, and I’ve got you, okay?” She half carried, half dragged them to the nightstand where the picked up the first book she could reach before scooping up Deirdre’s legs and walking out with her, bridal carry, and coming down the stairs. “I’m going to bend without putting you down, and you’ll get the dish you put her in, and then we’ll go, okay? We’ll go by the house first and put her in your safe and get you a change of clothes, and we’ll go back to the clinic, and if you want, I’ll read to you from her book, and we’ll be together. Is that okay?”

“But I have so much to carry…” Deirdre half-whined, half-sighed. She nodded along to Morgan’s words and willed them to help her, somehow. She latched on to Morgan’s expression of love and devotion, and willed that to stick with her too. She found they fluttered down, like someone trying to press paper to a wall, but she picked it up and tried again. And again. “Thank you, Morgan.” She said, slumping as the last of her energy drizzled down. The last words she managed to get out were a grumble, petulant in a way that felt familiar even to her now, “I hate being carried.” But she smiled softly, in a flicker, and didn’t protest. She nodded along to Morgan’s plan, though she would have agreed to just anything then, and let herself be carried away. She picked up the dish, just as Morgan said it would happen, and cradled it against her. Then she was in the car, as planned, and fatigue set into her. Her spiked weight was foregin, and heavy, and she could only just imagine how much worse it would be alone. Whenever she would wake next, memory jumbled, she would thank Morgan. She might just have died on their driveway, but the only reason she was breathing around the spikes was her love. When she woke, she would thank her. When she woke, she would...

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Marley and Me || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: Present

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

SUMMARY: At therapy, Morgan and Deirdre uncover some secrets between them. So much for telling each other everything.

CONTAINS: references to past domestic (child) abuse, negative self-talk, trauma related panic.

Kelly hadn’t doubted that she would get Deirdre to open up and connect eventually. But given the breadth of the woman’s combative defenses, she hadn’t expected to get genuine admissions from her on a fifth session. Certainly not one that was secret to Morgan. Kelly had almost asked Deirdre to stop, to give herself more time to acclimate to the process and not feel so obliged, but the woman was determined. Kelly could only hope now that this determination would present itself now in their latest joint session.

As they settled in for the hour, Morgan had her notes ready, but her anxiousness to give an itemized progress report had ceced in favor of burgeoning confidence. Maybe it was partly a show, but some patients had to fake it til they made it. Kelly leveled her eyes at Deirdre, the only kind of warning she gave. She was curious to know where her bravery came from, and how far it would take her today. They’d had an understanding, but agreeing to a discussion on one day was different from facing it head on later. “Good to see you both today. Deirdre,” she said her name carefully. “Why don’t you start us off today? You had something you wanted to share with your partner from our last session together, didn’t you?”

Silence could be measured by the clock on the wall, ticking dutifully. It took five ticks for Deirdre to respond, having been focused on settling in beside Morgan, and trying not to look like she hated this room and what it asked of her. “Y-yes,” she snapped her attention up, swallowing thickly. When she’d mentioned it in their individual sessions, she was vulnerable from admitting to Kelly something she couldn’t even tell Morgan, and she hadn’t thought about what it meant. To her, therapy was just one more thing to conquer and get right, she might as well move it along. Yet, she didn’t realize ‘moving it along’ meant talking about it. To Morgan. Right now. “Yes, I did.” She reached for her girlfriend’s hand, taking it into her lap, shifting to face her. She was struck then about how silly this was; why did she think this was a good idea? Why did Kelly? “At night…” she began slowly, voice twisted into a trembling confession. She clamored for a tighter grip on Morgan’s hand. “You know….sometimes I have trouble sleeping….because of….nightmares...usually.” They weren’t even a common occurrence now! She was just a restless sleeper most days and she’d been like that ever since she was a child. Her grandmother told her she cried and wailed in the middle of the night like no other child she’d heard before. “A great set of lungs on you! Even before.” Her mother remained appalled by the sound for crying. Maybe this anecdote was more important to explain, maybe she should have told Kelly this instead, that session past. Deirdre frowned. It took three ticks for her to continue.

“And I don’t like to tell you what they’re about because…” Because one of two subjects that tormented her most was Morgan, her death being a common night terror. At first, she assumed the vision came to her because of her proximity to Morgan as she slept—she could, at the drop of a hat, summon that vision forth whenever she wanted (though she never wanted). But, as she confirmed months ago when a plate slipped from her fingers, just about anything could remind her of the moment. Just as she was sure it was worse for her love. But the other subject, the one the mentioned to Kelly, she dreaded to speak of. Lest she be summoned, perhaps. Or, more likely, Deirdre be embarrassed again by her vulnerability.

Marley Stryder was not a topic she brought up at home.

“Well, I don’t want to worry you and I...don’t want to admit that I...well I…” Deirdre swallowed. She glanced towards Kelly, whose face was patient; she should have just said she’d do this at home. Another tick. “You’ll remember, months ago, at that amusement park…” And another. And two more. “...that thing that happened.” Her eyes fell from their place looking into Morgan’s, focused her hands. She played with her fingers, intertwining them with hers, tugging on them and squeezing. “It haunts me sometimes. In dream, where I see red glow. I’ve had the microwave replaced that time because I couldn’t stand it--that red, cutting through the dark. I can’t--” She swallowed. “And I think about how it felt to be there, on the floor and no one’s ever made me feel so--” Exposed. Vulnerable. Weak. Pathetic. Like a woman that didn’t belong in her own body, like a woman that didn’t want to be. And all of her fears were right there, but the vision of them wasn’t so much what bothered it. It was the feeling, the dread. She couldn’t stop shaking. She was shaking. “Sometimes, the nightmares are that. They’re about her. And I didn’t want to--I thought you’d think it was silly, to feel this way about it. But what happened still bothers me, and I haven’t told you that before. I usually don’t like talking about it.” She looked up, at Morgan then at Kelly. “T-that’s it. That’s what I wanted to say. I wanted you to know, because we talk about everything, and I like that we do that. And I’ve felt so…” She gestured, “guilty that I couldn’t tell you this.”

Morgan sat alert while Deirdre tried to make her confession. She encouraged her eyes, with a gentle smile, with a squeeze of her fingers. It was okay. She could take her time. She had nothing to fear. And then Dierdre told what she had been keeping secret, and it took all of Morgan’s willpower not to pull away. She flinched, and her eyes widened in a very loud signal of no, oh no. Her gaze flitted to Kelly. She wanted to scream at her. What do you think you’re doing? What the fuck is this? What the hell made you put her up to this?

In their last one-on-one session, Morgan had enumerated some areas where her fear was overriding her values with their relationship. And if she were to put the knowledge that she wasn’t really afraid of Deirdre or what she would do into action, she could maybe start by cleaning up those messy areas in the next joint session. Like expressing her desire to make their home into more of a social space, even if Morgan didn’t think there was much they could fix about it. There was no telling for sure, and Deirdre deserved to know, and there was nothing wrong for being upfront about sacrifices being made. Or about how sorry Morgan really was for her days of rage after Deirdre’s return home. Or, yes, the fact that she occasionally spoke with Marley Stryder and even liked the woman sometimes. But none of the plans had been definite. At least, not specifically.

Morgan had imagined she would mull this over, prioritize, maybe drum up the courage to introduce an idea of her choosing. Not this. This awful, staged ‘opportunity’ for them to ‘grow together.’ How much were they going to grow if she had to look at Deirdre in all of her pain and be all, oh, that’s so funny, I’ve been telling the face you see in you nightmares that she’s great! Aren’t our differences so wonderful! She actually deserves to be happy, you know, like everyone else! That wouldn’t make you feel incredibly dismissed or anything, right?

Swiftly, she drew Deirdre into her arms and pressed her tight. She did not speak. She was too aware of Deirdre’s body trembling in her grasp, of the weight of what she had to say if she didn’t want to betray her love in even worse ways than she already had. And it was a betrayal, wasn’t it? She hadn’t known, she couldn’t have. All those times Deirdre woke up screaming, Morgan thought it was her mother or Regan or even Morgan herself that she was running from. Deirdre had said she didn’t like it anymore. One of her meals had come out cold still, so: new microwave. Deirdre had replaced things in the house for less. But none of that would matter, would it?

Morgan’s body clenched stiff, pressing Deirdre tighter still. “I’m sorry,” she squeaked at last. “I didn’t…you never brought it up after that…'' That long awful night in the hotel, when neither of them had slept until sunrise. Morgan had never seen Deirdre like that before. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen her like that since either. Low in other ways, yes. But not that deeply frightened, beyond speech, with boundaries no one was ever supposed to cross shattered inside her. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know at all. I had no idea this was still happening for you. I…” Thought it was over. She’d had her revenge outside the bowling alley, right? What else was there to do? “Fuck...” So long as Morgan kept holding her, she didn’t have to say it. If she could just say like this, comforting her…

“Is there something you’re trying to say in response, Morgan?” Kelly prompted.

Morgan fought the urge to growl. She was not ready for this. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “That you felt like you couldn’t say. I don’t want that for us. I truly...I had no idea…” She pulled back just enough to kiss her cheek (was that bad, with what she was holding onto?) “I do… I n-need you to…” Morgan sighed and kissed again. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe this was just that fear and this was the best way she had of conquering it. If they seriously made it through this moment intact, what else was there to be afraid of? What other proof could she possibly need that they were safe and strong and fine? And didn’t Deirdre know how she felt about giving people chances anyway? “I have something to tell you too,” she said quietly. “But I really, really, really need you to understand that I...it didn’t even occur to me that she could be the one in your night terrors.”

Kelly was right. Talons lifted their suffocating grip on Deirdre’s body, lifting up and flying away, freeing her from their invisible pressure. It didn’t take away her pain, or trauma, but it had given her a foothold, just like Kelly said it would. Little steps; sometimes those helped. Deirdre relaxed in Morgan’s arms, safe in them. There existed a person who would never hurt her as she had been, and she held on to her just as tightly as she held back. “It’s okay.” Her voice was clear now, confident. She could breathe. Everything was fine. It was okay. She’d said what she wanted to say, and Marley didn’t pop out of some shadow to taunt her, and that feeling of dread didn’t come back. She was safe. It was okay. “Don’t be sorry,” Deirdre was smiling, bright and free. She looked up and found that all she wanted was to smooth away whatever was troubling Morgan. Don’t worry, it’s okay. She lined her face with eager kisses. “It’s okay! It---I just thought if I said it, I’d feel that way again but---” But she had said it, and she didn’t. She felt good, even. Now she really had told Morgan everything, right? Would it all be better now? “Oh, sorry I didn’t mean to interrupt you.” She grinned, and pushed away the small, stubborn question that sprung to mind: why wouldn’t that occur to you? Morgan had seen her then, Morgan knew; Morgan probably meant that she didn’t think it was nightmare-worthy, but knew completely and totally that it bothered her so. Why wouldn’t she? She knew her so well, she loved her so kindly. And there were no secrets now, except the one Morgan was trying to tell her. “Sorry, go ahead, my love.”    

Morgan cringed at Deirdre’s assurances. She didn’t know when ‘the right time’ was or what the ideal format of this conversation could have been. If Kelly had led with her baggage and made her pick from the dropdown menu of fear, how much more or less afraid would she feel? There was no telling now, but at least she wouldn’t have this extra helping of guilt stuck in her throat.

She gripped Deirdre’s hands and squeezed them tight, as her love had done minutes before. “I didn’t realize,” she said again, and cringed again, hating how much easier it was to apologize and enjoy the comfort without paying for it first. She could do this, right? What was she if she didn’t? And what was their trust worth, their honesty, if she didn’t? She met Deirdre’s eyes once, pleading, and lowered them as she spoke at last. “S-sometimes...just, I don’t know, maybe five or six times, I...I don’t count, I didn’t think I was doing anything…”

Wrong? She knew it would be inappropriate to regale Deirdre with tales of how Marley was coming along with her own growth, but she didn’t alert Deirdre every time she had a conversation with someone who’d been hurtful in the past either. That would be absurd. She didn’t need a run down of her talks with Miriam in detail, but that didn’t make the vampire a secret. Deirdre knew Morgan was invested in her well being. Just as she knew Morgan was close with Kaden (another person she didn’t go into detail about, out of respect). Deirdre had been the one to encourage Morgan to see people as people in the first place, even those it was easier to hate. And with the trauma of that dark amusement park in the past tense, in Morgan’s mind, Marley wasn’t any different. Just a person, that deserved the chance to change.

“...as a last resort, or a friend emergency, because we’re not friends but we seem to have almost all the same ones, sometimes…” Morgan swallowed thickly. She wasn’t talking to her mother. Deirdre loved her well. Endlessly, unconditionally. She did. And they forgave each other everything, so maybe Morgan was the one prolonging her own pain for no reason. Right? “...sometimes we talk. Marley and I.” And she’s not that person anymore. She’s so much like you. “We’re not friends, so it didn’t even seem important, a-and it’s usually just because she’s worried about Erin or Anita, or there’s some other thing and there’s just no one else to ask! I thought it would be…” Hurtful to tell Deirdre. Cruel. Was that a paradox, or had she been deluding herself worse than she’d realized? “I wouldn’t have done it if I had known that this was so heavy that it would still be in your nightmares.” Not like that anyway. “I wouldn’t knowingly hurt you, Deirdre. I knew you wouldn’t like it no matter what, but this makes it different and I’m sorry, more than I ever thought I was going to be. I am sorry.”

It took Deirdre seven ticks to reply. As Morgan spoke, her face had gone from bright to eager to understanding to confused to impassive, until finally— “W-what?” Betrayed. Her mind, often an erratic creature, quieted; all she could hear was the thrum of her own heart, pushing blood to her face. This didn’t make sense. Morgan wasn’t making sense. Just moments ago, she was safe, and now she was… “What?” Deirdre pulled her hands from Morgan’s. She pushed herself away. “I don’t—I don’t understand.” She looked to Kelly, wondering if she was just as lost. Morgan isn’t making sense! She wanted to scream. Make Morgan make sense. She turned back, talons upon her shoulders again. The world was small. The world was quiet. “I don’t—how could you not know?” Because you didn’t tell her, something else argued, but by then, it didn’t matter. “Stop. Stop. Stop!” She shot up, hands curled to fists at her side. The room rattled with her voice, her body quivered. “Stop,” Deirdre was pleading to no one in particular. “Morgan, I don’t—that doesn’t make sense. It—“ She began to pace the length of the room, hand pinching the bridge of her nose. Her mind was quiet still, though she was forcing herself to think. “Why would you—how could you—I don’t understand.” Morgan was talking to Marley. Morgan was talking to Marley to help her. Morgan was talking to Marley to give her advice. Morgan was talking to Marley to soothe her concerns. Deirdre paused, she looked at Morgan. Her mind was no longer quiet.

Do you remember, she began asking herself, how you thought Morgan knew you? Deirdre’s nostrils flared, a deep breath filling her lungs. Yes, yes, she said, yes, I do. It was with that betrayal that her voice cut into the air, cracking certificates and diplomas, a framed family portrait on a desk, the vase Deirdre thought always looked a little like a gnome. “You knew!” She resumed her pacing, furious in her march. “You—you saw me! You saw me that day! You picked me up! And you’ve been—you knew what she did to me!” Deirdre’s nails made red marks in her palms, screaming for recognition. Think about me! Think about my pain! “You knew and you still—I tolerated it when you thought being Anita’s friend was—I tolerated it when you and Erin—I can’t believe—“ One of the frames shook off its nail, shattering against the ground. “You knew what she did to me and you’re helping her with her life!? Do you even care about—She hurt me!” Deirdre halted, having just enough sense to know she didn’t want to yell at Morgan, she turned her head up to the ceiling and yelled. “She hurt me! Why does it matter if it was in my nightmares or not? She hurt me! You were there! You knew! I told you! You know how I feel about her! She hurt me! She made me feel like—like—“ Deirdre dropped her head, trembling with rage, crying with the sting of betrayal. “—and I told you. You saw it. And you still—you still thought—of all the people...of all the people to be to be talking to about their life. To be soothing. To be helping. Fates, do you tell her that she’s not that bad? That it’s okay? That her life will be okay? You saw what she did to me and you tell her that? And I thought the last time you—I thought you would’ve stopped—I thought you cared!” Deirdre made it to the door, hand above the knob. She remembered where she was, and why she was here. She turned to Kelly, throwing her arms out. “Well?!” Another frame crashed to the floor.

As soon as Deirdre pulled her hands away, Morgan’s mind decided what was happening. The same thing that always happened. They were fine, and they weren’t. Whole, and then shattered. Just in a breath, in a single word. Because of her. How stupid she was, how hopeless. She had to spoil everything, didn’t she?

Between Deirdre’s half started phrases, she tried to protest. “I didn’t, I didn’t know, not like this, you didn’t tell me! You only just told me! And you said I shouldn’t look at people as monsters and I shouldn’t let it be that easy! You told me to see people! I was thinking about that! I didn’t understand! I don’t understand!”

But she never understood when she was hurting people, or screwing up. Not until it was too late. Her mother had said she was selfish and conniving, playing innocent when anyone else would have known better than to do whatever she’d done this time. Morgan thought she had disproved that theory enough times but maybe she was willfully stupid, maybe she didn’t want to know so she could get her way, maybe she couldn’t help but hurt people…

“Please, I’m sorry….” she whimpered.

Glass broke, stabbing the air as Deirdre screamed. Morgan cried out in a sob and cowered, covering her head. “Please!” More. Louder. Shards pattered the carpet and Morgan drew her legs up, making herself as small and tight as possible. If she cut herself, her mother would think she was looking for pity, or she would hate the extra work of taking care of her. To make her mother do the dressing and the cleaning of her body when she was already mad was so much worse and so unfair. (But this wasn’t like that, was it? Hadn’t Deirdre promised? Didn’t she love her?)

At the last piercing strike of the air, Morgan flinched, her body preparing for a hand to clamp on her shoulder, her hair, her neck, whatever was most convenient. She couldn’t remember if she’d been asked a direct question of if there was a rhetorical statement hanging in the air, if she was being stupid for wanting to answer, I love you, of course I care.  Please stop, I care. Please stop and love me again.

Kelly had known she was pulling a gambit by putting Morgan on the spot, but it wasn’t until her own voice was drowned out by shattering glass that she had to concede that this had been a bad bet. Time moved strangely slow, even if the scene wasn’t especially confusing. Morgan, cowering and probably crying, almost certainly having her trauma triggered. Deirdre, angry and lashing out to cover the extent of her own hurt. Retreating into herself behind whatever maximum security facility she’d started to creep out of, possibly re-living other times her needs had been dismissed under less sympathetic circumstances.

But until the handle rattled and Deirdre snapped her question, Kelly’s mind was flowing in the ocean tide of falling glass stirring in the wind in her fourth floor office. Then, she came back. She had no idea if she could help them repair this, but there was time left in the session, so she may as well give it her best.

“Well, what, Deirdre?” Kelly asked. “What do you need right now? Look at your partner—” Morgan gasped tearfully and shook her head as she tried to cower further into her corner of the couch. She didn’t want to be perceived, or hurt. “I don’t think this is a productive approach to getting your needs or your answers. Do you?” Did anyone? “I think taking a breath to collect yourselves and self soothe, however that looks, is the next logical step before you can try to set up a mutual dialogue. Do you agree?”

Morgan said nothing, but continued to tremble and whimper quietly, waiting for Deirdre’s cue. She would give her the car keys if that’s what she wanted. The credit cards. The clothes. Whatever she wanted back, however Morgan was supposed to pay, she would do it, she just wanted to know how.

“No, I don’t! Fuck you, Kelly.” Deirdre jabbed a finger in the air, finding it easier to shift her anger to Kelly than it was to admit she was right. Partially. Deirdre didn’t want to ‘self-soothe’, she was tired of self-soothing. She was tired of being the only person that ever cared about herself, even though she did such a poor job of it. But as Morgan’s whimpering found a voice under Deirdre’s anger, she couldn’t deny the rest of what Kelly had suggested. “Fine! Fuck.” Her hands shot up to her eyes, pressing them into her skull with her palm as she spun around and looked back at the door—she wouldn’t allow Kelly the satisfaction of knowing that she was following her advice. Deirdre had half a mind to stomp over there and hold Morgan close to her, but the stomping was just the issue. And so, she breathed. In. Hold. Out. In. Hold. Out. She spun back around, hands off her eyes and on her hips instead. In. Hold. Out. “For the record, I don’t fucking agree, by the way.” In. Hold. Out. Impatient, pained, she moved to the couch.

“Morgan…” She didn’t touch her, she wanted to ask before she tried, but before she tried she wanted Morgan to see she wasn’t so mad anymore. Not at her, at least. Self-soothing was a load of bullshit; weren’t they both tired of that? Didn’t they do it better together? Wasn’t everything better together? “I’m sorry about yelling, my love. I’m very sorry. I should have known better, and I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Will you look at me? Can you look at me?” Deirdre hovered away from putting her hands on her, asking with the twitch of her fingers, the furrow of her brow. Is this okay? She needed Morgan to tell her. A fearful, trembling Morgan wasn’t a sight she could be angry at; it wasn’t one she ever wanted to cause. “I love you. I love you even now, I promise. Is it okay if I hold you? We can hold each other and then we can breathe—“ Or one could while the other only pretended, though the act was sure to help anyway. “—just the way you taught me that night on Cece’s porch. Do you remember that? We can hold each other just like then, just like every other time after. Is that okay?”

Morgan flinched at the sound of her name and squeezed her muscles taut to prepare herself. She shook her head at the apologies, those were traps. When her mother apologized, it was still Morgan’s fault for causing the mess in the first place. She wouldn’t have needed to yell if Morgan had just been good, if she acted as smart as she pretended to be. But Morgan didn’t want to make it worse by being disobedient, so when she was asked to look, she shifted her arms just enough to peek out with one visible eye.

And there was Deirdre. Flushed, but soft again. Or maybe Morgan was just making her be that way and she didn’t really want to, she just wanted to get to the end of this. But her eyes were so gentle…

Morgan’s dry lips parted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t….understand. I swear, I promise I didn’t understand what it was still like f-for you.” Her voice croaked and rattled hoarse, deprived of too much air. “I was stupid. I’m always so stupid and I never mean to do anything bad…”

At the mention of love, the tears she had dutifully held back rose up to her lashes. She sobbed, grimacing as she tried and failed to swallow it back. “You don’t have to,” she whispered meekly. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” But she couldn’t swallow down the next sob breaking out of her shaking body. Or the next. Or the next. She sniffled and scraped her hands over her face, but there was no containing the mess in her—stars, it felt so much like grief. “I’m sorry. Will you—?” One of her trembling hands ventured out toward Deirdre’s fingers. But who was she to ask for things right now? Reluctantly, Morgan’s fingers faltered and she whispered, “Whatever you want, that’s okay.”

Deirdre’s lips parted. Her usual response, it’s okay, didn’t feel right. It wasn’t okay. She didn’t think it was okay. Yet, every other time those words tumbled from her mouth, she would have moved earth and Fate to make it true. She still would, but she was less keen on lying. “I know,” she said. “I know that. I do.” She pulled Morgan into her arms and held tight, steady. She made sure Morgan’s head was pressed to her chest, where her heart had calmed to something close to its usual slow rhythm.

“You weren’t stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. I was hurt, but that doesn’t make you stupid. I’m sorry I yelled. Are you going to breathe with me?” Deirdre began: in, hold, out. If anyone was stupid, it was her. She knew what experiences of anger coloured Morgan’s life, but she’d been so pained by perceived betrayal that she didn’t want to stop to think. And wasn’t that ironic? She thought Morgan should have known better, but even she didn’t. In. Hold. Out. In. Hold. Out. She felt more confident now to tangle her fingers in Morgan’s hair; thumb her tears away. She looked up and scowled at Kelly, how could she look at Morgan and think time to soothe herself was what she needed? And how— Deirdre froze. She dropped her hand away. Morgan’s words rang in her ears, desperate, subservient and fearful. Oh, she thought, this must have been what Kelly meant. “My love,” Deirdre pressed a kiss to Morgan’s head. “My love, you’re afraid right now. What are you afraid of?”

Morgan did not relax. But she did let herself be held and then made herself breathe. In. Hold. Out. There were coughs and sobs that had to be expelled on the exhale, and Morgan shivered and shut her eyes, ashamed that she struggled with doing even this much with ease. But there were fewer in the next breath, enough for her to whisper, “I should’ve known better,” and none the breath after.

Soon the trembling eased, no longer coiling through her whole body, but just  in her fingers when she dared press them into Deirdre. At her love’s question, she looked sidelong at Kelly, who seemed to have a few leading questions of her own despite her interest in Morgan’s reply.

Morgan said nothing at first. Then, barely above a whisper, she said, “I’m afraid…” Everything around her felt like a threat now, an accident waiting to happen, or worse. “...You’ll change your mind. You’ll take care of me because you love me but when I can act normal again, you’ll remember what I did and that’ll be the end of everything. Or I’ll mess up again, even worse. I don’t know how, but I’m always hurting you when I don’t think I’m doing anything wrong. And I hate it, because how can I say I won’t hurt you ever again if I don’t realize until it’s too late? And—” She gave a thin, humorless laugh. She may have questionable common sense, but she had enough to appreciate the associations leering out from the corners of her mind. Morgan let the sentence drop. Admitting her mother was in the room with them wasn't something she wanted to do just then.

“Morgan, can you speak to where your mind is taking you right now?” Kelly prompted.

“The place I grew up in. The first one,” she mumbled.

“But you’re not just in that place, are you? You’re in a therapist’s office in Maine. What is it about that place that has your attention? What do you see?”

Morgan shook her head. So much for keeping that to herself. “I keep thinking about my bedroom door. The cracks around the frame were the only light sometimes. And I’d press myself against it and ask my mother...what did I do? Or, if I did know, that...I would be better, if she’d let me out and show her. But she never let me out until after dinner. And she never held me after, even when I asked. Even when I fixed what I’d broken.” She turned her attention back to Deirdre, shy and penitent. “I don’t know how to fix this. Nothing feels like enough. Tell me—”

She had enough sense to stop herself there, but the ache in her remained. Slowly, Morgan forced herself to ease her grip on Deirdre. She could be okay on her own. She could pack her things and go somewhere or hunker in the studio until she could think straight. Maybe she wouldn’t even have to leave. But that was too much to consider. Morgan could only hang onto the few miserable and lonely hours ahead and remind herself that she would be able to get through them. Make herself dinner, shower, hold Moira, work. She summoned the mantra she had fashioned with Kelly’s input. I am here, I am complete; I am here, I am whole.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen to me now. Or us.” She said. “That scares me too. Even if...that’s just how it is,” Is that bad? She wanted to ask.

“And I should’ve known better than to yell,” Deirdre reminded Morgan. She wondered what self-soothing Kelly had meant. If she wasn’t meant to hold Morgan now, chasing anxiety away with touch, then she’d like a new therapist. But Deirdre shook her head, she wasn’t going to be thinking about what Kelly’s intentions were, she didn’t care. She took Morgan’s trembling hands in hers, holding them steady. The exchange between Kelly and Morgan played out in a place she wouldn’t disturb. She listened and she waited and she was reminded of her own sessions with Kelly. The therapist thought she closed herself off too much, Deirdre thought she just wasn’t worth the opening up to. But Morgan was, Morgan would always be.

“Hey…” Deirdre reached down to brush Morgan’s hair into place, her voice so gentle that it startled even herself. There was glass on the floor, bits lodged into the rug. The windows sported a fine, thin crack and the vase was just a breeze away from falling apart. Around her was the evidence of her anguish, and yet, her voice held no memory of it. Deirdre wasn’t Ruth; she wished there was a way to let that truth sit without doubt. Morgan was thinking about a bedroom door, Deirdre was imagining the red lashes on the back of her hand. They were both asking the same questions of two different, yet unavoidably similar people.

“You don’t have anything to make better...you don’t have anything to fix…” Deirdre closed her eyes. She had been hurt, yes, but Morgan’s obligation was not to mend her—mend them. “I love you now. I’ll love you when we go home and this is over. I’ll love you tomorrow. You can ask me, and I’ll tell you.” Deirdre smiled, pressing a kiss to Morgan’s temple. “I thought you would know how much it hurt. You saw me after, and you know why I don’t even like the idea of you being friends with Anita, and I thought that all made sense to you, just like it did to me. But I never told you. And it is true, sometimes, my feelings are not the most obvious. And how could I ask you to know something that I had done my best to keep a secret anyway? My mother…she changed her mind often. Like she needed an excuse to be mad, just about anything there was. My hair could be fine one day and then terrible the next. And these moods she had, she always said I should have known. But how could I? How could you?”

Deirdre sighed, eyeing the clock. They still had time, but all she wanted now was for them to go to their home, where it was a little easier to imagine things would be okay. “I don’t know what the solution is, my love. But we can figure that out together, later. When you’re feeling less afraid, and more like yourself again, and we can talk about it more then. And whatever we come up with, it will be enough. And the next time something happens that makes me angry, I won’t love you any less—I don’t love you any less right now. And hurting each other….some of that is inevitable, isn’t it? But it’s okay. I think it’ll be okay.” She looked up at the clock again, then back at Morgan. “We have some time left, what do you want to do now?”

It was all Morgan wanted, to be loved when she had done wrong. Deirdre’s assurances fell like rain at the end of a draught and there was no question of whether or not to give in, but whether or not she would feel ashamed for it later. Her body released the last sobs it had been holding onto and she sagged against her girlfriend, all but collapsing in her lap. But will you stay with me? She wanted to ask. Loving and staying aren’t the same thing. Will you? But that was too far ahead for her to ask. She would deal with the answer either way, in its time.

Kelly eyed the clock with Deirdre. She had half a mind to refer Morgan elsewhere after this mess, but she didn’t want to waste an opportunity, or the rest of their time. “Morgan--?” She asked softly. “Are you okay to talk to us, Morgan?”

Morgan nodded. “Yes,” she croaked, lifting her head without leaving Deirdre’s arms.

“Good.” Kelly said it softly, a gentle affirmation. “I want to circle back to something you said. You’re ‘always stupid’ and you’re ‘always’ hurting Deirdre when you don’t think you’re doing anything wrong. I’m just curious--” Her gaze shifted to Deirdre again, looking to see if they could form an alliance. “Always is a pretty strong word. Do you feel like these statements describe your behavior all the time?”

Morgan shivered. She felt like she’d been caught in something, but she wasn’t sure what. “...Not always-always, but…” Morgan tried to measure out her screw-up to success ratio, but couldn’t decide how to factor in the scale of the screw-ups. The more badly it hurt someone or the worse the consequences, the more value it should hold, right? Or was that something else talking, and objectively, she should flatten it out and worry about the relational stuff separate? And wasn’t it worse if she hurt someone she loved? It felt worse. “No. I don’t know. It’s still…” She gestured vaguely, a lot. Sure, she had long stretches where she did things okay, but still...

“Deirdre, how would you characterize Morgan’s behavior? Would you agree with any of her statements?” Kelly asked.

Deirdre looked up, staring at Kelly with furrowed brow and tight frown. Shouldn’t they just leave now, wasn’t that the better thing to do? But she saw Kelly had another idea, and knowing most of the evidence of her qualifications was on the floor, Deirdre sighed and said nothing. Until she was asked. She looked up again, startled this time. The clock ticked, resilient in the wake of the crack in its face--steadfast in its count of ever marching time. Deirdre blinked. “No, of course I don’t agree but that--” She swallowed. She didn’t know how to go about explaining to Kelly that this was Morgan, and didn’t she understand Morgan by now? Her life had been tragedy, and fear was the festering wound it wrought. But Kelly wasn’t asking because she didn’t know, Deirdre figured. “No, I don’t agree. I don’t think Morgan is stupid; not always, not even some of the time, not ever. And I don’t--I don’t---” She sighed, sagging against Morgan. “I don’t blame her, and I understand why she thinks that way---even if it isn’t true. Morgan’s life has been...” Deirdre glanced down, feeling strange about talking about Morgan’s life as if she wasn’t right there to talk about it herself. She looked back at Kelly and offered a tentative smile. “It hasn’t been easy, and it hasn’t been kind, and it’s told her all sorts of things. I know that. I know that’s why I shouldn’t yell, and I don’t think it’s her fault for thinking how she does, and responding how she does, it’s not---”

Deirdre sighed and looked at Morgan, feeling tired of talking to Kelly, through Kelly. “Mo ghrá, you don’t make mistakes more than anyone else--statistically speaking. And even if you did, it um--” Deirdre shook her head, laughing softly. “No, I’m saying this all wrong. What I mean is...do you remember when the dishwasher foamed over? You put the wrong liquid in, because you were distracted, and it covered the kitchen in foam. And that was a mistake, you made a mistake--and if you wanted to be cruel to yourself, you could say it was stupid. But the bubbles were so pretty, weren’t they? All rainbows under the kitchen light. And you didn’t ruin anything, we just wiped the floor down and it was fine. And didn’t we have fun, throwing bubbles around? And it was a mistake, you didn’t mean to do it, you didn’t realise, but wasn’t it okay? Wasn’t everything okay? Didn’t we laugh about it; go back to the couch; go to bed without worry and wake up the next day to a kitchen that smelled like lemons? And then you made lemon meringue pie, because I said the kitchen smelled delicious. And that was it. You made a mistake, and you were so worried--and I understand why you worry, my love--but that was it. It was just bubbles; harmless, easy-to-clean bubbles.” Deirdre pressed her lips to Morgan’s cheek, holding her face tenderly in her hands. “It’s bubbles, Morgan. We can wipe them away. And I’m not interested in being angry at you, I promise. I was us to go home, and go to bed, and wake up the next day and remember that our house smells like lavender, and that it’s nice. And if it’s not okay then it will be. And I understand why you feel how you do right now, and I’m not interested in being mad at you for that either. I want to love you, better and more.”

Deirdre turned to Kelly and smiled; the only ‘thank you’ the therapist would get from her for some time. Her eyes raked over the glass and the disarray, and she shrugged. “Just--uh--invoice us for the damage.” With a cough, she turned to her girlfriend. “What are you thinking right now, Morgan?”  

Morgan stared at Deirdre with bewildered confusion. But I did it, she wanted to say. She even got as far as mouthing the words. How could she not be blamed? Shouldn’t she have known, isn’t that part of why Deirdre had been so angry with her? But, no, she hadn’t meant to, she’d missed the step where that knowledge had been, and somewhere in the minutes behind her that was supposed to mean something. And Deirdre was kissing her cheek, earnest and loving, and using the softest words, endearments that she normally saved for home, or her letters, places where she really, deeply, let herself love her. Morgan whimpered into her touch, desperate for comfort. She wanted everything to be okay. She wanted to jump right to the place where this had been fixed, and Deirdre didn’t have to push through her pain, and everything was wonderful.

She remembered that day with the dishwasher vividly. She’d almost tripped over her feet running to the kitchen to stop the machine in time. As soon as she saw the mess she’d started apologizing. I’m sorry, shit, I didn’t mean to, sorry, sorry, fuck, it’s off now, I can clean it real fast, I don’t think anything’s been damaged. She’d been so stuck on that anxious loop, Deirdre had to take her hand and pull her away to get her attention. And that moment, with Morgan babbling no, she really did need to clean up her mess right now, she was sorry she’d made such a stupid mistake but if she got to it right away, you wouldn’t be able to tell, Deirdre only smiled and hushed her and kissed her so tenderly. Could it really be that simple? Could she have this back without repenting on her knees or pleading for hours?

“I-I don’t--I don’t know,” she said quietly. She pressed Deirdre’s hands where they held her, trying to hold onto her good, her forgiveness, as much as possible. “I--” She struggled to find the words for what the problem was. Deirdre had been so hurt and angry, and Morgan hadn’t been able to do anything to comfort her yet; until now, she’d been nearly too scared to touch her without permission, just in case it was another mistake she couldn’t figure out in time. But Deirdre said she understood, and she wouldn’t lie about that. And if she tried the scenario in reverse, she’d do anything to make sure Deirdre felt loved, above all else. But Morgan hadn’t done anything this hurtful before, not to Deirdre. How could she take it so easily?

Morgan lifted her eyes to Deirdre’s, pleading silently. She wasn’t sure for what, but it was the clearest feeling inside her besides more apologies. Please still love me, please keep holding me, please forgive me, please be patient with me, please explain again, please kiss me, please… “I’m still...I want to make it better. I want you to know I…” She grimaced pitifully, knowing it was all probably so obvious. “I love you. I want us to be good. I haven’t even been able to comfort you, I haven’t done anything for you, I just hurt you. But I didn’t want to make things worse, and I’m still so sorry...” She deflated. “Even if you’re right about everything--” And with how her counterarguments fall apart in her head, she had a feeling that she was, and that the real trap was in her own thoughts. “--Okay, conceding that you’re…” Her voice caught in her throat and broke. “That you’re...probably right. I think…” She hesitated as her voice caught again. It was difficult to sift past all the mess and worry to get to something that was her own. “I really, really hurt you and I’m not going to feel right about it until I know how we’re going to make it right, but could you please...I want us to be home. I want you to love me like this, like everything’s okay. And...I want to love you too, I don’t want you to hurt by yourself anymore…”

Deirdre’s features softened. She breathed out gently, shaking her head. “You said we help each other, right? You first said it so long ago, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. I know I’m not always so good about...letting you help me, but I...want to be better with that too. So, yes, you can help me too; comfort me. We help each other.” Laughter bubbled free from her lips, and she leaned in to kiss Morgan firmly. “Well, thank you for agreeing that I’m right.” And in the interest of not offending Kelly’s sensibilities, Deirdre left the one kiss where it was, knowing she’d steal more later. “I was wrong to yell at you...and to get so mad like that...I’m sorry too. And I know, my love, which is why I promi—“ She tensed and swallowed, eyeing Morgan to see if she really needed to hear a promise now to soothe her worry or if trust could be okay. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Or sooner, and we’ll figure something out, but let’s get home first. And let me love you, and you can love me, and I...I don’t want to hurt by myself anymore.” Deirdre shook, sniffling. “I don’t want to either. And I know you love me, and I don’t want to hurt anymore, Morgan. I want to tell you everything and I…” Deirdre tried to blink back tears, parting her lips for a quivering breath. That had been the problem all along, wasn’t it? All the pain she held by herself—this torment of her humiliation, the sting of knowing she was the only one that cared about how badly she’d been hurt. The betrayal she thought Morgan committed, was committing. The disjointed loyalty. Deirdre sighed, “I just want you to love me. I don’t want to feel like you don’t—I don’t want to hurt on my own anymore. All I want is…” She shut her eyes to echoes of shouts and animal screams. Of a mother with a sharp voice, and a family with one that all sounded like one song; the same song, over and over again. Of her own voice, never able to hit the notes right. Of begging, of blood spurting. Of the silence and the clocks that broke it, one tick at a time. “...to be understood and loved, just as I am.” She opened her eyes to the woman that did just that, and smiled.

“You do know me, my love, better than anyone else. And you love me. And I think that means everything will be okay.” Deirdre pulled Morgan close, breathing her in. She pressed kisses to her temple, cheek, jaw, shoulder—sparing the lips for some imagined idea of Kelly’s prudishness. “My love,” she breathed, “my light, my Morgan—let’s go home.” She lifted her head up, turning to the clock. There was still some time left, and a therapist that might have a thing to say about it. Deirdre saved Kelly from another glare or frown, and greeted her with an earnest smile and pleading brown eyes. “Can we end the session early? Can we go?”

Intrigue settled into Kelly’s features. She turned and surveyed the damage again, then regarded the couple. “I...don’t think there’s a problem with ending the session early.” She set her pen down and rose, careful to avoid glass. “I’ll call in a couple of hours to check in, and if you two would like to be referred somewhere else for a follow up, I can…” Kelly trailed off, Deirdre had risen already, helping Morgan to her feet. As Deirdre smiled at her, nodding in appreciation, she turned and looked at the glass again for a moment before offering a smile of her own.

Deirdre nodded again, “we’ll see you at our next session, right? Do invoice us the damage for everything—It won’t happen again, I just uh...stomp very aggressively.” She laughed nervously and glanced at Morgan for some kind of confirmation before she pressed in with another kiss. “Let’s go home, my love. Let’s go.”

[mor-beck-more-problems]

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

TIMING: Current

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

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

CONTAINS: Brief references to parental abuse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After she died, everything was different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Lover You Were Gone So Long || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: Current

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

SUMMARY: Lover when you see that glare, think of it as my despair, think of it as my despair for you.

Morgan and Deirdre go for round two of hashing things out.

CONTAINS: codependent death girls

The first day Deirdre was home, Morgan kept them on the couch in the great room until Deirdre’s arms started to hurt and she had to help her to the downstairs bathroom for a shower and an extensive reapplication of bandages. Even with all the extras from their recent trips to the fae clinic, Morgan had to order more by delivery to make sure they had enough for next time. She caressed every pink patch of healing skin that looked safe enough to touch and murmured, I can see your freckles a little more than last night, that must be a good sign. And, your poor hands, be careful, you should be more careful. She kissed Deirdre’s shoulder when she finished and helped her into something clean and soft and carried her to where she wanted to be. Her eyes met Deirdre’s, and for a moment she could almost read her: a question, an assurance, something reaching into the most tormented part of her heart where her love had once thrived. Morgan pulled away and left the room. But she stopped in the doorway, a fresh ache throbbing in her chest. Deirdre’s eyes had followed her, hooked into that piece of her heart despite her best efforts, dragging it out of the dark.

“I love you,” Deirdre said.

“Not enough, apparently,” Morgan muttered. She left before Deirdre could reply.

That’s how things were now.

Today they were in the great room again (the ground floor was the easiest for Deirdre to get around on and being in their room without being them made Morgan’s chest fill with acid), watching TV, leaning against one another under the blanket. Niamh sprawled in the corner, chasing her ball between naps. It was time for lunch, and Deirdre’s hand was cupping Morgan’s body against her side, so gentle and secure at once she didn’t know if she wanted to cry or scream. Her finger curled, so breathtakingly casual, and Morgan clenched all over. She threw off the blanket and fled to hide in the kitchen without a word. If she closed her eyes and memory wiped the last week or so, it would have been so perfect. Morgan would have guided her hand under her shirt, they would’ve started kissing, and lost the plot of the TV show by debating what kind of tree. It would have been so easy and perfect and worse, Morgan hurt with her want for it. Why couldn’t she just have that? (She knew why, but this knowledge didn’t feel like an answer, just another hole she didn’t know how to fill.) Morgan squeezed her eyes shut and bit down on her hand. It was too early in the day to be crying already. Get a grip. That alter-world picture of them she ached for might mean everything to her, but it certainly hadn’t meant as much to Deirdre. How could it?

It was five minutes, maybe ten, before Morgan emerged, red eyed but mostly collected, now with a smoothie and a small plate of sandwiches done up the best way she knew how. “Sorry, that must’ve been kind of alarming,” she deadpanned, a cruel edge to her voice. “It sucks watching someone you depend on run away without a word. Gosh, just imagine how much worse it would feel if I’d done that when I came back from the dead!”

Deirdre didn't know how to act. Loving Morgan in this strange, half-space was worryingly difficult. She wanted to hold Morgan tight, kiss her hard, laugh easy—but such acts seemed to put Morgan on edge, or would cross some line. She was quiet, mostly, adopting a gentle quality of voice. Inviting, soothing; acts and words that she hoped spoke of how okay it would be if Morgan wanted to find the world they once occupied together, and fall into it again. She thought of herself like suggestion; firm, steady, secure and immortal. Always there to be held, considered, but not demanding—never asking. Only suggesting. She leaned against Morgan, and when she felt Morgan ease against her, she would move to hold her. And if she felt Morgan tense, she would go back to the leaning. She obeyed the flow of Morgan’s thought, the best she could interpret it in silence, finding familiar cues in the body she knew better than her own. She spared her girlfriend the volley of love and assurance her heart demanded to give, she sprinkled them softly instead. Like suggestion. Except, suggestion was a strange thing; too strong and too weak at once. It made her burn, unable to share the love that chewed up her insides. Unable to dare to soothe the pain she could see in Morgan. Suggestion was at the mercy of time, and time could be so painfully slow.

Keeping her eyes on the TV was one such way suggestion foiled her. The way they normally enjoyed it was curled into each other, so Deirdre might take Morgan and the TV in in equal measure. Being leaned up against her was a horrible idea. She couldn’t look at Morgan, and her body fluttered dangerously with static. Even the arm around her wasn’t much of anything at all. But like a respectable person, she kept her eyes straight and her hand chaste. She wasn’t watching the TV so much as she was staring at the pictures. Her free hand curled around the blanket shared between them. She burned. And then she was falling over.

“Morgan?” She asked; soft, sweet, concerned. Her girlfriend didn’t answer, and was out of the room by the time Deirdre righted herself. “Morgan?” She tried again, louder. “What’s wrong?” And again. She stared at the floor. She couldn’t walk. Her legs were swollen and sore and she’d made a promise not to hurt herself intentionally—walking was one such way to hurt herself. Her body was thankful for the rest, but her mind was not. Her eyes drifted to her cane leaned up against the table. As she tried to grab it, her fingers brushed the wood and it knocked over, startling Niamh, who was then intrigued by the new object. “Not a toy,” Deirdre hissed. She couldn’t reach it anymore. So, she’d crawl then. She rolled herself off the couch, falling to the floor with a dull thud. She strained to grab the cane, careful not to agitate her wounds and break a promise as well as a stitch. Niamh swatted at the cane as Deirdre wiggled it into her grasp. “I’ll play with you later!” She didn’t know how long it took her to grab the cane and stand up, only that by the time she did, Morgan was back. “Morga—“ And then she was speaking.

Deirdre’s expression shifted wildly, no suggestion in them. She went from shocked, to hurt, to confused, to something between hurt and confused. She blinked, and wondered if she’d heard right. And then realized she did, she had been. Now it made another cruel sentence gain sense. “Oh,” she chuckled dryly. “Is that what you want to do, Morgan?” She stepped forward, cane smacking against the ground. “Is that it now? Is this it?” Deirdre slumped, having made her way to Morgan, she reached out and plucked the plate from her hands and placed it down. Doing the same with the smoothie a moment later. “You’re right. It does suck. I know that already. And you’re right, imagine how terrible it would have been if you did the same. I can. I do. If you wish to punish me with cruel words, Morgan, don’t do it whilst holding lunch—which, thank you for, by the way.”  She paused, voice gentle despite itself. “Go ahead.”

Morgan flinched back with surprise.This Deirdre was usually so quiet, Morgan had forgotten that she could command with as much ease as she could soothe.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she mumbled stupidly. “What ‘this’?” She let go of the plate without a fight and lowered her gaze, feeling chastised. But Deirdre dared her, urged her, and the rest of Morgan’s excuses at the back of her throat--I’m not doing anything, Talk to me after you eat, you need to keep your strength up--died. Slowly, Morgan lifted her face, bracing herself with hands on her hips. “Do you?” She accused. She held Deirdre’s gaze and seeing all the versions of her she’d ever known, the one who’d been afraid, the one who belonged to the mushrooms, the one who’d sworn Morgan was her love, the one who’d vanished. She didn’t know which new side she was speaking to now, or what she was capable of. Calling her out hadn’t been on Morgan’s guess list, but her smouldering anger was relieved to have a chance to breathe.

“Do you know?” She asked. “Because I couldn’t even process whether or not you’d died before you were yelling at me to get in the car and drive! If we count your scream--which, thanks for not checking to see if my brain had melted--you’ve left me what, four times now? If you know, does that mean you actually thought about it and decided whatever happened was worth fuck all, or did I just stop mattering so much that you forgot I was there and it never crossed your mind?”

Deirdre stood straight and still and as steady as she could manage leaning on her cane. She wanted to hold Morgan, even now, especially now. She tried to ask if that was okay with her eyes, the way she always did, but wasn’t sure if Morgan was looking for it. It was fine, anyway, she didn’t want to stunt Morgan’s anger--it needed to be released, lest it come back in another cruel one-off sentence destined for repetition. “Four times…” Deirdre repeated, she could only remember three. She’d have to meditate harder on her muddied memories then, find the missing piece. “Your brains wouldn’t have been touched at all, I know how to control my screams. And--” Deirdre swallowed. She’d been trying to match Morgan’s anger in some respect, but she found it hard to feign. As much as she wanted to fuel the anger--let it release, let it spill, let Morgan have this, if she wanted it--she couldn’t summon the voice to match. She spoke measured, though gentle. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I thought it was more urgent than my physical state, though I regret that I didn’t properly consider your emotional state. I should’ve. You’re right. And I’m sorry.” Deirdre slumped, “you’ve never stopped mattering to me. I don’t know what I thought--I just wanted to get to Lydia. I thought if I did, I could make it okay. And I had to get to her quickly, the more time between--” She swallowed again, closing her eyes. “I didn’t want to be too late again. I didn’t want that.” Deirdre opened her eyes to the ground, meeting Morgan’s gaze slowly. “I’ve thought about it now, I can’t say how much I thought about what I was doing in the moment. I’m sorry for that.” She paused. “What else? I abandoned you, I didn’t love you enough….what else? Tell me what else.”  

“Yes, four times! Our home, our driveway, that bench, and running off to do your fucking death wish murder!” Morgan snapped. She locked her face into a grimace, stubbornly holding onto her anger. It was the only time her hurt didn’t threaten to break her, the only time her body wasn’t burning for the chance to connect again. “If you’d remembered I existed, I could have driven you! I did, in fact, try to drag you back home and drive you anyway, even while you were fighting me! We could have been together! I could’ve held your hand! But you weren’t interested in any of that.”

Deirdre had dared Morgan to ‘do this,’ whatever ‘this’ was supposed to be, but her voice held none of the stubborn fire she’d shown only a moment ago. She just agreed and took it. When she met Morgan’s eyes, she looked sad. Morgan looked away, wrapping her arms around herself. “No,” she mumbled. “You don’t get to say those things like they’re arbitrary. And you can’t seriously--” Her voice caught. She wasn’t that mad about that first time, just scared out of her mind in the moment. It shouldn't count. Not when Deirdre’s grief was so surreal and fresh. “Four times,” she repeated stiffly. “That doesn’t explain all of them. It can’t. Because I told you how I felt, that day we broke into the house. I begged you. I begged you or whoever the fuck you were back then not to leave me, not to give me your love if you were just going to take it away in five more minutes. And then you did. That is not ‘what else.’ That happened. I begged you and then you kept doing it. And I don’t understand how you could have even once.”

Four times. Deirdre nodded, logging that in her head. At night, she would keep herself awake replaying it until she could figure out how to repent. For now, she listened, as steady as she could be. “You’re right,” she said, “you’re right. We could’ve. And I didn’t let us, and I’m sorry and you’re right.” She didn’t know what else to say. She felt like there should have been more to offer than agreeing with Morgan and apologizing, but that was all she felt right to do. Morgan was right. And she was sorry. She didn’t want to explain or excuse herself, where did she deserve to? “It’s not arbitrary! No, I’m not--I don’t think it is. I just don’t want you to stop, so I thought it’d be better if I didn’t--” If she wasn’t crying, if she wasn’t spilling the depths of her own emotion so plainly. This was about Morgan, not her. But trying to do what she thought was right was her problem, and it was her problem now. She opened her mouth to explain again, but Morgan was off to the next point, and Deirdre didn’t have the heart to interrupt her.

“I’m sorry,” she said; meek, lame. She wanted to ask what else Morgan was mad about so she could take it on herself, carry it for her; so she could understand it too. But that hadn’t worked out, and so she tried to explain herself. “I don’t understand it either, not now. I can’t justify it. I screamed for Lydia, and then I knew I had to go. I promised her a good death no matter what, and that was exactly what I was doing. I can’t tell you what was promise-binding and what was my own thought. And then she released me, and I knew what was going to happen, and I knew we had to get to her quickly. And I’m sorry; I was wrong about how I treated you. But I had us stop, and go to the clinic and then when we were walking...all I wanted was to tell you it was okay. Because it was. I wasn’t mad at you, I didn’t hate you...I just wanted to find Lydia. That was all. And then I felt her and I had to go, I felt like I had to go. It wasn’t right, I’m not saying it was right. But that was it.” She paused. “And then I didn’t know what to do. I lost my sister, taken so unfairly….and I didn’t know what to do with all the pain. I should have talked to you, I should’ve. I didn’t know how; I thought you had enough to worry about; I knew what I thought I had to do for justice and I didn’t want you to hurt too. It was many things, none of them were correct. I’m sorry, but I want to make things right.” She swallowed. “Please, tell me everything. Not because it’s arbitrary--you never are--but because I want to know it all. I want to know if I can fix it. Please. I know you’re angry at me; be angry. Let it out. I’ll take it. I want to.”  

Morgan’s face began to crumple. She clenched her jaw harder, she thinned her lips, but Deirdre’s tearful voice and her flat, useless agreements picked apart everything Morgan had to shield herself with. She shook her head furiously, trying and failing to stay hard and cruel and disconnected enough to be safe no matter what. “No,” she croaked, grimacing when she heard how childish she sounded. “I don’t want you to take it. I want you to tell me why! Because everything you’re saying--I still don’t understand. Where does the part where you decided to do this after I begged you not to come in? I need to understand because I thought--” Her voice caught again, throaty and terrible. Morgan held herself tighter. “The person I thought you were would never have done this. She couldn’t have. Not with everything you said about how much you--” How much she loved her. Wanted her. Would never hurt her. “I know you aren’t perfect. You make mistakes. But you...you said you loved me so much, and I believed you. Enough that I thought you would never watch me fall apart in front of you, telling you what’s wrong and how badly I need you as fucked as it is, and say it’s going to be okay one minute and the next, push me away for days and then leave without even knowing if it was for good or not. You would never. But you did!” Morgan’s breath trembled through her teeth as she searched for some harsh thread to bolster herself on. She rubbed her hand across the corner of her eyes. “So I need you to explain how that makes sense. Make me understand why this was so much more important you couldn’t even bother to say! And don’t tell me you don’t know, I need you to know!”

“Well you can’t have it.” Deirdre sighed, “your anger. You shouldn’t have it--carry it. You’re angry at me, right? What else were you trying to do if it wasn’t to punish me? To put your anger somewhere else. I’m trying to tell you that’s okay.” It made sense in her head, but she figured, like several things that had once felt right in her head, it probably wasn’t. The only thing she knew was right, always, was her love for Morgan. She clung tightly to that fact, and used it to hold herself up. “I can’t explain it! I can’t--” But Morgan wanted her to. Deirdre winced. She searched her mind for the logic, but it was paper thin and flimsy. Her hand unfurled and curled up into a fist meekly in the air, trying to grasp a Morgan that wasn’t there. She wanted to hold her. All she wanted to do was hold her. “I wasn’t pushing you away. I just--I didn’t want you to see the--I didn’t know how to tell you about the--I didn’t know what to--” Morgan was asking her to explain, and she was trying to, but her voice was choppy and broken. Shaky, at best. Still, she persisted. “I didn’t mean to be gone. It was just Sunday, for some hours. It was supposed to be. But the--the place I was in takes away time; it skews it on the other end. And the pixies wanted me to get treated by a doctor before I left. And I wasn’t strong enough to argue. And I’m sorry, Morgan. It doesn’t make sense because it’s not right. And I can’t explain it because that’s it. Nothing was ever more important than you, but I’m sorry. I know that’s hard to believe now, and I’m sorry.” She sagged, wishing there was more she could offer. But this was the truth; terrible, hurtful, uneventful. “I thought I was doing what was right, I thought I was doing the only thing I could do. There was all this pain and I...can’t explain it. I can’t make it make sense because it doesn’t. It doesn’t make sense to do that to you.” Her hand curled and unfurled again. “I’m sorry.”  

“NO!” Morgan screamed, her voice echoing off the walls. “There has to be a reason! You can’t say I was that important and then tell me there was no reason! You said…” Her voice broke with a sob and she clenched her hands into fists, nails curling into her skin. “You said that I was your life, your good, that you would find a way to stay with me forever, you loved me that much. And you made me feel so safe I made you my anchor and I believed you! I believed you even though I wasn’t sure anyone ever could! Not that much. Not me. But I believed you and I trusted you. And if you loved me as much as you let me believe, you couldn’t have done this for no reason. So there has to be one. You can’t do this again in a year when some asshole hunter kills someone else you know, you can’t. There has to be a good reason. Because otherwise, I was right to think I could never be loved like that. And I can’t go back to some small, halfway decent life just because the one I thought I had turned out to be lie. It was real to me, and I can’t be here knowing there’s so much less and I’m just going to disappear to you the next time someone dies…” Morgan hid her face in her hand, trying to press her tears back into her eyes.

In any other circumstance, Deirdre would have been impressed with the calibre of scream. She would have found some measure of humour in it. In the moment, she only flinched. “There’s no reason for hurting you,” Deirdre shook her head, trying to elaborate. “Nothing that makes sense. I can’t justify that, I can’t--and won’t--make that make sense. You were hurt. I hurt you. That was wrong. There’s no good reason for that, there never will be.” She lifted her hands, dropping them swiftly. She couldn’t hold Morgan, she couldn’t wipe her tears away. She fought against her own body, the reflexes that burned to comfort her girlfriend. “I do love you so much. You are my life, you are everything that’s good, I still want to stay with you forever--I promise it. All of it.” Deirdre slumped further; she thought she might sink into the ground. “I suppose--you might say it’s fae culture. The revenge; I’ve been doing it all my life. All on my own. That’s the way it works. But I don’t understand--it’s still my fault. I didn’t intend to hurt you at all, in my mind, I thought I was protecting you. But I was wrong. I was wrong and I should have done better and I can’t offer you anything else. I’m sorry. I can’t make hurting you make sense. I can’t do that.” Her hands lifted again. She dropped them with a groan, flexing her fingers. “I won’t do this again. I could promise it to you. At this point I’d---Fates, if you wanted me to never kill someone ever again, I’d promise that away. If you wanted me to give up my duty, I’d do that too. If I can do anything to make this right for you, I will. I want to. I don’t care what it takes out of me, I just want you to feel safe again.” And despite all the great work she’d done keeping herself together, the tears contained inside her eyes and the quivering at a respectable minimum, she let it slip now. Fresh tears fell, and when her hands raised, she didn’t drop them away. “I don’t want you to disappear. Please, I--Can I hold you? Can I---I can make it right. I can.”  

Morgan opened her mouth to reply, but no words came, only a broken, whining cry as her lungs refused to open any further. The two pieces didn’t fit. If there wasn’t some hidden secret, something Deirdre didn’t remember or know how to say, then how could everything she believed about them be true? How was Deirdre able to tell her so many things about how much she was loved without getting sick if it was a lie? “So all of this...was an accident? You told me you would carry me and be with me and our world was the one you wanted to be in and--and--” She sputtered, choking on the sobs she was determined to swallow down. Morgan heaved for the breath to speak again. “Did you ever?” she croaked, forcing herself to look up. “Did you not love me as much as I thought you did? You made everything...it was so good, and so beautiful, even if I was wrong, I don’t know if I can go back.” Her body wanted nothing more than to be comforted again, than to be nested in the space where it belonged. Deirdre looked so heartbroken, like she needed her, and they always knew how to hold each other just right, or they had before Lydia died. “And I can’t promise tape you into being this person you were or who I thought you were. That’s not okay, that’s cruel, that’s--that--that---” She was stuck again and staggered forward to the couch, clenching it to try and steady herself.

“An accident…” Deirdre winced. She tried to think of a more accurate word, something that gave her more rightful blame. It was true she hadn’t meant to hurt Morgan, and in that way, saying it was an accident was apt. But Morgan’s pain was her own, and she couldn’t accept such a flippant label. “I don’t know what to call it…” She mumbled. She was thinking, she was trying to think. But between trying to make sure her cries didn’t interrupt Morgan, and her fingers didn’t grow overzealous, she couldn’t. “I do love you!” She asserted, stabbing her cane into the ground and shifting closer. “I do. I always have, I’ve never stopped, I’ve never loved you any less--not once. I promise it. If I have made mistakes, it was not for losing love--I can’t say what it was, but it wasn’t that. I promise it wasn’t. And I promise, Morgan, that I want to do whatever I can to make this right to you. To love you, to be better for you. I want that. I want to be with you. I’ve never stopped wanting that. I promise. I promise.” She slumped, throwing her cane aside. “Please let me hold you. Please tell me that’s okay right now and can you--that promise I made not to hurt myself...can you release me from that? I can make it again just...please let me help you, Morgan. I don’t want you to hurt anymore.”

Morgan didn’t have anything left in her. She tried to get more questions out, but she only rasped sobs and whined tears. She reached out for Deirdre, her arm stiff and quivering, and pulled herself in so violently they knocked into the side of the couch. She clung to Deirdre’s robe and tried to shuffle them back to where they could sit, shaking her head as she tried to say, no, I can’t let you hurt yourself, please don’t hurt yourself, sit with me, lay with me, I don’t care just don’t do that anymore, but that sentiment only came as aspirated whimpers. But this much she hoped was obvious: Hold me, I don’t want to hurt anymore either, hold me, please.

Deirdre’s arms wrapped around Morgan and she sighed with relief, breathing her in. She wanted to hold her tight, close, the way she knew Morgan needed—but the best she managed was a stiff grip, wholly too weak. The back of her knocked into the couch, and lacking the power to shift their bodies, she let them crumple to the floor.  “Please,” she croaked, “the promise, Morgan. I can’t hold you right. My body is still sore, and it won’t let me hold you right. And I just want to—I just want to hold you.” There was still more to talk about, she didn’t feel good letting Morgan go off thinking that she wasn’t loved completely, that Deirdre hadn’t always loved her with everything she had. But trust wasn’t something she could force, no matter how many promises she offered. And Morgan was right, this sort of thing was exactly something she said she would never do. And Morgan begged her, and she still did it. It hadn’t been so intentional, but Deirdre never cared for intentions where it concerned herself. “I love you,” she said. “I love you so much.” And if Morgan was still angry, she’d wait and hear it all again. As many times as she had to. “The promise, if you can, please.”

Morgan clung tighter to Deirdre, crawling into her lap. It would be so good if she could stop, if she could let go and still be caught and held. Her body exhausted her and she wanted to rest so badly. She whined, trying to hold the two of them tighter together, trying to make the air come back into the pit of her lungs, trying to place why the part of her that protested releasing Deirdre was getting so quiet. Was this the pain she wanted, or the pain she could bear? Cutting into Deirdre with harsh words was too much to stomach honestly, but to make Deirdre take on more pain for her, to break with her--did that satisfy her arcane sense of justice? Was that the missing equivalent? Was that fair, or cruel? Morgan moaned pitifully, burrowing as deep into Deirdre as she could. She didn’t have it in her to be sure, but she wanted the rest, and Deirdre was begging her. “I--I--” she coughed, struggling, “release you. H-hurt for me. Hold me until it...til you…” Another cry took her and she let it. Her hands loosened, her body sagged. For once, Morgan didn’t try to do anything.

Deirdre breathed free. Morgan had released all of the promises like that, but it wasn’t so terrible of an issue—she’d just promise them all again. With great relief, she gripped Morgan as tight as she could. Her muscles protested, and pain flared back up in her abdomen and across her scarred arm. She didn’t mind it, and she certainly didn’t care about it. She shifted them to press Morgan against the couch for added pressure, pressing in until she was sure her girlfriend was safely bundled up between the two. And she held her, just as she wanted to. “Thank you,” she breathed, pressing her lips firm and hard against Morgan’s temple—hard enough for pain to bloom in her lips for just a moment, hard enough just because she could now. “You are safe,” she said, wondering if it would come off as an assurance or a mockery of one. But she’d meant it, she’d meant every word. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’m here. It’s okay. I love you.” There was so much more she wanted to say, words about how sorry she was, how much she loved Morgan, how often she would promise it to her (for all of her life, if Morgan would have her). Always. She committed it like a spell, repeated as a rasp across her skin. “I love you. I love you. I love you…”

Morgan gasped with relief as Deirdre’s body closed in. It felt like so long since she had been pressed like this, cocooned in another body so intensely she started to lose track of where one started and another finished. In the days Deirdre had disappeared, Morgan had lain flat on their bed, too miserable to try and rig the pillows into her shape again. And the days before that, with Deirdre peeling her hands away every time Morgan tried to give her a squeeze, being held made her feel like an obligation to be managed, something to be embarrassed of. This feeling was so different it almost felt like new.

Morgan didn’t mind the words Deirdre gave her either. Noting burned or tore through her ears. This Deirdre sounded right, a lullaby modulated with desperate certainty, so clear Morgan sobbed harder just to hear it. She closed her eyes and let it all happen. She cried on the loop her body had set her on until her voice cracked ragged, the gray December day outside changed its tint toward evening, and the cloud of hurt around her mind cleared. Morgan nuzzled into the crook of her banshee’s neck and curled her fingers gently into the spots she remembered as having healed the most. It was like sleeping in their bed again, being held like this. “...How much do you hurt?” She asked.

“Internally or externally?” Deirdre asked, figuring that Morgan probably meant the outside, because no one ever asked about the inside like that. To her credit, she had been focused on clutching Morgan to her the tightest she could—as if she might drift away. “It’s not so bad…” she began. “It’s just muscle pain.” But that wasn’t entirely true, her arms screamed in pain, but it was her abdomen that really hated what she was doing. Something about the pressure, or the strength of her grip, awoke the sleeping stab wound. “It’s not so bad,” she repeated, wanting to be more accurate now. “The stab wound hurts a little, but I can manage. How are you? Do you want me to go tighter?”

Morgan shook her head. “No,” she murmured. She didn’t make any move to do anything in particular about the rest of what Deirdre said. If her sutures were breaking, they could take care of it later, and if they weren’t, then there wasn’t much to do besides let go and Morgan wasn’t ready for that. Some petulant part of her wanted to cry good, just for the sake of fairness. But the sentiment wasn’t strong enough to make it up her throat. Her head was clear and her anger had been largely exorcised, even if it hadn’t really come to much in the end.

She ran her fingers along Deirdre’s arms in little caresses, following the swell of her muscles. They didn’t tremble, they bore their pain so well. Morgan could close her eyes and find each spot Deirdre’s fingers pressed into her skin, solid and gentle at once. Was that who this Deirdre was? “You can tell me about your hurt internally, too,” she said. “I um...I want to know.”

Once Deirdre settled, the pain that spurred from the extra pressure did too—it came in dull throbs, completely ignored. Her hurt internally was a strange creature; something she still lacked the words for, and still feared giving a voice. More than that, she was better interested in Morgan’s hurt. But there was something she knew to say about that, and she smiled softly. “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine…” Deirdre said, adding, “...will you? I want to know yours too; the angry parts, the sad parts, the hopeless parts, the parts that feel too afraid to speak...If you ever want to share, I’d like to know. I’d like to hold them with you.” Her own hurt could be a beast of quiet and screaming; it was quiet now, largely. Soothed to be holding Morgan, hopeful that it could rid her of her pain in a tight enough embrace. Deirdre pressed her lips to Morgan’s forehead and tried to explain it. “I want to hold you like this every night. I want to kiss you. I want to be with you, and the pain of not loving you fully—like I want to—is terrible. But I know it wouldn’t be so bad if this was what you wanted; if you broke your hand and wanted me to stop holding it, I could live with that. But it’s me. I did the breaking. And that pain is….indescribable. I feel useless. I couldn’t help Lydia, and the best I can do to help you is just...waiting. I’m useless and I miss you. And I just want to...make things right. Make them okay. Make them better and good again. And I still miss Lydia, and I don’t know what to do about that. Everything feels so…” She sighed, “...inadequate. But your pain is more important to me right now. I can—can you tell me about it at all? Do you feel alright to speak?”

Morgan listened in stillness. Before, she tended to work in small comforts with a whisper or a touch, keep going, I’m here. But the only time she stirred was to laugh sadly at the poem Deirdre quoted. “That’s where we are, huh?” ‘Wild Geese’ was what Morgan said when she needed to get her hands around the most stubborn pieces of Deirdre’s heart and make them accept being loved. You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. How strange, to have not even thought of the words in days and hear them now in a different voice. Stranger, to have thought so little of Deirdre’s verse before, and to shiver at them now.

Morgan’s eyes leaked again, but she brushed them away quickly. “I think the worst part right now...is that I’m starting to believe you. Enough that I can’t even be glad that what you’re describing sounds just like what your choices put me through these last two weeks and the times you were too afraid to love me back before then. I tried very hard not to show you how much it hurt. I didn’t want you to feel guilty and rush yourself or quit. Now you know.” She shrugged; it didn’t matter to her now, however tempting it was to add this to their personal injury calculus. “I believe you...but I can’t give myself to you yet. Not the way you want. I don’t even know how hard I could try before panicking.” Morgan sniffled and wiped her eyes again and went quiet, waiting for some follow up argument to present itself. If she ached so badly, if not even understanding that the Deirdre holding her really, desperately loved her was enough to make the pain stop, what would? “I feel like there’s more but—I don’t know. I think I’ve hurt you enough for today.” The way the words fell sounded strange to Morgan’s ears, like she was saying I’ve assigned you enough homework, be sure you turn it in on time. She grimaced and searched for a new place to hold her back. Maybe there really was no going back for them. Maybe they were different versions of themselves already.

Slowly, she reached for Deirdre’s wet cheek and stroked it dry. “What happened to Lydia wasn’t your fault. Maybe if she wasn’t so stubborn and proud she might have picked up on the second call and everything would be different, but if she’d done that, she wouldn’t have been Lydia. She wouldn’t want you to carry guilt. And I don’t think you should either. Not for that.”

“That’s okay,” Deirdre smiled. The cynical part of her remarked that of course that was easy for her to say. Her trust hadn’t been so shattered, her love wasn’t so tested. But what else was there? How else could she tell Morgan that her emotions, her trepidation, was all okay? “You can tell me just how badly something hurts you, Morgan. If I can’t see it myself, I think you should tell me. And, well especially when I am the cause of it. I want to be able to love you and take care of you the best that I can. If I can’t see it, I can’t do that. So if you can, if you will, please tell me.” But it wasn’t Morgan’s fault that she didn’t say anything, Deirdre didn’t imagine that any person would’ve in her place. To be with someone grieving that strongly, trying to explain one’s own pain must have felt too selfish. Still, if it could have been possible, Deirdre wished she knew. “And that’s okay too,” she sighed, pressing her forehead to Morgan’s. She’d meant to kiss her, obviously, but had to stop short. “You don’t have to, I’m not expecting you to. However long you need...that’s okay. I’ll be here. I promise for today and tomorrow that I will not leave you as I did before….remember that? And I promise to never leave your side abruptly without telling you where or why I’m going. I’ll be here for you, whenever you’re ready.” She shifted, pulling back as the rest of Morgan’s words sank in. She tangled her fingers in her hair, tugging and pressing in just enough for Morgan to feel her. “Is that what happened before? Were you panicking? If holding you gets to be too much, you can tell me. If you can. What would you like me to do for you in that case?” Deirdre shook her head, laughing shakily. “Don’t worry about hurting me, not for this. Not when it comes to the way you feel. If you want to tell me more, I’d be happy to listen. And if you’re too tired for it, we can revisit this later.”

At the mention of Lydia, Deirdre grimaced and shifted again, still clutching Morgan tight to her. “It is my fault. All of it. Her death, her torture, her being ash, your pain, your broken trust...it’s all my fault. I know that. I called her a lot to tell her about dead animals I found, or just because I wanted to hear her voice…she probably didn’t think anything of it, I bet. And if I wasn’t so stubborn, maybe I would have realized that of course Ariana was planning on having her killed. She’d always been. And maybe if I was a better friend to her, I could have helped her fix her life instead of letting her take more humans. I could’ve done something. I could’ve done more. I know Lydia won’t agree, but she can be wrong, sometimes. And it is my fault. All of it.” She sagged into Morgan, curling against her. “I could’ve killed the warden that did this instead of a girl who did nothing. If only I wasn’t so stupid. It’s my fault, Morgan. That’s okay. I know it is.”

Morgan tilted her head back to watch Deirdre’s face as she replied, still drying her face as she did. “I was trying to put you first…” she explained lamely. She welcomed the press of their foreheads together, nuzzling down to her cheek. This much, this moment, fit right. The grooves in their wrinkled forehead and the down of their cheeks nested just enough to make Morgan exhale, unclench. The assurances and promises sounded naturally to her ears as ambient rain down the windows. She nodded along, moaning softly when Deirdre pulled on her hair just right. She wasn’t surprised by this complete, tender forgiveness, but it didn’t tack cleanly onto what she’d known before either. “You really are different, huh,” Morgan marveled.

She nodded in acknowledgement of the stupidity that had landed them on the floor again. “It wasn’t that you were holding me. It just felt so nice I wanted more. And like it could almost be easy, just reaching out and taking you. And that’s when I got really scared. Because I can’t do that right now, I can’t. And I think I needed to leave the room no matter what, but I was so angry that I could want to give in so easily, without you having to do a thing. That's when I decided I wanted you to hurt with me. I’m sorry, for that much at least.” She curled her body in a little tighter. “But you can still hold me. We can have that.”

And they could have this too: Morgan straining her head up to kiss Deirdre’s cheek, her lips lingering tenderly on her skin. “There’s a lot that could’ve been different, yeah. But it’s not all on you, even if thinking that is more comforting than saying some parts were out of your control. You can put some of it down now. If even I can see that from where I’m at, you have to know it’s true.” She kissed her cheek again. “I don’t have room for many mercies in my heart right now, but I do have this one. Be gentle with yourself, Deirdre. It isn’t only on you. Forgive yourself a little.”

“I know, I know…” She assured, voice like a breeze. Deirdre smiled, as much as she could given the circumstance. But as small and tender as her smile was, the love behind it wasn’t any less strong. “I know you were. I know that now. Thank you, my love. You can rest now, you can worry about yourself now. It’s okay.” At Morgan’s marvel, she resisted the urge to ask whatever she meant. She was the woman she’d always been, the one that loved Morgan. In her mind, at least, she hadn’t changed at all. But there was a week of grief that said different about her, and she figured Morgan meant that. Deirdre smiled a little wider, brows pulled together. “I suppose so.”

Deirdre’s smile fell, and her frown turned with understanding--and remorse. “I’m sorry,” she said, “is there anything I can do, for next time?” Though she didn’t mention it, she hoped it was clear that she’d wanted more too, that she was doing her best to keep them at the boundary Morgan wanted. It wasn’t much, and it clearly wasn’t enough, but she was trying. Once, Morgan would have said that counted for something. Deirdre held hope she still felt that way. “If it soothes you, I am hurting.” But she couldn’t--and wouldn’t--measure her pain to Morgan’s. And it wasn’t a comfort to her at all to know Morgan was hurting like she was, she’d rather neither of them were. She wanted their peace again, their world--the good one, away from everything that kept taking and taking from them. Deirdre sighed against Morgan, trying to lean into her kiss. She turned her head, nuzzling into her cheek. She couldn’t kiss her, and these acts to fill the space didn’t compare, but they helped. “I don’t know if I can do that,” she confessed in a small voice. “Not until things are right. Until then, it’s my fault. But thank you--thank you. I’ll think about what you’re saying.”

Morgan relented, asking her quiet body if there was anything else to unclench, anything else she could release to bring herself closer to rest. She moaned again, encouraging Deirdre with little nods and turns to keep going, holding her, talking to her, touching her face. At Deirdre’s smile, Morgan managed a weary one of her own. Her soul was so tired, and she could believe now that these gestures were as real as the hands that gave them, let it soothe her.

She tried to think about the moments that made up her stupid, clumsy escape from the room. Deirdre’s knuckles had brushed her side, digging into Morgan’s tattoo just enough to be distinct. But Morgan thought she would welcome that now, at least while her mood prevailed like this. “I think you already have,” Morgan murmured. “I believe you now. I think whatever Deirdre you are now, you want to be careful with me, love me, and you won’t do anything like this if you can help it. I um...I think I just need to use better words next time. Tell you that I need a minute, and trust that you’ll give it to me.” She sighed. “Maybe this morning knowing that probably would’ve made me feel better, but not right now.”

Deirdre frowned, she should have felt happy to know Morgan believed her now—and she was, just not as happy as she reckoned she should be. Part of her mind clouded with doubt; there should have been more. She should have had to do more to make it true. All she’d done was talk and hold her, nothing special by any standard she held herself to. She should have had to lose a finger, or a metaphorical finger. Vaguely, the idea bounced in her head that there was something wrong with her instinct to use suffering as the barometer for success. She didn’t know how that idea got there, but she shook it out. “Well, it’s okay if you can’t get any better words out. Whatever you need to do, that’s fine. I’m okay with that.”

Morgan knew better than to give too many kisses, however chaste. But the freshly melted piece of her heart craved closeness and she found herself cradling Deirdre’s face and combing her fingers gently through her long hair. “Ssh,” she whispered. “Not all at once, just a little. We can forgive a little at a time. We can try.” She pulled away so Deirdre could see her and understand through her look--still guarded, but softer and more sober than it had been in many days--that she meant the two of them could forgive each other that way too. If nothing else, they could try.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Spring Will Come Again || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: In the morning, following this.

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

SUMMARY: All is found. 

CONTAINS: discussions of violence and sacrifice

The sun did not return at the end of the long night just because Morgan wished it. The sky whitened from the color of ash to the color of polished bone, brighter and promising, but far from clear. Morgan squinted up at the bright patch where the sun should be as she trudged through the rising snowbanks. Every crunch beneath her feet was a surprise. Her body was still bundled in numbness, though whether that was more from death or trauma, she couldn’t tell. But this was real. Just like the dead man in the woods, downed Christmas lights and blood splatters along the East End, the fresh show, the frost on the windows, the evergreens swaying in the wind, and Constance’s shattered soul were real. Morgan was alive and home.

She squeezed her keys extra tight and unlocked the door. The first thing she noticed was the snow: at least a dozen dangling from the ceiling on white tinsel string, some curved and crooked, some dotted with hearts, some pointed with thoughtful geometric patterns, some feathered with chevrons. There were snowflakes smaller than her hand, and others as big as her head, all cut by hand and threaded with care and perfect. Then there were the cookies displayed on the side table in the entryway, sugar and gingerbread cut into the shapes of stars, trees, and bones. Morgan could smell the sweet smell of leftover dough even with her dulled senses. Ribbon littered the floor, and every mug in the house seemed to lay somewhere, stained with the residue of cider or cocoa. For a second Morgan thought she’d come alive again by some kitschy miracle she didn’t deserve. The world had clicked back into place, sharp and potent and reaching for her, if she would only reach back. “...Babe?” Morgan called softly. She stepped slowly into the house, careful not to destroy the sleepy peace with her presence. It didn’t take long to find her. Their eyes met and Morgan sensed down in her gut that they’d always find each other one way or another. “...Honey, I’m home?” She said.

Deirdre possessed great patience. It was a skill both learned and gifted through birth, but even the greatest patience could be tested when left alone. The Christmas party had been a miracle of distractions: loud children, annoying conversation and the strange, ever-growing desire to appease a group of strangers she couldn’t have cared less about just a day ago. But for every smile, every eruption of laughter at a child’s terrible knock-knock joke, all Deirdre could think of was Morgan. Morgan would’ve liked to know that their neighbours missed seeing her around, that the kids were okay and wondered where she’d gone too. The two of them had become such an inseparable concept that no one knew how to process Morgan’s absence, including herself. Morgan, perhaps, wouldn’t have liked to know that part. And when she thought of Morgan, she distracted herself with making the children happy. First it was the cookies, then gingerbread houses, then paper snowflakes and presents, and then a Santa to give those presents away. At the time, she hadn’t known that children made a terrible distraction; they got tired quickly, and then their parents did too. And while the children were carried out to a desecrated street--now silent--Deirdre had nothing left for her patience to gnaw on.

It was her. And nothing.

The TV was turned to a murmur across the scattered remains of the party, Deirdre listening for any mention of Morgan, or of a strange woman who turned to goop, if there ever managed to be any real news between the inane commercial breaks. With a jingle for soap stuck in her head, she picked up discarded bottles and glasses, tried to get icing out of things far too expensive to have icing stuck on them, and paced the length of her house a dozen times over. It was her own tired body that betrayed her then. Still in her cocktail dress, she curled into herself in front of the TV and listened. It was her. And it was nothing. And then it was Morgan.

Deirdre sprang up, her eyes stuck on the vision of her love standing in the house she’d packed up and left from. For a moment, she considered it might have been delirium caused by sleep-deprivation, but only Morgan could drum up a sense of humor that cruel. That after days, after the phone call she’d left Deirdre with, she would just stand there. Deirdre blinked, and then she was running across their home, scooping Morgan into her arms. Her body fit against hers just the ways she remembered, just the ways her pillow-replacement never could. And deep in her heart she felt Morgan, the tug of her death and the aroma that surrounded her. “I’m so mad at you.” But if there was any shred of anger inside of her, it didn’t exist in her soft voice, or eager hands. She pulled Morgan tight against her, drank in her every sensation and prayed to the Fates she knew didn’t listen, that everything would be okay now. And even if it wouldn’t be, holding Morgan for the first time in days, everything felt like it was. It was right. It was good. It was Morgan.    

Morgan sighed with relief as Deirdre swept her up. Her hands knew just where to latch on, her head just where to rest. The bones of them remained, and tucking into Deirdre’s body felt like a joint popping back into place. “You look so beautiful,” she laughed. The craziest dreams of her life wouldn’t have come up with something this perfect: Deirdre in a cocktail dress and heels, Yule and Christmas frosting the house, and her strong, wonderful arms. “Hey, I’m here,” she cooed. She could feel Deirdre’s worry in her grip, the sweet-sharp pinch of her fingers into her skin. “And you can be mad. You can be whatever you want.” She pressed her lips to her cheek, her temple. “I would like to propose that we kiss first, a lot--” She nipped and nuzzled at her gently to argue her point. Didn’t she miss this? Shouldn’t they have a moment of rest and comfort before all the work? “Mmm...but I understand if you have to get stuff off your chest first, okay? I’m here though, babe. I’m really here.”

“I have tinsel in my hair.” Deirdre laughed softly, pulling the strands of reflective decoration out of her hair. “And icing too, probably.” She wanted to say something about the children’s desire to spread stickiness wherever they pleased, a chaos she might have enjoyed if it wasn’t her things they wanted to dirty. She didn’t know that children could be so messy, or that their neighbours weren’t all so bad. She wanted to tell Morgan every detail, share how they missed her; how she missed her. But as she opened her mouth, she realized there was so much more she wanted to say. I love you, I thought you were gone forever, I was so worried, I love you, I’ve missed you. Deirdre shook her head, she wasn’t mad. She was far from mad. Her grip tightened. And then when she couldn’t help it anymore, she tilted her head up and burst into laughter. Of course Morgan would ask if she wanted to talk first, as if that idea held any bit of a chance against the promise of kissing. Of course Morgan would care. Of course Morgan would offer despite clearly wanting the same thing as Deirdre. The relief glimmered across her face, a bright smile cutting through days of worry and heartache. Her hands slipped away from Morgan’s waist to cup her face, held firmly in the safety of her palms. Her grin turned lopsided, toothy. “I second your proposal.” She leaned in, crouching down just before their lips could meet so she could lift Morgan into the air, arms around her waist. She kissed Morgan like that; fierce and giddy and with her head raised above hers, so that Deirdre had to be the one to tilt up to meet her. All she had wanted to say, she said with passion then--kissing Morgan exactly the way she ought to.   

Morgan picked out a strand of tinsel from Deirdre’s hair and brushed her fingers slowly through, deep and rough in the way that tickled her skin. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Deirdre this happy--maybe over a month now, for her birthday? The expanse of time between then and now seemed cruelly absurd. A whole life had crumbled in that time. Morgan squealed with delight as she was kissed, lifted, kissed again. Morgan couldn’t sort out what the best part was, they all rolled around her head like so many marbles. There was the kiss itself, deep and passionate, pulling on her with the purest kind of desire. There was the happiness of it, the wild simplicity: no hurt, no aches, no memories. If the work they had to do was still sitting on her mind, it was somewhere away from this truth: Morgan, whole or not, loved her; Deirdre, likewise, loved her just the same. And in this moment, with the white sky blazing with light and paper snow all around, that seemed like more than enough to build on. Anything was possible. Morgan hummed appreciatively and gave Deirdre back some of the hope bursting in her chest in return. We can do this, her kisses said. I’ve figured some things out and we can do this. She urged them toward the great room, legs wrapped around Deirdre’s hips and let them settle there, still wrapped around each other, smoothing over each other’s scabs and coaxing the restful parts of them that had been buried for too long. “Thank you for agreeing with me,” Morgan said, giggles bubbling in her voice. “You wanna tell me about the rescue party you threw? I think you’ve kinda outdone yourself. My hero.”

Navigating blind and distracted was nothing new; it wasn’t the first time kissing was more important than walking. Deirdre maneuvered them around with a kind of expertise she hoped she’d never lose. But even with her practice, nothing could have prepared her for the cursed children, and their inability to pick up after themselves. It was a left-behind toy car that caught under her foot, tumbling her forwards and on to their couch with a laugh and a huff. She turned and glared at the toy--she’d return it with a smile, undoubtedly, but for the moment, she sneered at it. In her mock annoyance, she nearly missed Morgan’s question. “Hm?” She turned to her love, bright again with a grin. “Well, I didn’t know children enjoyed sugar and Santa so much. They were so happy. You would’ve liked it.” Her smile softened as she went on, fresh memories coming to mind. Just moments ago, she’d been inexplicably eager to share every moment with her love, but now her mind coursed with just how much she’d missed Morgan. “Bill started talking to me about his barbecue again.” And she’d wished Morgan was there to get her free from the conversation. “I missed you...mostly. Everyone else did too. And--and--” From her bra--the great container that it was--she pulled a small business card free. “--Linda told me about this--uh--couples counseling and…” She trailed off. Was it too soon to ruin their happiness with this sort of conversation? Deirdre gulped, holding the card tenderly in her fingers. “Do you want to talk about what you’ve been up to?”

Morgan adjusted herself until her legs were draped over Deirdre’s lap and her arms hung loose around her shoulders. She listened to the highlights with rapt fondness, tracing her fingers along the features of Deirdre she’d missed the most. “It’s almost like they like you or something,” she teased. “I saw how many people you had over, for a second there. When I came down to lure Constance away. It was right before she took the power out and stars, I was so proud of you. I am so proud of you. I just knew you’d make everything okay over here. But this--!” She tilted her head back and laughed again at the beauty of it all, the kindness of each gesture. How many kids had Deirdre soothed when it got loud outside? How many worried looks did she face with courage? And even more than just sheltering the families, Deirdre gave them something good. “You’re incredible.”

At the mention of couple’s counseling, Morgan started, uncertain if she’d heard right. Deirdre rolled over the sentiment so quickly, it might have been some extreme brain fog telling on her. But the business card was real enough, and local too. Morgan’s face softened into a lopsided smile. “Oh, yes,” she said. “That’s genius babe, yes. I know we might have to get creative with some euphemisms, and it’s not that I don’t think we wouldn’t figure things out eventually, but--fuck, yeah, it might be nice to have some professional intervention so it doesn’t take forever.” She kissed her love again, slow and sweet. “I want that. If Linda has an in that get us there soon, I think sooner would be better than later.” Her smile tightened into a painful wince as she realized what was still left unstead. Mother of Earth, she didn’t want to spoil this. It had been so long since anything had felt easy or natural, she just wanted to ride this out for as long as possible. But that wasn’t honest or right. And as much as Morgan didn’t want it, she understood that she could survive without Deirdre or what they held together if she needed to. “I did kind of say I’d tell you everything, huh? It’s sort of a long story.” Morgan braced herself  and pulled herself back a little. “Are you ready?”

Deirdre flushed, nervous with a flutter in her stomach the way she always got when Morgan told her she was proud. It was different from when her family said it, different in all the right ways--ways she loved, and missed. “I didn’t want them to be scared,” she mumbled, “they’re just kids. I told them Santa was doing construction outside and they believed me. That’s--they’re so young. Santa can be an excuse for anything and they believe it, they’re that young. And even the older children they--” Deirdre shook her head. Besides her astonishment for the young humans, which weren’t as terrible as their adult counterparts, she still held the worry in her chest. “I’m not. I’m not. I didn’t do anything special for anyone, I just gave them all food and let people pet the cats. Even Anya liked it...although that may have been because she had a whole swarm of new people to beg for food from.” Deirdre smiled, the cats were fast asleep, tired from their playing and socializing. It seemed to her that cats, children, humans, all wanted to be soothed when frightened. It didn’t feel so special to her that she’d done her best for them, not when she’d been doing it for Morgan too. She glanced down at the business card, knowing there was a lot she would’ve done for Morgan, and a lot more she still had to do.

“Y-you’re okay with it?” Deirdre glanced up. “You like the idea?” For so long, all of Deirdre’s ideas were a miss. And while this one was technically Linda’s, it was still something she put forth, and another nervous flutter filled her. She smiled softly, humming into the kiss. “Linda said she could, yeah. She said she’d talk to people and sort it out if we wanted it. I told her I had to ask you first.” Deirdre looked back to the card, holding it up between them. It felt like hope between her fingers. With a wider smile, she set it down on the table and met Morgan’s eyes a moment later. “I’m ready.”  

“It’s not a crime to value yourself, babe. To be kind and brave after everything you’ve been through, knowing all the things you do about the world, is nothing short of incredible,” Morgan said evenly. “And yes, I really--really--really like the idea.” She punctuated each ‘really’ with another kiss, each more gentle than the last. But she couldn’t stay cocooned in affection forever. Morgan scooted away a little more, forced her eyes level with Deirdre’s, and told her the truth.

She told Deirdre how she had agonized over how to pick someone to bleed and should’ve known right then that this plan wasn’t going to help her. But she had, and lured out some poor man with a dog and maybe a kid and definitely a lot of friends who cared about him just because he’d happened to think she was playing hard to get when she turned him down for a drink. She talked about how she’d ached, hating it, and wasted so much blood and seconds waiting for this to feel worth it before she finally tried to stop Miriam from finishing. And it hadn’t worked. And he’d died for nothing, and would never be found, not at the bottom of the Devil’s Gullet. She talked about Jasmine and Blanche and Agnes and the sirens and the wreckage on the town common she’d been too guilty to investigate, how much she hated the whole mess when she saw what was left of that miserable girl destroyed in the exorcism. She had still hurt, still suffered, even without the ritual. She was nothing now. “I just wanted it all to stop,” she said. “And maybe I hated her a little less, seeing her trapped and pathetic like this, but I didn’t stop resenting her, but I still--I would’ve held her if I could to make it end faster. It was like you said, it didn’t give me a piece of myself back. Lucky for me there’s no one left to avenge Constance, but it was just so...I think that things like this exist for a reason, but I don’t think it’s how you get rid of your pain. I don’t think pain can be transmuted at all. I think...it’s something you have to surrender. Somehow.”

Morgan sniffled and rubbed the back of her hand across her face. “Anyway, with the car all messed up, I walked home from the Outskirts and I just felt so awful I made this pit stop and… I still don’t know if this is completely desperate or just me coming around to something stupidly obvious, but I realized it’s Yule, and the sun always comes back to us even after the longest night and the heart of the earth still beats even when it feels like its dead, and we’re all coming back to life one way or another so long as we exist, even me. I’m a part of it, or I at least need to act like I am. Maybe I’m not a witch like I used to be, but I’m something, and I’d like to work something better than lashing out on the world. I want that for myself, and if I fuck it up along the way--I don’t know. The earth will catch me, anchor me. She made me, she helps keep me here. Maybe that’s enough.” She shrugged, trying not to overplay how much it gave her to touch her old faith again, even if her fires had to be built from scratch and her offerings and rituals symbolic only. But the truth shone in her eyes, in a light that was almost like peace.

Deirdre listened quietly. For a moment, she thought it was important to keep the physical distance Morgan pushed between them. She hadn’t realized that her body inched closer with the end of each sentence, or that her hands had gone up, smoothing worries with its touch. When Morgan was done, she pulled her love into her lap and held her tight. She wanted to ask which part was supposed to be the ‘bad thing’ Morgan had spoken of over the phone, but a new voice was born then--small, frail, and unlike the voice of her mother or Morgan, this one sounded like herself. She knew then what Morgan had done, and that by the nature of good, it wasn’t perfect. But nothing ever was. “Sometimes when I--you know--there can’t be a body. And it’s not great, it’s not good. The family has a harder time mourning without a body.” Her eyes turned to Lydia’s ashes. “But there are things you can do to make it easier. I’ll show you, and we can do them together, for the man. And his body won’t be found, no, but this will make it a little better.” She shifted, turning her attention to Morgan. Deirdre’s expression had softened so much, she thought it might melt off her face; it’d been a while since her eyes reflected anything but sadness. “I’m sorry it didn’t go the way you thought it would, my love. That it didn’t feel the way you wanted it to. If peace could be made in revenge, I wished that you’d find it. And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, that you’ve had to do so much for an end that didn’t give you what you needed.” She set about tucking strands of Morgan’s messy hair into their place, fingers curled around her face when she was done, thumbing roughly at the bones that laid under.

Whatever apology and insecurity might have fluttered once with the idea that she could no longer be Morgan’s anchor, didn’t bother to surface in the moment. Her smile grew, and her body perked up. In her heart, she felt nothing but pride, and she flushed with it. “That sounds amazing,” she breathed, “it is amazing. Yes, you are still a part of the earth. And it is Yule--” Deirdre smiled a little wider, shifting to angle herself closer to Morgan as the weight of what Morgan was saying settled on her. She had watched Morgan’s depressed Beltane, and while Samhain was something she wouldn’t forget, she could tell it wasn’t the same. Not like it would have been if Morgan was alive. Deirdre held no sadness for what was missed, only worry for her love, and the loss she put upon herself. “I know you don’t feel like earth exactly like you used to but...but this is good. It sounds good. If you want me to do anything for you, just say the word.” She pressed her lips to Morgan’s cheek, temple, cheek again, jaw. “How do you feel about it? Does it feel good to you?”        

Morgan sighed into Deirdre’s little touches, relieved at the forgiveness she felt in them. She held her gaze, hesitating, Is this okay? Are we still okay? But she knew as soon as she looked that it was. She wrapped her arms back around her love as she was brought in. “I made him suffer for nothing,” she mumbled. “And they’re just going to keep wondering what happened. But--yeah, that would be good. Whatever you can think of. I don’t know his name, which is awful, I know, but I remember his face. If there’s a picture in the paper, we can find out who he was, do whatever you think will help.” She nodded into the crook of Deirdre’s neck and gave her a squeeze. There was so much gentleness and understanding in her face she could barely stand to look at it.

“I should have listened to you when you talked about how awful you felt after trying to avenge Lydia. I just thought...I had come so far, and I had lost so much already. And I couldn’t stomach the thought of her being better off than me, to rest and be completely okay. But it wasn’t worth all those people’s lives. I just spread her pain around and that wasn’t what I wanted… I can’t even imagine how much worse her pain would’ve been if I’d gone through with everything. But she can’t suffer anymore now, or make others suffer with her. Her shadow’s gone and this can just be over.”

At Deirdre’s excitement, Morgan beamed and lifted her head just enough to see her. “It does feel good, yeah,” she whispered. “I want to hear more about you and how you’re doing first, but I also...I did a little something before I came home, but would you burn something with me? Or just sit with me while I-- normally we would make our wishes and hopes for the new year on the log. One for ourselves, one for the family, and one for the world. But you don’t have to do that, I’d just--” She shrugged, smiling. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Deirdre shook her head. “Why would you? My revenge for Lydia wasn’t a thing like what you were doing. You weren’t wrong to try, Morgan. To want to hurt Constance, at least...not to me. You’re still a good person, to me. How I see it. You wanted to bring yourself peace, you wanted balance, justice, fairness...none of those things are wrong to want.” Deirdre sighed and half-shrugged, which just turned into nuzzling against Morgan. What did she know about revenge anyway? Her own attempt was still a sore topic, and she couldn’t help the way her stomach lurched at the mention of Lydia—she had done so little for her, done so wrong. But this wasn’t about her, or Lydia. “The way I see it...no death is ever for nothing. Not if you do something. We can make it good, as good as it can be. And Constance is gone now, and maybe that means there’s peace for you after all. Everything I know about hope, I’ve learned from you. And maybe it’s like that; maybe you find a way to transmute good from the bad.” Deirdre smiled softly, offering another shrug-turned-nuzzle. “It can just be over.”

Deirdre hummed, nodding. Her hands found their way back to Morgan hair, setting strands neatly, as if she was trying to put Morgan back together. But she knew better than that, Morgan didn’t need her to be putting anything back together. “We had Yule bodies,” she laughed, “instead of logs. Most of our traditions involved burning dead things, now that I think about it. You can imagine the smell was horrid.” Her smile grew. “Which is to say, yes. Whatever it is you want to do, I’d be honoured to do it with you. Just tell me how.”

Morgan kissed Deirdre’s palm when she finished with her hair, just a moth wing’s brush of a touch. “I’m not opposed to some animal sacrifice, as a rule, but I think there’s too much snow for a bonfire right now. But if the ground is better and the sky is clear by the twelfth night of Yule, we can go looking for a felled little deer somewhere and let its body go toward something good. You can show me what you like about your Yule then. Besides, I don’t want to be anywhere but home right now.” She leaned up and kissed Deirdre’s lips sweetly whispering, “Thank you,” against them as she parted. “Now come here by the fireplace and I’ll be right back.”

She led Deirdre by the hand, beaming with excitement and urged her to sit. They hadn’t run the fire much this season and Morgan fiddled with the chute and the kindling, trying to remember what she’d done the one time she’d gotten this right. Once the fire had a strong enough foundation, she dashed off to the kitchen and back again, hands full with spices. She reached for the nicest looking log from the small silver rack they kept and joined Deirdre, holding it out between them. “It just so happens that the youngest person in the house goes first anyway. You put your hand on the log, non dominant is traditional but I don’t remember why, and you take a second to feel it. The sturdiness of it, and the age of it, all the time it holds and all the time you’ve had this year. And then you think of your wishes. You don’t have to say them out loud, but you do have to make them. And when you do, you imagine those wishes going into the log like little threads, bundling up. And after I’ve had my turn and we put it in together, you’re supposed to think of the threads as bursting and rising into the air and spreading all around you. Like magic but, you know, not.” Morgan’s voice dipped, melancholic, as she explained this. When she was a child, her dad would help her make the flames with alchemy, with the air, the wood--connecting the pieces of the world together with just a wish. It’s just different, that’s all. Not bad, just different. Morgan smiled wistfully and gripped the log a little tighter.

When she spoke again, her voice was bright with determination. “Anyways, I’ll bless the fire and make it smell nice and--well, normally my family would just stay cozied by it all day. Watching movies, reading to each other, eating too much. I’ll make a wreath for the house since we never got one, and well, I can’t eat my mom’s yule bread or her golden milk, but I’ll make you some if you want or something you normally have, if you’ll show me. But the fire goes all day long until the log is finished to the last ember. We hold onto the light, however much we can, and even when its gone, we remember that it will always come again.” She smiled meaningfully at Deirdre and nodded with encouragement. “Now make your wishes, my love.”

“Oh. No, it’s not a whole--we just used bits of dead flesh, enough that the earth wouldn’t miss it. We’d go out and watch animals decompose for midsummer, though. But it’s best not to disturb nature.” Deirdre explained quickly, more in a rush to get herself in place and ready. She sat still, straight-backed and attentive. There was a hint of a pout at being reminded of her age, but the excitement of the log was quick to cover up any sourness. Deirdre nodded and took the log with her left hand, holding it firmly. She ran her fingers over the rough grooves all the way along until the place it was cut unnaturally with man’s tool. She followed the edges until she found her path back to the grooved surface. She threw it between her hands; weighty, but not heavy. She imagined the tree grown, in its fullness. She imagined herself tucked in the ridges of its bark, she imagined her year. At the start, there was the winter of January, the unexpected warmth of the bar where she’d met Morgan. Along its path, the strange hole in its face, she imagined that was Lydia, at the emptiness that she would no longer fill. Between them, in the rough shapes, that had to be Regan. Her wish was a simple one, but she worked it into the wood with her caress. In the hole, the uneven cuts, the beginning. She asked for peace, and she committed it to each person; Morgan, Lydia, Regan and every other person that sat between the spaces. She thought of roots coming around to hold them, soothe them. Like little threads, Morgan had said. And Deirdre thought finally of the threads of her Fate, the kind she saw in Death. Her family never did anything quite like this; they had no use for something like wishes. But Deirdre did.

“I’m done,” she looked up, “and you...burn the wishes? It’s not like...doesn’t that make it go away?” She turned to the fire, then back to Morgan. “The winter months just meant a lot of alcohol for my family. I think I’d like to try the yule bread and golden milk.” Deirdre smiled at the thought; hot whiskey was still a favorite, but she’d take the chance to try something new. “I-uh--” She shifted where she sat, glazing down at her log. “I wished for peace.” Her voice was small, embarrassed. Peace didn’t seem like such an interesting wish, but she’d wanted it at all the same. “For you. For Lydia, Regan…” She laughed, “Kaden...even, if he could find it in himself to calm down.” Her eyes fluttered back down to the log. "It’s your turn now, right?”

“The fire sets them free, like how burning juniper and pine releases the scent,” Morgan explained gently. “You can’t hold onto everything all the time. Sometimes...the way to make things come true is to let them go and let them find their way back.” She touched her hand to Deirdre’s cheek, tilting her head up so she could see Morgan’s smile. “That’s a beautiful thing to wish for, my love. I wouldn’t have expected anything less from you.” She thumbed her cheek affectionately, pressing in enough to feel the line of her cheekbone then turned her attention back to the log. She cradled it with her right hand and closed her eyes. She couldn’t reach out as she did when she was alive, when she closed her eyes and brushed over the knots and chips left on the log, there was only the surface, nothing more. But her heart remembered the way the grain layered on the inside, the way the chemical connections holding it together branched like a tree. She knew and would always know, just like the world would always know her. Morgan put her wish into it, imagining her threads wrapping around the compounds in a bright cocoon of gold. Abiding wholeness for herself, steadfast love for her family, healing for the world. Morgan smiled and imagined the threads filling up the inside of the log. She murmured the old prayer her parents had taught her and placed it inside. As she finished, she sprinkled the dry materials she’d gathered and beamed as a hint of their aroma found its way to her. “...a heartbeat awaiting, until the time is right for spring’s return. So may it be.”  

Her work finished, Morgan draped her arms around Deirdre and pulled her into a kiss. “I wished for something like peace too,” she said, threading more up her jaw and to her temple. “But love was mine for you. So much love from every direction possible.” She sighed and squeezed her banshee tighter, hoping that saying the words aloud would help Deirdre find it before the next December. By the light of the fire and the pull of the earth, it seemed possible. Everything wonderful Morgan had ever hoped for felt like it was just peeking out from under a layer of snow. “Merry Yuletide, Deirdre.”

Deirdre watched the fire slowly crawl along her wishes, into the grooves and across the uneven surface. Like Morgan said, she imagined those threads--once tightly wrapped--bursting free like the crack of wood. She smiled, and then she was kissing Morgan, and she smiled wider. Her arms found their place holding Morgan with ease; against her girlfriend, it had already felt like she’d been given all the love Morgan wished for. “Thank you,” she mumbled into her shoulder. Like fire, love flickered warm and bright inside of her. Like the wood cracking, so too did rigid layers of her, peeled back and withered down like ash. She felt blue, and yellow, and orange and red, and like glowing embers, steadfast. She felt like herself again, and they felt like them. It would be different, maybe that meant it would be better. She could feel the love Morgan had wished for, but she knew she’d find more of it too, elsewhere. And the weight of wanting peace was freed from her now, out in the air where it might take shape. She was happy; plain, uncomplicated contentment. For the first time in her life, this happiness felt like something she deserved; something they both did. The Yule season could be sentimental, that way. It was different from what she knew, and maybe that meant it was better. “Merry Yuletide, Morgan.”  

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Feeline Sad || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: Current

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

SUMMARY: Morgan and Deirdre try to unpack where they stand after the events in the woods.The death fam adds a cat to their ranks. 

CONTAINS: discussions of death, dying, and violence; brief mentions of emotional abuse

Deirdre sat curled up in the passenger seat of Morgan’s Subaru, knees pulled to her chest and seat belt forgotten. She rocked with each brake, and teetered with each turn. Occasionally, she’d massage the bandages at her throat, but the memory of them there only served to anger her, and so she dropped her hands and would curl up again. Speaking was hard, and her accompanying whiteboard was useless in a car. Morgan couldn’t really stop to look over and read, even if Deirdre could think of something else to say. All she’d managed was the request to go to Lydia’s again, desperate and meak. She’d written it out, and she’d stomached the searing pain to ask in her own tiny voice. She’d thought it’d make her feel better. She’d forgotten about the traffic she’d have to sit and endure. She uncapped her marker and started on the whiteboard, remembered Morgan couldn’t read it while driving, and put it all back. She rocked forward at another stop. Considered a seatbelt; thought it was stupid, and teetered to the right as Morgan turned left. She reached down to fiddle with the radio, and through the static, a voice fizzled to life. Enthusiastic as he read the time and reminded everyone of the date, he proclaimed his listeners wouldn’t believe this next story; remember Eyes to the Sky? Well…

Deirdre hissed and shut the radio off. “How…” she croaked, wincing at the way she sounded---like crinkling paper caught in a breeze. Her accent didn’t help; the lilting quality of it was lost, and she fought against pain just to annunciate. “...long?”

Morgan could see Deirdre rustling beside her. She couldn’t look, not just because of the road, but because seeing her so pathetic and broken after what she had tried to do to Ariana made Morgan’s brain short circuit. She wanted to believe that Deirdre didn’t have it in her, that she would’ve taken one glimpse at the girl’s blood and stopped everything herself. It felt strange to be withholding forgiveness for something that hadn’t actually happened. But intentions mattered, and the knife had been silver, and if Deirdre couldn’t be present long enough to really discuss what had happened or anything else she’d done, maybe Morgan could hold onto what little bitterness she could to bolster her strength. She didn’t answer Deirdre’s question. There was traffic, holiday shopping and rubber necking near some minor accident, how was she supposed to know? “Put on your seatbelt,” she muttered. “Check the road on google maps.” She hadn’t been able to say no to Deirdre’s request, not when she could practically feel how she hurt and knew this was by far one of her more functional requests, but she didn’t have to fake a warmth she struggled to feel.

Referring to google instead of her girlfriend for directions was a strangely cold response, Deirdre wasn’t sure what to think. But it was apt, she reasoned. She deserved it. She knew what going to harm Ariana would mean for the two of them, and she had told herself that such sacrifice was what life demanded of her. This was why her mother said she shouldn’t have relationships of any sort with non-fae, this was it. Deirdre whimpered and obeyed the direction as though she’d been bound to doing it. She took her phone out and realized she didn’t know how to check. She’d never learned. She stared at the map blankly, watching their little blue arrow move--parts of the yellow road colored with red, heavy traffic. What did that mean for them? Normally she would’ve asked, for now she stuffed her phone back into her pocket and continued to cradle herself; a harder task now, with the seatbelt on. She uncapped her marker. I wish the wolf finished the job. She erased it with the sleeve of her sweater. I’m sorr-- Erased. Thank you for-- Gone too. Like that, filling the car with the sound of the marker squeaking across the board, she wrote and erased several sentences. After a while, they stopped making sense. After a few more, they stopped being English altogether. Squeak, squeak, squeak…. She could only hope that Morgan still liked her enough to let her know when they got there.

They rolled to a stoplight. The only sound was Deirdre scribbling away. Morgan couldn’t help but look over at them, her fury rising alongside her anguish. “I hate it when you do that,” she whispered, her voice more tired than anything else. “When you give up. I know you’re grieving, I know the hole she left hurts like nothing else has for you. I’ve been there plenty of times. You know I’ve been there. And you know, in this context I understand needing to do something for her, even something drastic. But every time you pull something horrible, something you know is horrible and hate yourself for like showing up to hurt Ariana of all people...you just give up and I have to be the one who decides to keep going. I hate that, I hate that you can’t fight for yourself, or for us, just a little harder than that…” The light turned and she kept driving. She turned off to take some side roads, the scenic route as her dad would’ve called it, and came around to Lydia’s street from the opposite direction they normally did.

“Look up, we’re almost there,” she said quietly. There were cars lining the street as usual, not good enough to roll onto the fancy drives, but as she drove further down the block, Morgan noticed more than a few police cars among them. Shit, they really couldn’t catch a break, could they?

Deirdre stopped mid stroke, shrill squeak deflating in the air. She rummaged around her jumbled head for understanding. Did Morgan hate her writing? Did Morgan hate her for being sad? Did Morgan hate her? She repeated the words—‘Ariana of all people’. Hadn’t she tried to explain to Morgan that Ariana was the reason Lydia was dead? Did her fondness cloud all criminal responsibility Ariana held? No, she hadn’t been there to do the killing, but didn’t that make it worse? She knew who she was sending. She knew. In some way, Deirdre wasn’t so mad at Athena. At least the warden acted the way a warden ought. Did Morgan hate her? Did Morgan hate having to console her? Was she wrong for feeling so terrible and lost? Deirdre wasn’t sure when it started, but she began to tremble and weep. She held trust that no matter her state, Morgan would care for her. It was the only reason she felt comfort in sharing herself. Did Morgan hate that now? Didn’t she know how hard Deirdre was trying? Deirdre heaved, searing tears trailed her face and she tried to sniffle them away. Morgan hated that, she told herself. Morgan didn’t want to see it. She wanted to look up as Morgan commanded, but her body seized with sobbing. I hate it when you do that, her mother jabbed at her. Stop crying, sit up straight. I hate it.

Deirdre struggled with the marker. HOME, she wrote shakily. Then erased. Morgan would hate that. They came all this way here, and now she couldn’t conduct herself enough to go? STOP, she wrote, quivering as she tried to show Morgan. Morgan would hate that. How dare she make demands, after her actions? The whiteboard clattered against the console, and fell to the car mats. She should look up, Morgan wanted her to look up. The vision of her stuck with glass on the floor of Lydia’s room, saying something about how Deirdre didn’t care, and should stop or go or both, burned in her mind. She didn’t want that again. She should listen. She should look up. “Stop...” she croaked, curling into herself. I hate it when you do that. “Sorry…” She didn’t want to cry, but it was divine mercy that she was too injured to make noise; the glass would thank her if it could. Deirdre turned to unlock her door, pushing it open. She lunged out, jerked back by the seatbelt, stuck in her seat like a child flailing and strapped in. She didn’t even want to be wearing the stupid thing. But maybe it was better, Morgan didn’t like her running away. She hated that.

Morgan realized her mistake as soon as she heard Deirdre sniffle. This wasn’t her normal, everyday girlfriend she was trying to hash it out with. This was Deirdre half woman, half child, and all grief. Grief that she hadn’t known was possible until she’d lived Lydia’s death in the worst way. And then spent her spare time living it over again on a loop. And Morgan needed her normal girlfriend, because she couldn’t live through eternity like this, standing between her and people she loved, and she needed to know if this was a phase or a fatal flaw in the life they’d built. She needed to know how many more times would she have to stomach Deirdre running away without a word. How many times would she hear her talk about murder in away that did not ring with the solemnity and reluctance of her duty or the wryness of her conditioning, but with a tone unhinged, bloodthirsty, almost cruel. But her normal girlfriend wasn’t here, and snapping off like she was wouldn’t help the Deirdre next to her heal back into that shape. “Fuck, I’m sorry…” she hissed. “I’m--babe?” She’d fucked up, yes, but Deirdre was going into a freefall of pain that seemed much bigger than anything Morgan had reckoned on. “Babe, talk to me. Get your--” The board clattered to the floor. Morgan groped for Deirdre’s hand and squeezed it tight. “I hear you,” she said, breathing deep to abate her own panic. What was this? What had she stepped on? What was happening now? “I’m gonna stop the car, I just need to get away from these cop cars so they don’t get suspicious. But I’m gonna. And then we’ll get close, and we’ll talk and we’ll figure things out.” She brought Deirdre’s hand up and pressed a hasty kiss to her knuckles. “I’m sorry I snapped. We’re gonna talk though, and we’ll try to make it okay.” She couldn’t hold Deirdre’s gaze the way she wanted. Just a desperate flash, I’m sorry. What’s happening to you? The rest of her attention was on the officers milling around Lydia’s front lawn and she imagined them discovering the missing book and rice dish. They were stupid things, useless things, but what if someone figured it out? Morgan breathed the way she’d taught Deirdre (In. Hold. Out.) She counted the trees, and finally pulled them to a stop around the corner. No cars along this side of the street except them, and half the houses had fancy walls hiding their front doors and windows. Morgan checked to make sure they were locked in, unbuckled, and turned to Deirdre. Stars above, she was in a bad way. It was hard not to see her own heavy breakdowns reflected in them, the rawness, the shame, the fear.

“Hey,” she said gently. “ I shouldn’t have said those things. I love you and I’m sorry. I need to know what all is going on so I can make it better, babe. But I want to take care of you first, if that’s okay.” She cupped Deirdre’s face, slippery with streams of tears, and tried to guide her gaze to hers, hoping she saw the sincerity and affection she held underneath everything, always. “I’m here, Deirdre. Can I climb over and be close to you…?”

Deirdre trembled, after struggling against her seatbelt, she shut the door and suffered with the stewing embarrassment of being sat there in her state. I hate that. She was sorry. She tried the straight back, empty-eyed look her mother praised, but couldn’t manage it with all her pain. In croaks and heaves, she tried to apologize. She shouldn’t have asked to come out. She should have stayed home, stuck in the dark corner she liked, trying to make Lydia appear in the shadows. Wasn’t this why her mother sent her away to White Crest in the first place? She was just so horrible with grief, she never knew where to put it. She shook herself free of Morgan and dove at the board, thankfully the marker was still in hand. DON'T TOUCH, she wrote, then shook her head furiously. Was this what Morgan felt at Lydia’s? This dissonance of care? STOP, she wrote under it, and then again and again until she filled all the space with her black marks. She wiped the surface down with her hand. SORRY, it was this time, just once. She kept her gaze on the board, trying to get the words right. Her hands shook so much, the marker slipped a few times and the board nearly jumped away. STOP, she wrote again; wiped both words down then stared. ARIANA KILLED LYDIA, she tapped the words with vigour. She gestured to Morgan, then tapped the board. YOU HATE ME.

Morgan did as she was asked and let go, but she scooted close until the console was pressing into her stomach and leaned  against her chair, trying to get Deirdre to meet her gaze. “Okay,” she breathed, “Those are two very different issues, so I think we should take them one at a time. She held out a hand, not quite touching but close enough to if Deirdre changed her mind. “I don’t hate you, my love. I don’t think I ever could.” If she didn’t have it in her to hate Deirdre after seeing her brandish a knife at Ariana, she didn’t think she ever would. “I swear to you, I promise, I do not hate you. Not one bit. I promise I love you. We can’t guess the future, but I’m pretty sure I always will. Sometimes there are things that you do that upset me or scare me. I don’t always understand you as much as I want to. But that doesn’t mean I hate you.You are still my love, and you are still my favorite person. If we have to go through this awful grief, there isn’t anyone else I’d want to do it with.” She wished, in selfish lonely moments, that there was more of the Deirdre she was familiar with to go through this with her, but this was the Deirdre she had. There was no other, and how could she turn away from that? “Is there anything I can explain better about that, my love?”

Deirdre blinked, her crying had ceased for the moment, and she hated how easily quelled it was by some sweet words—like a child, she thought bitterly. She wiped the board and started again. YOU SAID YOU HATE THAT. She circled the ‘that’, surrounding it with question marks. Then she gestured at herself. Underneath it she wrote, ME. She was that. She wiped it again. THINK I GIVE UP??? Her writing was quick, grammatical sense thrown to the side. HARD. VERY HARD. Her trying, and her living, all of it. Her moving along, the sense she was trying to make, the place she wanted to make for Lydia. The revenge she sought. All of it, very hard. But to say she’d given up was wrong, was insulting. Deirdre cleaned her words. YOU HATE CARING ABOUT ME. She dropped the marker, scrambling to pick it up, jerking herself away from Morgan. TRUTH. She underlined the word.

Morgan gaped, horrified at Deirdre’s explanation. She remembered her words exactly. She thought she’d been clear. “That is not what I meant at all,” she said. “You are not a ‘that’, Deirdre. Not to me, never to me. I don’t hate you. Or caring for you. Caring for you is--” Morgan felt herself getting louder with desperation and stopped to breathe again. “ When I said that I… I saw what you wrote. About wishing that wolf had killed you. Maybe it was more unfair of me, since you tried to take those words back, but I was just...so hurt by the thought that you might rather be dead in the grass in front of me than try to hang on. And...fuck…” Morgan deflated, more mirror images of her own pain crystalizing into focus as she went on. “Fuck me, I know what that feels like too. I may not understand where it’s coming from for you right now, not exactly, but I know it.” she said, her voice low with recognition. “I’m having a hard time, because the people I love are leaving me or dying, or right on the edge of one of those, and here you are, and I get scared like it’s gonna be the same thing. But when I’m not in my head or acting out of fear, I know how this really is. I know what it’s like to want to be in the ground or the ether with what you’ve lost because the hurt is just so much to bear. I’m sorry, Deirdre…” Slowly, she lifted a hand to Deirdre’s cheek, and cupped it tenderly. Maybe she would slap it away, maybe she wouldn’t, but Morgan would try, and tell her the truth nonetheless. “The truth, my love, is that caring about you, for you, any of that, is the most important thing I have right now.” Her smile turned sad. This had been true since she died and found herself with nothing left, but in the wake of this new death, the fact of her need had turned frightening. How could they be stable when they were both falling apart? What did you fix hurt with when everything felt broken? Morgan had no answers for herself. She only knew that she had to carry them long enough for the two of them to figure their shit out together.

Morgan exhaled, a look of chagrin on her face as she thought of how long that might be and how much hurt might lay between now and then. (How had Deirdre done this when she died? Granted, her depression hadn’t included any attempted fucking murder, but still…) “I understand if you have a hard time believing that, right now. I haven’t been the best to you. I haven’t figured out what you need most yet, for this. I keep...wanting our life to snap back into shape, into how we were before. I want that for us so bad, but that can’t happen, not with her gone. And it’s not fair of me to do that to you. And I am so sorry for that too. I really am, Deirdre.” Somewhere along the way, Morgan’s own eyes began to water as she started to see her love where she really was, all the places she was bent with pain, not just along her body, but inside. Stars above, they weren’t coming out of this the way they’d come in. They couldn’t even if they’d tried. And they probably shouldn’t try, with how badly they were falling apart over misspoken words.

Morgan had thought, deep down, that not being alone would mean the hurt would stop, or she’d somehow be protected. She’d thought dying had been the exception, because who was supposed to live through that, but looking at the mess the two of them were making on each other, she felt a creeping sense of dread that some suffering was unavoidable no matter what. “I want to be better for you,” she said quietly. “Will you let me try, please?”

Deirdre sniffled. Her words had been so piercing then, that this apology sounded fabricated. She didn’t move to anchor them together, but she didn’t flinch out of Morgan’s touch either. She met her eyes finally, staring at her for a moment. She glanced down and flipped the board towards herself, having a lot she wanted to write. She started quick, erasing with hissed curses until her words looked right. She flipped the board back. You don’t understand. She continued to stare, then elaborated. Ariana killed Lydia. She had someone wait in the trees for me. She’s a coward and a hypocrite. She let the words sit there before she wiped them clean. I wish I was dea— she scrubbed it off before she could finish, staring at the whiteness. TERRIBLE. She wrote simply, and then left it there. Vaguely, she knew her penchant for sacrifice was not entirely fair to Morgan or the life they’d built, but she was raised no other way. And while she could feel the wrongness, she didn’t know better. She tried. She tried. It wasn’t fair to say she’d given up. But her pain, all of it—everything that bubbles up to haunt her—it had clear enough paths and beginnings to her. She wanted to be over with her training with Regan, she wanted to absolve herself for every murder or misdeed she’d done. She wished she was either a better person, or a perfect banshee; she could not be both. She tried. She tried it. She hadn’t given that up. She cleaned the board. JUSTICE FOR LYDIA. That she believed, that she trusted in better. She knew the feeling, and she stared at the words waiting for them to coil around her with its steadying energy.

Morgan took Deirdre’s lack of flinching away as a good sign and thumbed the line of her cheekbone in tender strokes. “I love you,” she said. “But I think Ariana is a kid who still doesn’t understand the rules of the world we live in, or who the people around her really are sometimes. I think she wants to believe things are better. And a lot of the time that’s a good thing. This time, it wasn’t. I disagree with you, about her culpability on this. And maybe that’s because I still love her, I am more than ready to admit that, but I do. I don’t need you to be on the same page with me where she’s concerned though, so long as you don’t try to hurt her again. She’s protected, and I want to believe you couldn’t really have killed her, and there are other people more directly responsible who are owed something for what happened to Lydia.” She winced, apologetic for her, well, lack of apology.  But she couldn’t betray Ariana or break the honesty she and Deirdre held together by pretending to go along just because Deirdre was fragile and hurt. Not when the stakes were life and death. “But I do believe in justice for Lydia. I know I can’t fully understand what she meant to you, but I know enough, and I want you to have some of that, even if just little. I’m the last person who will give you shit about retribution as a principle.” She held her gaze, searching her face for an expression to read; it was so strange hearing her so quiet. “Can that be okay? If you and I are only partially aligned on this? Will you still let me try for you, Deirdre?”

Deirdre’s eyes grew wide, anger flaring her nostrils. She flicked the board back to her and wrote furiously. She sent a warden to Lydia. She tapped ‘warden’ repeatedly, emphasizing it. Others were there, yes. But where had they learned of Lydia? How did they know where she was going to be? Who created that opening for Chloe’s escape? The freedom of the humans she could understand, in some way, but Lydia’s death she could never. Deirdre’s mind was its own board of investigation, strung together by red string and the things she knew. She didn’t have Ariana’s confession in so many explicit words, but she had enough. All she needed were the other pawns in the scheme, Ariana hadn’t offered them up. Perhaps Athena would. She wiped the board. Not just any hunter. WARDEN. Bad warden. She sighed, wiped at the board again, even when it was clean. Why don’t you understand? Fresh tears renewed an old course down Deirdre's face. Morgan was always so good at understanding, and when she didn’t she tried, but it wasn’t like this. Deirdre considered then, realized it perhaps, that she was alone. Nothing to try anymore. Then she remembered what Morgan was saying about giving up, and she wiped the words down promptly. Walk outside? She paused, in the space left, she crammed more writing. No one is a child when they choose to take life. I was not. She is not.

Morgan sighed, her face too open to hide her disappointment. “I don’t know why she made that choice, with the Warden. I want to believe that maybe...I don’t know. But I would have done even more horrible things to save you, if you were trapped like that. I don’t know why I can’t…” Blame her. Be angry with her? Part of it was because of Chloe and her friends. Ariana was getting her retribution for all those crimes. And for three lives? Maybe if she was in Ariana’s place, that much pain seemed worth it. If she’d been someone who loved Chloe… But that wasn’t an honesty she could explain to this Deirdre. Morgan bowed her head, struggling with this moment. She felt like she was walking a fucking tightrope. She knew that the woman next to her wasn’t completely the Deirdre she knew. That woman had begged Morgan to be good to Ariana no matter what. And the woman next to her thought she was being clear and reasonable and justified. She didn’t even understand how she’d hurt Morgan when they’d pulled into that place outside of town. And she was so fragile, and so alone. What was fair, or right about this? At last Morgan said, “I’d like to take that walk, and put a pause on this so we can just be together, but before we do that...Will it make anything better for you, if I break off from her? If losing me is the price she pays? You don’t have to answer right away if you’re not sure, just...think about it, please. There’s more than one way to cause hurt.” She gave a pained, sad smile and brushed away Deirdre’s tears before getting out and coming around the side of the car to help Deirdre out.

Board wiped clean again, Deirdre wrote solemnly: you don’t understand. She stared off beyond Morgan with finality. She was alone; it echoed against her hollow body. She had to find peace for Lydia on her own. Maybe if there were some fae to rally, she could ask them—but with a warden like Athena around, and a judge like Ariana, it wasn’t safe. It would just be her, just her. Deirdre sighed, calmer now, though not any more relieved—only certain of her own grief fueled convictions. She freed herself from her seatbelt, leaving her board behind as she stepped out. Whatever she had to say now, she imagined it wasn’t plentiful, and she’d bear the pain of speaking for it. Maybe she’d figure out how to use the notes app on her phone, finally. “No,” she croaked as Morgan helped her, “you said you love her. I won’t control your life or relationships. It doesn’t matter to me.” Her eyes stayed on the floor, the grass was nicer here than their street. The houses big and fancy. Did Lydia think of the island as home? She certainly looked at home. “I changed. Lydia could’ve. Ariana didn’t even consider it. No one did. The non-fae are all…” She trailed off, her mind was heavy and she didn’t want to think anymore. She leaned against Morgan as they walked, and waited for the fog to crawl back over her mind and save her from herself. It was better to be in that discordant space, where memories and thoughts blurred. Ravaged by grief was almost a familiar feeling now, and the only way she managed to see Lydia again. “She cared about the supernatural.” Deirdre’s voice crackled, giving out on those words. She coughed, knowing it was wise not to speak again for a while. She let her mind wander instead.

“I do,” Morgan admitted. “I don’t want to lose her, and maybe that makes me a coward. But I think she loves me too, and I would sacrifice that love if doing so would truly help you heal.” Especially if it saved the young wolf’s life too. “I have lost people who were nearly my whole world before. I want you to be able to heal.” Deirdre’s dismissal of the offer wasn’t as reassuring as she might have thought. It didn’t feel like affection so much as resignation. As Morgan put her hand in Deirdre’s, giving her a careful squeeze, she felt the question of Ariana cordoning them off, another film of distance between their efforts to hold on. “No,” she said in a whisper. “No one considered it.” Ariana had reason to see her as only one thing, and that made sense. But Lydia had been leaving. The humans could have been freed and maybe with the safety of distance, with her life thrown upside down, maybe… Morgan shuddered. “I wish we’d gotten a chance to try and convince her. Help her. Maybe I didn’t explain it well enough, or maybe if she’d had you to help her… she really did love her friends. I’d hoped that with enough time, with the right approach… I really did hope for that…” Her voice trailed off. She realized she was trying to convince Deirdre of something, but she wasn’t sure of what. This new, grief-stricken version of her had so many doubts sprouting up from her pain, it was hard to know what she could trust to be believed about herself, what she could trust to stay the same in Deirdre. Morgan pressed a kiss to her shoulder and kept walking. Maybe uncertain was just how being with this Deirdre felt like. “What do you need right now, my love?” She asked after a while.

Sophie liked to walk atop an old stone wall on their way home from school. The wall was only a little taller than Deirdre had been at that age, and yet it looked so much taller with someone wobbling across it. Sophie took each patch of eroded stone with such great confidence, Deirdre never thought she would fall. She walked as if she wasn’t seven, and had known the stones for years. Well, she had fallen one day, Deirdre watched her arm break. But the peculiar bit wasn’t the falling but the return to form, she never stopped walking on that wall. Deirdre thought Lydia was a bit like that, walking on her own wall, even when she knew she’d break her arm. The wall was a disaster waiting to happen though, the middle portion overlooked a harsh drop. Why’d she keep walking? Why didn’t Lydia answer her phone? Deirdre stirred to reality at the sound of Morgan asking her a question, over the last few days, she’d done good to pick up on the auditory clue of it. Snapping herself back into place just quick enough to make it seem like she’d been there all along. “Walk,” she grunted, then surmised that wasn’t an adequate response and considered it. “Lydia—“ Her eyes trailed away. “Bird. Tree. Grass is nice. Did we need to mow the lawn?” She never knew what she needed, that was partly her problem. “Look around.” She beckoned, maybe the answers were hidden. Maybe there was a magical rock they needed to upturn. She couldn’t remember why they’d come here in the first place. Must have been for the magical rocks. “Look.”

Morgan didn’t have the knack for knowing when this Deirdre was slipping into the mazes that twisted around her mind, but she could tell when she was already there. Something went vacant in her eyes, like the part of her that mattered really was floating off into the astral plane or somewhere else. Morgan could see her still there as she tried to answer her question. “I think the lawn is fine,” she said. But, trying to follow the slipstream Deirdre was on, Morgan looked. “Oak. Pigeon flying. Leaves snowing: brown, brown, yellow, brown. Birch. Lamp crackling. Bench resting. Love walking.” She was looking at Deirdre as she said that, though she wasn’t sure if the gesture would be heard. There was still life here, that was always the most terrible and the most comforting part of loss. Nothing around stopped or faltered, only you. Morgan continued to look, wondering how long it would be before the wheel of life’s turn became a comfort again. She looked again, and stopped short. “Babe. Come back to me, babe. You need to look at this with me.”

The black patches of fur hid Lydia’s cat in the shadows well when she was curled up, but something had caught her attention and Niamh’s bright green eyes blinked out from under the bench. Morgan tugged on Deirdre and drew them closer, slowly, but closer. There was a scratch on her nose and built up crust around her eyes. There was no one to pick them out for her, with Lydia gone. She meowed quietly, so soft Morgan didn’t hear so much as she saw her small mouth part for an instant. How long had she been on her own? How frightened was she? Morgan felt a pang of guilt as she remembered Deirdre’s plan so many painful days ago. They were supposed to take care of her. Save her. But she was as lost as they were, waiting to come back to a home that didn’t exist anymore. Morgan knelt down and held out a hand, trying to coax the creature out.

“Love…” Deirdre mused the word in her mouth, played with its sound and ran her tongue over its meaning. She met Morgan’s gaze with a soft, temporary, smile. “Love.” But it wasn’t exactly what she was looking for. There was something here, she knew it. Like death, but all in her head instead of her body. Something missing. Something….cat. Deirdre’s eyes turned to Niamh. They shed tears instantly at the sight of her; skinny and shivering. She knelt down and, like Morgan, slowly reached her hand out. You remember me, don’t you? She asked gently with her eyes. The days Niamh had curled up in her lap, or used her long legs as a pillow. The nights Deirdre ran her fingers through her soft fur, the purring she got as a happy response—playing with her, or feeding her treats. The moments they spent together, with Lydia...surely the cat remembered? Niamh stuck her head out, cautiously sniffing the air. Her big eyes stared out at Morgan and Deirdre. Deirdre inched her hand closer, and when the cat didn’t flinch away, she seized the opportunity to scoop her up. “We should take her to a vet,” Deirdre said, ignoring the sting of speaking. Niamh looked up at her, as if she understood, and didn’t like the idea. Deirdre laughed in a cough, and whispered to the cat that she knew, doctor visits could be terrible. “Just to make sure she's okay. Then we can—can we take her home?” Deirdre pleaded, her own eyes a mimic of the cat’s wide greens.

Morgan sniffled as she scratched Niamh under the collar and picked debris out of her fur. It had been an awful few days for her, Morgan could only imagine. Maybe the home invasion of the rescuers frightened her away, or the police. Maybe she’d tried to come back and had gotten lost, or realized everything was wrong and no one was there to feed her. It didn’t matter now, she supposed. Niamh was nuzzling Deirdre’s hand and trying to make a bed for herself in her arms, the big baby. Not everything she’d lost had stayed gone. She was safe. Morgan met Deirdre’s eyes with a watery smile and brushed her cheek. “Of course we can,” she said. “She’s family, right? And we help each other.” Her eyes lingered on Deirdre’s meaningfully. And I will help you, they said, a silent promise. “Let me help you up so you don’t have to put her down, okay?”

Deirdre gaze dissolved into the distance. “Family…” She frowned, then looked down at Niamh. Lydia was family. This cat was too. But she wasn’t so sure Morgan understood it. “Family looks out for each other. Avenges each other…” But she wouldn’t let the rage-tinged acid that Ariana left in her mouth to taint this reunion. Deirdre shook her head, meeting Morgan’s gaze with her own attempt at something soft. “Okay,” she agreed, letting Morgan help her to her feet. Niamh mewed as she wobbled, leaning on Morgan for support. “Thank you, my love.” She smiled, “I don’t say that enough.” Those she didn’t say much of anything anymore. Deirdre gestured with her head to the car, asking silently if Morgan was good to drive---Lydia’s house forgotten in her mind.

Morgan swallowed her discomfort at the mention of revenge. She would save the discussion on the finer points of a just revenge for another time. The immediate danger had passed and Deirdre needed her now. She pulled on what reserves of calm and strength she had, trying to remember how Deirdre had carried and soothed her when she felt broken before. Morgan braced her girlfriend up and walked them back to the car. “You don’t have to,” she said softly. “Thank me, I mean. I appreciate it, but I do this as a matter of course, as an honor. That’s what it is to do something with you, for you.” She gave her a squeeze as they neared the car, opening the door for the pair and half kneeling in the grass as she secured them inside. What was it Deirdre had said once when she was on the floor? One day at a time? Morgan looked into the eyes of her grief stricken girlfriend, her pain only abated for the moment, her ache for retribution only festering under her wounds. “It’s okay, Deirdre. Or if it’s not, it will be. We’ll take this one day at a time until it is.”

“I don’t know if that’s true…” Deirdre mumbled; about the thanking, she’d meant. About it being a matter of course. “You were so hurt...on the floor that day…like you’d leave…” But where her thought would go, she didn’t know, she didn’t remember. And so, the idea drifted away and Deirdre turned all of her mind to the cat; to what good reamined of Lydia. Maybe there was someone out there who’d find it funny that Lydia could treat an animal so kindly, but would neglect to do so for a human, but it all made sense to Deirdre. Only fae understood each other. And the fae; their ties to nature were undeniable. “One day at a time…” She repeated with a rasp, running her bandaged fingers through Niamh’s fur. “...I don’t know if that’s true either.”

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Not Like That || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: After the events of The Red Room

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

SUMMARY: Morgan struggles with what she learned in the basement from Lydia and herself.

"To stay here forever

is not like that, nor even

simply to lie quite still,

the warm trickle of dream

staining the thick quiet.

The drawers of this trunk are empty.

They are all out of sleep up here."

-Adrienne Rich

CONTAINS: discussions of physical and emotional abuse from the past, lenan sidhe control, and fae customs. Brief mentions of vomit.

Morgan stayed in the doorway long after Remmy had taken their bag and staggered up the stairs to their room. She couldn’t feel her fingers, or hear the door close behind her. She looked at the lock and the car in the driveway, the blood on her hands from where Chloe had fought her, and the rips in her clothes and the shine on the hardwood floor. She looked until her eyes were too flooded with tears and she could only press herself against the door to keep from sagging and called for the only person she wanted right now. “Deirdre—? Deirdre!” She dragged herself along the wall, still calling for her hoarsely. “Please—Deirdre?”

Pruning flowers turned out to be surprisingly therapeutic, with everything on Deirdre’s mind, she welcomed the bit of gardening she’d taken up. It was so great of a distraction that she paid no mind to the lights turning on in her house behind her, or even Moira mewling at her feet. And only when she had a respectable bundle of flowers, pruned and ready to be stuck in a vase to wilt inside, did she finally turn to look into her home. “Morgan?” The flowers slipped between her fingers, their glass patio door slid open seconds later. “Morgan!” Deirdre ran to her, scooping her girlfriend into her arms. She noticed tears first, blood second, torn clothes third. “What’s wrong, my love? Come, lean on me.” The task of lifting Morgan up and getting her to some place comfortable for them to sit and hold each other was an instinctual one. She soothed and cooed all the way there, whispering unintelligibly about how it was okay—even if she didn’t really know what she was saying was okay.

Morgan clung to Deirdre with all she had. She couldn’t tell if she was lifted off her feet or if she was merely dragged along by Deirdre’s brute strength. She gasped for words, for any of the questions she had burning in her throat. “Please—” She croaked, digging her fingers into her skin, coughing with sobs. Deirdre was the only real thing left on the landscape of their home, the only anchor to cling to. “I—we—Remmy asked me over and we—saw—I don’t know what to do. We couldn’t help her and I don’t—” She wasn’t making sense. Despairing, Morgan sobbed in her girlfriend’s arms, curling up tighter against her body. “We found Lydia...in her basement...feeding...on her prisoner. We heard the way she...spoke to her.” Morgan fastened herself to Deirdre’s body, head buried in her neck. “Did she show you? Have you known how she...keeps them…?”

Deirdre waited and listened. Suddenly, her reassurances stopped. The circles she had been working across Morgan’s back with practiced pressure fell away, and she pulled back, just enough to look at Morgan. Some manner of confusion settled into her, she didn’t know which part Morgan took offense to, or if Lydia’s feeding was simply upsetting to look at. But she knew, without doubt, that it had hurt Morgan. Just how, she could figure out later. “Where’s Remmy?” She reached out to hold Morgan’s face in her hands. “I need you to tell me where they are right now. Are they there? Did they go to a friend’s? And the human...where’s the human?” She leaned in and kissed Morgan’s forehead, pressed her head against hers as they parted. “Can you tell me that first?”

Morgan gulped for breath, trembling in Deirdre’s grip. She couldn’t make her lungs remember how to breathe and whimpered, choking on her own cries as she tried to remember. The look she gave Deirdre as she held her away was panicked: no, please no, please don’t push me away, please. When she was finally able to draw in a full breath, it tore raggedly through her throat. “Remmy’s upstairs. In their room. Chloe is with Lydia. We didn’t...we couldn’t free her. Remmy wanted to trade themself, but we’re dead and useless and we can’t do anything for anyone and…” Her body shuddered. She wanted to be folded up again, she wanted to understand, she wanted to be forgiven, she wanted so many awful, impossible things.

“Remmy’s here?” Deirdre blinked, she hadn’t even noticed. But it was better, perhaps, that she was hearing this from Morgan and not Remmy. Morgan would hold far more understanding for the things she was about to say. “You shouldn’t have freed her,” she started, voice gentle and forgiving, “doing so would endanger Lydia, and Chloe. She’s not herself anymore. She is Lydia’s. And there’s nothing you, or anyone, can do about that.” Not that anyone should do anything about it, but she held her tongue on that point and simply shifted and pulled Morgan closer again. “She is already dead, Morgan. Do not feel bad for leaving her there.” But more than that—more than that—Chloe was a simple, putrid, inferior human. Morgan would not weep in guilt for a cow-turned-steak, and the humans were no different. Not in any capacity. Deirdre pressed her lips to the side of Morgan’s head, lingering there. “I knew,” she said, “I knew and I found nothing wrong with it—I find nothing wrong with it.”  

“Dead?” Morgan sobbed. “What do you mean? I don’t understand. She...she wasn’t dead, she was just...she was hurt. Lydia was hurting her and I don’t understand!” She pressed back into Deirdre’s grasp, giving up the fight against her body for stillness. “It’s not...I don’t mean what she has feed on. No one should have to...that’s not it.” She tried counting her surroundings, but her mind was weighted somewhere down the road in Lydia’s home, in that basement… “They were underground, in the basement. I didn’t think it was her. The way she was talking to her… it was like how my mother talked to me, when she was pretending to comfort me after I was punished. Like it was my fault she locked me up. And I thought, Lydia would never talk to someone like that, saying they made her do things she chose. But it was her. It was Lydia and I saw her make that woman… what do you mean she’s not herself? It’s just magic brainwashing, right? It wears off. She could recover and choose for herself and she could...she could be okay if the magic was allowed to wear off, right?”

Deirdre continued to hold Morgan close, with no more understanding than she had before, but growing more desperate to soothe her pain away. “She will be dead, eventually, I mean.” Deirdre tried, but she found herself struggling to form the right words. She didn’t know how far along Chloe was, but she also knew that she didn’t care. As far as she was concerned, the moment Lydia had chosen her, she was dead. Her fate was sealed, as it ought to be for a human. “It’s how leanan-sidhe eat, Morgan. Their kisses inspire love and devotion, and to keep them happy, you have to be clever about it. But it’s not--it’s not terrible. Lydia isn’t terrible with them. It’s just food; they’re just food. It’s no different than cattle raised on a farm.” She tried to search for what was wrong, the comparison to Morgan’s mother was a good starting point, but she knew Lydia was only feeding. And Chloe was only human. The pain Morgan felt wasn’t shared, and Deirdre needed Morgan to explain it better; but it seemed neither of them could reach any piece of understanding. “I-I suppose it could wear off…” Deirdre grimaced at the idea of freeing Chloe. “But why would you do that? Chloe is Lydia’s. To break them apart would be painful.” For Lydia, she’d meant. She didn’t much care how Chloe would fare after. And though Lydia would also recover, Deirdre couldn’t get the point in separating her from her rightly deserved food. Deirdre gulped, a quivering voice given to her desperation, “w-why does this bother you?”

“I-I’m...sorry…” Morgan stammered through her cries. She was being so useless right now. She couldn’t hold still, she could barely speak, barely remember breathing, she was just barely more than useless. She heard her mother’s voice in her mind, snapping at her to stop. To be better. She wasn’t raised to be pathetic and lazy and was she trying to be sent back to her room and cause her mother more grief? Did she not understand what this behavior was putting her mother through? Morgan stiffened at the recollection. Deirdre didn’t ask her any such questions, but Morgan could hear the distress in her voice. She apologized again and again, waiting impatiently for the panic to subside from her body.

When her body finally stilled, a stone-like numbness was left behind, leaving her feeling heavy and tired. “Chloe looked as old as me,” she said faintly. “I actually slung her over my shoulder and tried to drag her out of there. I thought if I was fast enough, we’d all have a chance. But the magic, the way it makes her...Lydia made her cry so bad but she still fought me to drag herself back. She wasn’t happy. She was being hurt, to keep her under control.” She grimaced and tried to press in further. She didn’t have the focus or control to mind her grip, but she wanted so badly to feel the comforting weight of Deirdre anchoring her. She whined and tried to fasten their bodies together tighter still. “You would never have hurt the animals on your farm like that by choice,” she said. “And she’s a person. I was looking right at her. And she’s a person; like I was a person. I didn’t think I was being complicit in someone else’s abuse every time I went to see her there. I didn’t think she was the kind of person who...used people like that, who could be cruel. Is this...is this really her whole species’ legacy? Do they all keep people hostage in their houses and hurt them so they stay ‘good’? Is that really supposed to be the ‘best’ way for them to live?”

“Don’t be sorry. Don’t be.” Deirdre breathed her assurances out with the gentleness she reserved for Morgan. There was some point she was still missing, but comforting Morgan took greater importance. She pressed kisses where she could, held her tighter, moved her hands around to soothe—everything she knew Morgan liked, everything she could feel Morgan was asking for. But while her body knew the language that needed to be said, her brain didn’t. Morgan’s mother was bad, and anything that might have reminded her of that would also be bad, but that wasn’t exactly what Morgan was saying. “It’s okay,” she mumbled, continuing her affection even as Morgan’s panic seemed to settle. “But we never fed from those creatures, and they are—” She gulped. They were, admittedly, different from humans. Not so much in value, though perhaps in their complaints and understanding of the world. “She is a…” Deirdre struggled to find her rebuttal; confusion grew on her features, and she stared at the wall beyond them with furrowed brow. She wouldn’t deny that Morgan had been human, once, and in some way, she still was, but in her mind the two were separate. She slumped and waited until Morgan was finished, gathering her thoughts between the pauses and questions. “How are you made complicit if you’re not participating?” She asked quietly, she still couldn’t understand what was wrong, but she knew Morgan thought something was. It occurred to her that she might have had more luck if she pretended like she did, but she’d always been honest with Morgan, and she didn’t want to stop just because she thought Morgan would disagree. She trusted that Morgan would try to understand her, just as she was trying to do. She trusted it. She trusted her. “I haven’t known a leanan-sidhe who didn’t,” she said, “and the ones I did know treated their humans far worse. But more than that, there are fae without their powers who will still keep humans as pets. Sometimes to serve no real purpose. We had a few, for a while.” She trusted her. With a trembling sigh, Deirdre brought voice to the thought she’d let loom in the air: “what does it matter if it’s the ‘best’ way? They’re just human. This is what they’re meant for.” Her words were not of the convincing sort, they were plain, and steady, and confused.  

“She’s a person,” Morgan emphasized. “Like me. Like I’m a person. And Remmy and Blanche and my students and Ariana and Nell and...and even if it’s too awful to think of her life as worth the same as yours or Lydia’s, the way she’s kept there, the way she was being punished…it’s cruel.” Morgan shook her head, body tensing again. “I didn’t do anything for her. Sometimes ambivalence can be harmful. When you could do something, anything, and you just don’t because you can’t be bothered--haven’t you been hurt like that too? People just standing by and watching, like you’re just part of the background when you’re small and hurt and you just want to be left alone? Didn’t you ever wish so hard someone would at least try? Or care enough to at least look upset?” She lifted her head to look at Deirdre, her expression wide and bewildered. She couldn’t help but sink with disappointment when Deirdre looked the same way. She and Lydia were so close, it didn’t seem like much of a surprise that she knew. Even if she hadn’t, Morgan hadn’t imagined anything like Remmy’s outrage. But seeing the absolute lack of understanding on her features, as if Morgan had started speaking in a different language, sunk another one of her hopes and dulled the light in her eyes. “She was in the same house as me, and I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even wonder. And I still can’t do anything. The worst part is I know I...I can’t do anything for her. I don’t want Lydia to get hurt. No one else can find out about this, because they’ll be horrified and want to do something too, and Chloe is going to suffer and die hating herself and feeling so small and I’m going to let her because I can’t…I don’t want to hurt my friend.” Morgan shivered, her skin crawling with disgust at herself. “I don’t understand why it’s like this,” she said, her eyes welling with tears again. Morgan’s voice pitched high, pleading, though she wasn’t sure for what. “Help me understand why it’s…is it fun? Does it make your people feel stronger against the Wardens and the people who hurt you by taking one of their own and making them a thing? Is this a cultural recompense for how imbalanced things are? Is it just too dangerous to get back at the people who actually hurt fae? Or do people just do it out of habit at this point? I just...I don’t understand. If she had wanted me when I was alive, would you have given me over? You said you couldn’t bear to even pretend I was your toy girl, but I’m not any different from Chloe, Deirdre. Is that what I was really meant for? A magic leash and someone to make me work until I bleed?”

“T-that’s not the same,” Deirdre offered meekly, shrinking into herself. “And that’s not--I don’t---” She swallowed thickly, uncomfortable with the comparison Morgan drew, and worse with knowing how angry she could feel at the people who’d watched her pain. But this was different, she told herself this was different. She waited, and she listened, and she spent a moment composing her thoughts away from the jumble that bubbled in her stomach. She continued to hold Morgan, now in some part for her own sake. Would lying be so bad? Deirdre could see Morgan deflate with her confusion; something wither behind her eyes and her own heart sank at the sight. The last thing she wanted was to hurt Morgan, and the part of her that knew how to perform to people’s ideals considered doing what she’d done all her life--play a part. But this was Morgan, and she’d always been honest with Morgan, and even as her blood ran cold with fear, she wouldn’t give Morgan anything less than the truth. “But Chloe’s not thinking about that. She can’t think about that. Magically, she can’t.” Deirdre whimpered, desperate for the two of them to reach the understanding that always came so easily. “And why would you consider that there might be humans in Lydia’s basement? That’s not something anyone thinks of. You don’t...hold any blame for thinking of Lydia as your friend, for not knowing. But--” But did she hold any now? Was freeing Chloe the right thing for her to do now? Deirdre grimaced again; she had no answers to offer, and more questions herself. “No it’s just--it’s convenient. To feed like that, off one consistent human. It’s more sustainable. And Lydia’s abilities...they do think that they love her. They are devoted to her, that is by no trickery of her words. That is, at its base, magic.” And they were human, what did it matter? What did it matter? Deirdre grew increasingly stiff, and though she didn’t intend for it to happen, her grip on Morgan slackened and her body began to throb under the tightness of Morgan’s clinging--against her weekend’s injuries. “No…” she let out a tearless sob, a pathetic hiccup of sadness. “I would never let anyone do that to you. I don’t--Not all humans are---” But the topic was too complex for Deirdre’s mind, too heavy against the things she knew, and the strange things she was learning. “S-some humans are just food. Some rabbits get caught, some go on. It’s just how it works. I don’t--” She swallowed again, whimpering. She didn’t like these questions, she didn’t like this conversation, she didn’t -- “H-how did you find out about her basement anyway?”

“It is the same,” Morgan’s voice was barely above a whisper, but her tone was insistent. “What I am doing to that woman right now is the same thing as what the people who watched you get hurt did, the same thing the people who ignored me get hurt did too. And maybe they have reasons, maybe they can be forgiven, but they did it and it hurt and it was awful. I am doing something awful.” They both were, but Deirdre’s look was turning to fear, and Morgan couldn’t bear to levy that kind of guilt on her. “Having magic re-working her brain doesn’t make it real. It’s not the same as real love. It is nothing like what we have. And we would never, never treat each other so horribly. We are never going to make each other suffer that way.” She fixed Deirdre’s gaze with her own, both of them trembling with fright at the weight of what hung over them. “I’m not a rabbit; I never was. I was just a human who was trying to find a better life. I wasn’t any more special than Chloe. We’re the same. She could have been me. She didn’t do anything to deserve this, that I know of. She was just there, and someone decided she had to suffer. And—maybe it is better that one person suffers like that instead of a dozen or a hundred, but I don’t understand why Lydia has to put her into that awful place, like her whole life isn’t already being sacrificed. And I don’t mean the house, I mean the place you and I were put in when people we loved hurt us. The place where I would’ve pitched myself off a building if it would’ve made my mother say she loved me back. That desperate, lonely, self-loathing place we both know. Except there’s no ‘after’ for her. Because the big all-powerful fae magic said so and  I care too much about my friend to even try again. Because I love Lydia.” She lowered her head, hating herself for the truth. “Please don’t go,” she whispered, draping her arms around Deirdre again. She stayed there for several moments, still trembling at the realization at what she was capable of.

“Remmy messaged me because they…” Her voice halted as she realized what the truth must have been. “They heard gunshots coming from the basement a little while ago. They were worried that someone might be hurting Lydia. So I said we should look for clues, make sure everything’s okay. And so we went. And there they were.” She let out a shaky breath. “Remmy’s destroyed about it. They didn’t even look at Lydia when we left. They’ve been hurt all their life, they were kept in a cage by another fae, they can’t bear to be in a place where something like what’s happening to Chloe is going on. I don’t think they’ll stay here long either, I have to go over and get the rest of their stuff tomorrow, though.”

“No it’s not, Morgan. It’s not the same…” But if there were any words to explain it, Deirdre couldn’t find them. She didn’t try very long to, either. The topic made her sick in a very particular way, a way that she couldn’t name. The feeling it drummed up was too terrible to even attempt to voice. She quivered and whimpered wordlessly at it, until Morgan moved along to something she could stomach verbalizing. “I don’t mean it’s real love...just that Chloe doesn’t know better. When you tried to take her, it won’t--I mean, you can’t take her away like that. She’s oblivious to whatever Lydia does.” She had meant to make it sound like her ignorance was some blessing, but having been a child under her mother’s thumb, she knew all too well that it wasn’t. It was, instead, a different kind of evil. The terrible, nameless feeling bubbled again. “You are a--” No, Morgan wasn’t a rabbit. Deirdre swallowed. The feeling grew, hitting the back of her throat. Her mother’s voice barked between the pounding of Deirdre’s heart in her ears. “Some people just---it just happens to them. That’s just---” And if there were words to justify it, Deirdre couldn’t find them either. Humans are worth nothing. But what of Morgan then? What of the woman she loved, who was worth everything? “W-what else is she going to do? Chloe thinks that she loves her, and she’ll be desperate for Lydia’s attention as long as she’s being fed from. Wh-what else is---wouldn’t it be worse if she was mean to--she’s not--” The feeling was in her mouth now, and despite Morgan’s plea, she pushed her girlfriend aside and rose with a start; bolting to their kitchen, draping her head over the sink. She hadn’t thrown up in quite some time, it wasn’t usually how her sickness or anxiety would manifest itself. But it was as if she was given too much, too soon, and her body had rejected it. Deirdre gripped their counter tightly, heaving. “G-gunshots…” She breathed, running the tap to wash her mouth out. Gunshots didn’t make sense. Why would Lydia hurt them like that, if it hurt her just the same? And shouldn’t Sammy have been there too? Or--- The feeling rose up and emptied out of her again. She groaned and shoveled more water into her mouth.

“How do you feel?” She called out, working vigorously on getting the taste out of her mouth. If anything, it gave her something else to focus on. “Do you want to see her still? Go back there? I could go if you’d like to avoid it.” Deirdre groaned, pulling a glass from the cabinet and filling it with water. Maybe that would help. Maybe all she needed was to drink something. The taste had turned from acid to blood to acid again. The wound in her stomach, which hadn’t gotten much of a chance to heal, sent pain shooting through her body. It seemed like everything was rejecting itself. “It’s just what happens,” she mumbled, “that’s what the humans are for. And that’s just how she feeds it’s---” Deirdre took a long, suffocating sip of her water, spitting it all out into the sink as she found her throat burned, and her body wouldn’t accept anything more.

Morgan was too unbalanced from her panic and her sadness to catch Deirdre before she doubled over at the kitchen sink. Instead she stumbled behind her, knocking into the walls and furniture on numb feet until she was in the entryway, supporting herself against the counter. “Gunshots, yeah,” Morgan said in a whisper. “I didn’t ask about that, I didn’t think to. I don’t know why she...what would make her do that to someone she was keeping, if she needs them alive.” Morgan fidgeted where she stood, not knowing if she should give Deirdre her space as she processed this, or if she should be holding her hair and making tea. Morgan split the difference and shambled over to where they kept the kettle, and filled it up from the other side of the sink before setting it to heat.

“I don’t know how I feel,” she said, reaching over to tie back Deirdre’s hair. “I want to know she’s okay. I left things with her as best I could, and I know she doesn’t understand why either of us feel the way we do, especially Remmy. I want her to stop being cruel, and I want her to not feel so…” Morgan shook her head. “She was really hurt by how things went, and I don’t want her to hurt. And I can’t have both, or either, I guess. I feel like I should never want to see her again, but I...I don’t know.” She combed her fingers through Deirdre’s new ponytail, imagining how it ought to feel so she wouldn’t have to think about her willingness to see Lydia again. “Just because it’s what happens, doesn’t mean it’s what me and Blanche and Erin and Nell were made for. I don’t believe you really think I was made to spend my life being broken by someone. And I’m not upset about how she was made, about what she needs. That wouldn’t be fair. It’s the part where she’s keeping a woman hostage and crushing her inside while she does it. And with the magic, the desperation it makes people feel, it’s probably worse than anything I ever suffered under my mother.” She eyed Deirdre, wondering how it compared to the way Deirdre ached for approval. “I’m good to pick up Remmy’s stuff tomorrow. But you should probably go see her too. Tonight, or I can drop you off or...I don’t know. But I don’t want what happened today to stop you from being her friend. You need each other.”

Deirdre stared into their sink, watching her distorted reflection in the shiny stainless steel. Her grip on the counter slackened as the world spun, and she was remembering why sudden movements and exerting pressures were bad for her now. She’d have to ask Lydia what that was about, when she got the chance...which then begged the question of why Morgan and Remmy hadn’t just asked either, but what did that mean then? That they’d never find out Lydia’s secret and keep their conditional opinions? Only fae can understand each other. Deirdre heaved and ran the tap again, forcing her twisted reflection out, and the chilling voice of her mother to find a different host. “I don’t understand it either,” she shut the tap off, letting the plopping of water droplets play against the sound of the kettle. Why was the kettle being used? Deirdre looked up, noticing for the first time that her hair had been tied, and Morgan was beside her. Some job she was doing of comforting her, how laughable was it that the roles had to be switched? She didn’t even care that Lydia held humans in her basement, she gave no concern to how she spoke to them or the punishments she dolled out. “I think you underestimate my apathy, Morgan.” Deirdre breathed, only just coming back to herself. The thought of Blanche and Nell being hurt was upsetting, but if it was what must happen, then she didn’t care. If it was what a fae thought was apt, it wasn’t her business. But as she thought of it, her insides lurched again—though she had no way of telling if it was from residual iron pain or some manner of panic. Everyone has their roles… Deirdre’s jaw tensed. “There are things humans are made for.” She felt sick again, but she wouldn’t budge. Her mother was adamant in her head, and her thirty-two years of life meant something. “How else is she supposed to speak to them? They’re nothing. They’re meant to be nothing.” They weren’t people anymore, and she couldn’t grasp what was so hard to understand, or why Morgan’s denial made her feel like she was being gutted. Deirdre turned her attention back to the sink as the kettle whistled. “Do you...want me to go?” Was that it? Did Morgan think she was some monster too, for failing to find any issues? “You said you still love Lydia is that….is that true? Are you—“ Deirdre tensed, she refused to empty any more bile into their sink, and forced herself—just as her mother taught her—to remain steady.

“If you really don’t understand, I’d rather you just own that than parrot back everything your mother told you,” Morgan said, her voice suddenly sharp and heavy with sorrow. “I know it’s easy not to care about people you don’t know, and even easier not to care about ones you don’t see, and no one gives a shit about everyone, that would just be absurd. I would never ask for that. But if you could not talk about me like I’m a thing just because this is a challenging moment for you, I would appreciate it. Because that is what you are doing.” The kettle began to seam and Morgan took it off the burner and began to prepare a brew for settling Deirdre’s stomach. She shaved a fresh piece of ginger into the steeper and passed the mug to Deirdre. She did not answer Deirdre’s question for what felt like a long time, wrestling with her anger and her own selfishness. “I’m scared, and I feel sick, and I’m sad, and I hate everything and I want you to go back to holding me, because you’re my person and I need you.” she mumbled at last. “But I want you to do what you want too. And I know Lydia needs someone right now. If you want to go be there for her, you should. But before any of that, I need you to tell me that whatever happened in the past, whatever our friends or other fae homes choose to do, we are not going to be the kind of people who keep and hurt others like they’re our personal things. Whatever else happens, we are not going to be cruel in that way.” Morgan finally met Deirdre’s eyes. She didn’t have the strength to steel herself against anything. The edge in her voice had already dulled. She was weary, lightheaded, and aching to feel again, and there was no strength inside her to hide any of it. She envied her girlfriend’s resolve and feared what she was about to use it for. But she couldn’t be anything less than honest with Deirdre’s last question, however much it cut her to say it simply. “I still love Lydia, yes. I don’t feel like it says anything good about me, but I do. And I still love you. Even right now, like this. I love you always.”

Deirdre stared back at the sink, though she’d cast it away, she was now desperate to find her reflection. Her eyes that looked like her mother, her nose, her lips. If she could find the face, she could easily summon back its words—as Morgan put it, the parroting back she knew to be truth. She took the cup as it was offered to her, and tried in its murky depths. “I never liked keeping humans like that. They were wrong; hollowed out. We had this one that wouldn’t stop smiling because he’d been bound to, and when my mother finally grew tired of the sight she—“ Deirdre took a slow sip of the tea brewed for her, she welcomed the bitterness and spice, anything above the everything else she was feeling. “We had so many that were missing pieces of themselves, because someone didn’t enjoy how they acted. We can’t bind humans like a leanan-sidhe and so it was always a little clumsy. And the distaste for a smile or sad eyes always grew. They were....” She began to search the tea frantically, she wanted an escape from the story she dug herself into. She’d only been a child then, and a child when all of them had gone, but the image of them was burned into her mind. But all she could find were eyes that weren’t quite as sharp as her mother’s, a mouth that frowned, and a face that was softer. “I can tell you,” she heaved, “that I never want a human kept like that here.” But she told herself again that there was nothing wrong with what her family had done, and less wrong with Lydia’s actions. This is what humans are for. This is what humans are for. This is what— “Please don’t make me decide.” She set the cup down and turned to her love. “I’m tired of choosing things, picking sides.” She moved and wrapped her arms around Morgan, as she wanted to. “I know you’re in pain, and I want to stay. And I can’t—“ She couldn’t make that choice over going to Lydia. She loved her, she cared for her, and she knew exactly how devastated she must have been in the present moment. To think of Lydia alone, in her house, in the wake of this pain, was far worse a horror than the dissected humans. “Just...tell me you want me here, and I’ll stay.” But to leave Morgan alone was its own agony. She paused, “ and I’m sorry, you’re not a thing to me. That wasn’t what I wanted to say.” It was clear to her that when she said humans were useless, Morgan was the obvious exception. “I think—“ Deirdre swallowed. She thought loving Lydia meant everything good about Morgan, but she felt her opinions too wrong to voice anymore, and she held them. “Do you—Are you going to go back for Chloe? Do you want to? Is that...something you want to think about now? I can—I can take the question back if—” She shifted trying to hold Morgan tighter. “Do you think loving me says nothing good about you either?”

Morgan should have known that Deirdre’s mother would have formulated something even worse than what Lydia had devised for Chloe. She began to feel queasy herself, but it affirmed her belief in Deirdre to know that she would never think of doing the same. She was complicit, like they all were now, and probably had been for longer because she loved Lydia and her humanity was bundled away under so many layers of hurt and conditioning, seeing something so normalized in its horror couldn’t reach. But she wasn’t the kind of person who could perpetrate that with her own hands, her own words. She wouldn’t be spilling her guts in the sink at the thought of it if she was. Deirdre would never. That meant something.

She welcomed Deirdre’s arms around her and sagged into her grasp. A dry sob of relief cut through her lips. She didn’t want to be the one who decided how lonely Lydia was going to be tonight either, but she understood that Deirdre was tired, and the past few days had been difficult, and that she couldn’t stomach any more guilt for the day. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t want Lydia to be alone. And I don’t want her to hurt Chloe worse because of what we did. But I don’t want to be alone either. Please stay with me…” She buried her face deep in her shoulder, too ashamed to look as she made her plea. “I want to help Chloe, but I don’t want Lydia to starve, and I can’t just pick someone off the street at random to take her place either. That would be just as bad. And I don’t know anyone horrible enough to be given to her, not with the way I know they’re going to be treated. It’s hopeless.” She sighed, nodding encouragement to Deirdre as she held her tighter. Yes, I need this, please. “Right now I don’t know if I’m a good person at all. But I know I’m better than I was before because of you, what you’ve given me and what you’ve let me give back. That has to count for something.” Whether it was enough in the grand scheme of things, Morgan wasn’t sure.

“Do we have to be good people?” Deirdre asked, “do you have to be a good person? Do you want to? Does that matter to you?” Morgan’s ideology was still one that perplexed Deirdre, but she understood then that there was a line Morgan drew here---she would never hurt someone like that. And to do that would make her-- Nausea choked up Deirdre again, she gulped and squeezed Morgan against her despite the weakness of her body. “I think you’re good. I don’t know if my opinion matters anymore, but I think so.” Deirdre leaned them up against the counter, her body growing heavy and tired. She wanted to sleep, and wake up in a time where she didn’t feel so sick and terrible. One of the medicines she’d ingested earlier must have left a bad reaction, she figured. That must have been it. “Lydia won’t hurt Chloe, I don’t think. And it can’t be just anyone, you can’t just replace her with anyone. The people that are fed from have to be...special.” It wasn’t so simple, and it was wholly too complicated, and she didn’t know how much Morgan knew already and how much she could stomach explaining now. “Can we go to bed, my love? Is that okay? I want to---I think it’d be better.”

“I don’t know. I’ve never really asked myself before,” Morgan admitted. “I don’t know…” She shuddered in Deirdre’s arms and forced herself onto her toes so more of their bodies could connect. “Your opinion always matters,” Morgan said. Deirdre wasn’t going to win any morality highground contests, but she tried and she cared, and when she was brave enough, she could be astoundingly kind and understanding. She had tuned so much of her horrors into wisdom and she loved Morgan with such intense purity, it astounded her sometimes. And she could never be like Lydia, no matter how brutally she’d been conditioned to do it. Morgan reminded herself of all this as she lifted her head to kiss her love’s jawline. “It’s hopeless for her,” Morgan rasped. “I understand that. Please…” Don’t remind me.

Bed sounded like a much better option than staying propped against each other in the kitchen. Deirdre’s weight was shifting downwards, and if they were going to have their energy give out early for the day, they may as well be somewhere soft, where they could hide their faces in their pillows and each other. Morgan agreed by way of leading Deirdre up the stairs, arms still partially entwined. She lingered at the door as she closed it behind them, letting out a sigh that took the rest of her strength with it. “I’m ready to rest for awhile if you are, but I need to get this out first because it's important: you need to be careful with Remmy. I know I have serious gaps in my understanding, but with them...they aren’t going to be okay. I don’t know what the right way to handle this is besides waiting a couple days for Remmy to pull themself together, so just be careful.” She untangled herself as she spoke and shambled over to the hamper in the corner of the room to dump her dirtied clothes before crawling into bed. She looked over at Deirdre, inviting her in by peeling back the sheets on her side and offering a look of the saddest longing.

“Does it?” Deirdre breathed, wincing at the misery in her own voice. It didn’t seem like Morgan much valued her mother’s thoughts, and Deirdre and her mother were of the same mind. Or so she had wanted to argue, but instead let anguish claim her expression and bitterness tinge the ends of her words. “I don’t mean like that...I just mean...I’d have to kill her if she was freed.” Her eyes were stuck on the wall beyond them, watching the texture, remembering what the walls in her family home were like---was there more tooth? Were the shadows darker? “If you’d like something to blame, you could make it me.” But she listened, and when she shook her head and came back to herself, she could hear what Morgan was asking her. “Sorry,” she frowned, “I don’t mean---don’t listen to me.”

She was glad to be pulled along to their bedroom then, where everything was theirs, and she wouldn’t dare look for her mother in any reflections. It was far easier to be herself there, whoever that was. She imagined Morgan would be as relieved as she was, but was met with a deep, wilting sigh. “Remmy?” She blinked. Would she not normally be careful with them? As Morgan moved to the bed, Deirdre stood there in confusion and considered it. She knew she could be crude at times, and while Morgan understood her better than most, she assumed what Morgan was saying was to not tell Remmy she thought Chloe’s life was meaningless. But… “You want me to lie to them?” She said, trying to piece it together. Deirdre frowned, pulling off her own dirt-stained clothes before crawling in beside Morgan, holding her just as they always did. “I--should I not tell them that I knew all along? It seems in poor taste to lie now.” But if Morgan thought it the wisest thing to do, she could follow her advice. “I can wait to tell them, if that’s better.” But what would be the barometer of Remmy’s emotional integrity? When did she know it was okay to share her truth? “I thought I was always careful.” Well, that Deirdre knew wasn’t true. She’d tossed Remmy in front of a car, after all.    

“No, don’t lie,” Morgan said faintly, latching onto her girlfriend and burrowing in. “That’ll only make it worse whenever the truth comes out later. And I know you know Remmy and I are different in the way we think about things, so you’ll be tactful, so...maybe what I’m trying to say is...be careful with yourself. I’ve never seen them as angry as they were today. They might say something hurtful, and I want you to be okay.” She pressed a soft kiss to Deirdre’s neck and pulled the covers higher so she was practically buried out of sight. “Just give it a day or two. Or maybe whenever they reach out to you. I don’t know anything right now, I just feel like they’ve hurt enough for today, and you need a break too.” She was quiet for a moment, breathing slowly to match Deirdre’s. “And about what you said before… I do care very much about what you think. The things you say wouldn’t excite me or bother me or fascinate me or whatever else if they didn’t matter. And I wish you wouldn’t be in such a hurry to be blamed for things you didn’t do. I don’t understand that. You aren’t Lydia, you didn’t do these things, I don’t want to blame you. You don’t have to be blamed for the things that upset me…”

“With myself?” Deirdre blinked, shifting to pull Morgan closer to her. Her hair was a fluff above the sheets she pulled up, and the sight itself brought a smile to Deirdre, even if the topic wouldn’t. “I think I’d be okay, no matter what Remmy said. And I owe it to them, to share the truth. They may not want to stay here, knowing I knew about Lydia. And that choice should be up to them.” She couldn’t imagine leaving the topic to sit for a day or two, when she knew what needed to be said and what Remmy deserved. If they didn’t like her after it, she had no problem staying somewhere else while Remmy regained themself here. “Lydia and I....aren’t too different. I mean, she’s my friend, and I care for her. And I won’t let her take this on alone. I may not have done anything, but I knew, and I wouldn’t feel right being blameless where she’s sitting at home, torn up.” There wasn’t much she could give Lydia now, and certainly nothing to bring Remmy back, but fairness seemed like an apt start. “Lydia and I have done a lot of wrong together, I wouldn’t let her take that on alone, I won’t let her take this. If something upsets you, I feel like I’m due some blame.” But she was spent from the topic, and only marginally better being able to lie down and speak. She wanted rest, and she wanted to believe Morgan that she was allowed a break. “I love you,” she mumbled, “...thank you for...well, everything.”

“Well I’m not going to be upset at you just because you want me to,” Morgan mumbled. “And maybe it’s awful and biased and I’m sure someone else would say an accessory or an accomplice or a bystander or whatever else is just as bad, but I’ve hidden or run from awful things I could’ve helped too. Nothing even close to this, but…” Morgan sighed, unsure how to finish the thought. “You’ve always told me the truth, in everything but this, which wasn’t yours to tell. I wasn’t surprised when you said you knew. How could I be? So I’m not upset either. I’m...disappointed. A little sad. But none of that requires blaming you. Or if it does, I’m going to forgive you.” Eventually, when her insides didn’t feel like a pulpy wound. “I don’t know what I’ve done that’s worth thanking, but I love you too.”

“Lydia’s secrets aren’t mine to tell, no, but I--I see a lot. A lot of people in worse places than Chloe. It’s not my place to do anything about--” Deirdre swallowed thickly; Morgan might not have appreciated a regurgitation of her mother’s words, of being an observer first and foremost. Her truth was that she did do something about it, where she could. Justice was never so cleanly delivered among the humans, but it could be by her hand. She frowned. “Nevermind.” There was nothing she could say now that wasn’t simply her mother’s words, and she hadn’t yet decided if they were hers too. Death and Fate were not hers to meddle in, but there was nothing said for working just beyond its reach. The affairs of fae were...different. “I’m sorry,” she said, “it never struck me as anything terrible, anything to share in the first place.” It still wasn’t exactly striking her as bad, except for the inexhaustible sickness that coiled around her stomach when she thought about it, and held it against what Morgan had said. She sighed, heavy from the topic. She felt as if her tongue was swollen, and her throat three sizes smaller. “Let’s just...rest now. I think we’ve both deserved it.”

Morgan didn’t have any more words to give. She peeked up from the covers just enough to look at Deirdre’s face in all of her heavy, awful sorrow. There was something comforting in even her frown lines and the droop of her slanted eyes. Morgan touched her cheek tenderly with just the tips of her fingers and reminded herself of how soft it felt for something so cold. She wondered how long it would be until the rest of her melted from the ice and came free. And what if it never happened? Morgan found that she couldn’t entertain that thought with much seriousness, not in the span of five hundred years. If was time enough for Regan to control and accept herself and learn to be whole again. Time enough for more kind humans to pass through their lives, for trees to grow to their fullest and oldest selves and the home that had been a torture chamber and a prison to be changed brick by brick. People who wouldn’t change didn’t get sick with empathy, and their capacities for kindness weren’t half so deep. There was a difference, however pitiful and fine, but it made a difference to Morgan. She only had to help things along and wait. And however badly it spoke of her, Morgan knew as she closed her eyes and prayed to the darkness for quiet that she would.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Empty Spaces || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: Later, after Remmy’s reckoning with Deirdre

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

SUMMARY: “I don’t know what I think. I don’t know what I want to think. I don’t know if I take all this back in a couple of hours, I don’t know. But...”

CONTAINS: brief self-harm, mentions of past abuse and fae customs

Long after Remmy had left, Deirdre’s gaze was stuck on the door. As if they would come back, and the hole in her heart would close up. Strange, that she knew this wouldn’t be the last time she saw Remmy, but the realization brought her no measure of peace. Loss was a tricky thing. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said, eyes still centered on the door. “Try to explain my duty to them; it doesn’t change who I am, or the things I’ve done. And, I suppose, not Remmy’s opinion either.” She blinked, freeing tears to stream down. As Morgan and Remmy spoke, she remained quivering on her spot on the couch, a spot she hadn’t relinquished even when they’d gone. “And the promise,” she swallowed, remembering Morgan’s difficulty in trying to verbalize the weight of Deirdre’s killing--burdened by the promise she’d made when Deirdre first confessed it to her. “Let me take that back, my love. You shouldn’t have something like that to harm you.” She stared at the door a moment longer. Silence ticked away between them. Remmy would not be coming back, and so, Deirdre tore her gaze away and flickered it up to meet her girlfriend’s. “I release you from your promise not to tell anyone of my duty.”

Morgan lingered in the doorway, watching the empty sidewalk where Remmy had wandered off with their bags. She had wanted to give them a ride, but the words stuck in her throat along with the explanation she’d been aching to give Remmy but couldn’t: it’s not a made up construct, it’s flipping magic! Universe-bendy, real, old magic that you don’t control, you just listen to! But Remmy had been clear about what kind of life they wanted for themself, so maybe the particulars wouldn’t have mattered to them the way they did to her. And what about her? Remmy had said they were still friends, they would still spend time together, keep things separate from Deirdre, but how long would that last? Would they forgive her when she finally gave Constance what she had coming to her? Could she even tell them about the hunters at that stupid history museum? Morgan continued to watch that patch of sidewalk until Deirdre spoke.

“I just think it’s different,” she mumbled. “Your choices are so limited with your duty, and what you do strikes such a critical balance in the world, and balance is...so fucking hard to come by. But I don’t know how much they would’ve believed me or understood anyway. I think it’s hard to conceptualize, when you’ve never touched magic.” Sighing, she came back to the couch and wrapped her body around Deirdre’s from behind. “And you don’t have to do that. I can make it again if I remember the words, or with the caveat that I can only tell someone with your permission. I don’t want to get too comfortable in a moment and make some stupid mistake.” She kissed Deirdre’s wet cheek and risked squeezing her a little tighter. “I’m proud of you, you know. I know that must have been scary, and I know it hurts now, but you did so good with this. So good, my love. It means everything that you tried the way you did.” And that she had admitted to Remmy what she hadn’t been able to say to Morgan: she didn’t know what to think anymore, or if she truly thought anything at all about this. Her posturing was just a last-ditch panic effort to cling to something, to have some sort of answer at the ready instead of drowning in how much she didn’t know.

“No, I trust you, Morgan. Not to keep it--I don’t care if--” Deirdre swallowed, searching herself for the strength to turn around and hold Morgan back. Her hands felt too unclean, and her body too unworthy. She couldn’t take Morgan into her arms and ruin her too. If this house had to be tainted with her decisions, Morgan would be left out of it. “The secret itself doesn’t matter to me. You shouldn’t have your words controlled by something else. You’re free to say whatever you want, to whomever. I don’t want you to make the promise again, you don’t have to.” Wasn’t freedom what mattered in the end? Deirdre picked at her scabbed hands, slowly healing from last night’s burn. She picked until her skin stung, and blood pooled under the peeled wound. Her mind was as numb as her body, only able to hold feeling for a second before it evaporated. Vaguely, she could feel Morgan, but the longer her girlfriend lingered, the harder it was to tell her apart from the crushing weight that normally held around her. “Proud…” The word nearly made her scoff, and as Morgan continued, Deirdre’s contained scoff morphed into a bitter laugh. “Proud of what?” She turned, her fear of corruption overpowered by sharp confusion, as if Morgan were making fun of her. “Proud of kicking another person out of this house because I happen to think humans are only good for food? Because I value fae more than I do anything else? Is that what you’re proud of Morgan?” Her mother would certainly be proud of it, yet as Deirdre searched for her, she was silent. She found instead the thrum of her heart, the ticking of their new replacement clock, and her ever present tug into Morgan; the things that were her, and them.

“Hey, hey…” Morgan took Deirdre’s hands in hers and brushed her lips over the sensitive wounds, so soft she couldn’t feel it at all. “Don’t hurt yourself, babe. You never need to do that.” She drew Deirdre closer to her, trying to bundle her into her arms properly, chest to chest, so there was nothing to look at save for each other. She didn’t know what to do about the promise, if she should insist, or ask again when Deirdre was less heartbroken, or if she had to carry the responsibility of her freedom. It felt dangerous, and Morgan shivered with dread over the hopes she carried for the people in their lives. She still couldn’t tell anyone, could she? But there would be time to worry about that later. Morgan would carry that weight, if it was what Deirdre wanted.

She exhaled slowly before she spoke, making sure her voice was soft and gentle. “First of all, Remmy made a choice, and that’s different. You did everything but throw them out. But no, those are not things I am proud of. But I am proud of you.” She kissed her cheek. “You were brave enough to be honest. You didn’t lash out, you were kind. You gave Remmy all the affection you could, and respected their choice. You admitted that you don’t know what you really think about some of this stuff. And coming from a place where you were supposed to have the answers for everything, that takes so much courage and vulnerability.” Morgan kissed her again and tried to let their heads linger together, Deidre’s bloody hands still clasped in hers. She ached to pass all the understanding she held into her, all the gentleness, and all the compassion. If loving Deirdre could have unscrambled the brainwashing in her and set her free, everything would have been fixed in that moment. “I love you. You did so well. Please don’t hate yourself for trying.”

There was something familiar in the sight of Morgan’s lips against her red hands. Like the princess and the frog, she thought. Except Deirdre’s hands did not transform into something equally as pretty for being loved, it only made her feel worse to see it. Weren’t there more beautiful things for her to be putting her love on? The disgusting, wrinkled frog was only just that. “They wouldn’t have made that choice if I was….different. Would they? If I was more...human.” She winced to use the word just as she always did, as if it might be followed by a chorus of laughter and sneers. “No, I didn’t—I said I knew exactly what I think. I told them about the cattle, they just didn’t think I was the person saying it.” Which was as ridiculous as it sounded, right? She begged her mother to return and tell her so, she considered settling even for the voice of any other family member. Emptiness greeted her and she sighed into Morgan’s kisses, her gaze glued to their laps. “Did you get replaced by something else on your way here?” She asked in seriousness, voice tinged with hopelessness. “It sounds like you’re making fun of me, and if you are. I don’t—“ She closed her eyes, desperate to summon memories of Ireland. Darkness. Any flash of her training. Darkness. A whisper of the loud fae parties and the human bodies used carelessly as entertainment. Darkness. In a flicker, she saw a piece of soggy cardboard wings, and the warped echo of some spriggan’s laughter—at her. Deirdre gasped and shook, forcing her eyes open and back to the sight of Morgan’s shirt. “You wouldn’t do that,” she said, “make fun of me. So I just don’t get what you’re doing right now.”

“It’s not a bad word,” Morgan whispered. “Human. Sometimes the way you say it, it becomes one, and it hurts. But it’s not. And Remmy was clear that they want to separate themselves from violence.” Which might mean separating themself from her, if they stuck to it. But Morgan thought that with enough time and space she could make Remmy understand the need for compromise. “It’s not because you’re a bad person. Because you’re not a bad person.” She brushed back her love’s hair and pressed more kisses to her wet cheeks. “I swear to you, Deirdre—” She murmured her name against her skin, delicate as a butterfly. “I swear to you, I am me, your Morgan, and I am speaking in earnest when I say that you handled this so well and I am so very proud of you. Remmy told me everything. And you shouldn’t be surprised that they saw through your mother’s shadow just as easily as I do. It’s okay. You’re not her, and she’s not here.” Another kiss. “Let me hold you, huh? I want to keep talking about this, because I can’t let you hate yourself for doing as best you could with this. Now tell me, as much as you can, what’s so confusing about this and I’ll try to explain as best I can…” She steered Deirdre’s face gently to look at hers, hoping that the strange capacity for perception Deirdre had for reading her would prevail, and something would click. Or at least the tortured wrinkle of doubt would ease itself from her love’s forehead.

“It’s not bad for you. But it’s supposed to be bad for me.” Deirdre tried to explain, but her words sounded flimsy even to her. All she knew was that her mother loathed it, just as she loathed other words and ideas like child and love—words that still felt wrong coming out of Deirdre’s mouth. “Violence is...around me, then, isn’t it?” Deirdre swallowed and tried to imagine herself without it. She knew death, she knew blood, she knew the feeling of pressing a knife into soft flesh. She knew it better than she knew herself. She craved its familiarity. Her life was violence, it always had been. “No, I suppose I’m just a violent one then.” Wouldn’t it be nice to have the freedom to choose a life without it? Perhaps she could understand to be happy for Remmy about that then, but all of it still hurt. All of it still felt like she’d done something wrong. “She’s everywhere.” Deirdre mumbled into their kiss, slumping against her girlfriend. “My mother; I see her, I hear her, I remember her. She never goes away, not completely.” And though she was silent now, Deirdre could feel her constant ring inside of her bones. Her mother wasn’t just...her mother. But just as Deirdre was a mouthpiece for her, she was a mouthpiece for their duty, their tradition, their ancient, harshly ingrained ideals. Each Dolan was never whole; parts of themselves chopped, quartered, and given up. They were their own cattle. Deirdre’s eyes fluttered, and she tore her gaze away from Morgan. “You and Remmy were angry enough at Lydia to leave her. But I don’t see how she and I are any different. We are fae, and we carry our sins together. The things I must do are not so different than what she must. And yet…Remmy chose to leave. What makes that different?”

“It’s just a word,” Morgan said. “It only has the meaning people give it. “If you say it like the person I used to be was just filth and garbage, then that’s what it becomes. And if you say it like it’s just something that is, it becomes that too. It’s how you use it, and what you believe about it, that makes it hurt us or not.” Her tone was gentle, and she took Deirdre’s lack of resistance as a sign it was alright to keep comforting her. She brushed her fingers through her hair, tugging gently as she went. “Violence is around both of us, and our whole world. I don’t think Remmy understands or believes that right now. Maybe they just need a long break after everything they’ve suffered. But I don’t think it’s something anyone can completely escape and I don’t think it’s always a bad thing. Violence is just a tool and sometimes you need it and sometimes you don’t. And your violence, the kind that you have to do because of your visions--” But Deirdre had been raised to think in such awful binaries, and those teachings, along with the scars they’d burned into her, were so difficult to shake. Morgan kissed Deirdre’s temples and whispered in her ear, “Well, if she starts to interrupt me, just say so and I’ll tell her to shut up and wait her turn…” She trailed off, gently sucking and nipping at her love’s ear, anything to soothe her body long enough to feel safe, to feel able to listen. “You and Lydia aren’t the same person. And town isn’t going to fall into literal, semi-divine chaos as consequence of her stopping the abuse she puts the humans she feeds on through. What you must do isn’t some social construct passed down by generations. As far as I’ve been able to understand it, fate isn’t kind or discriminatory when she doesn’t get her way. What you do helps. The ideas that Lydia’s enacting...it’s not her fault she was raised to think this is how the world is, and finding a way to feed that works for her must be unbearably difficult. But there is no good reason for making Chloe hurt the way you and I were, twisting her inside to hate herself and blame herself for not being enough. She’s already bound and devoted to her, there’s no point in forcing her to spend the rest of her existence in and out of that small, awful place that we’ve both been to. It’s a cruel, excessive choice and not even a desperate or spontaneous one if she has a whole torture basement set aside for making them suffer physically, as if being shattered inside aching for her wouldn’t be bad beough already.” Morgan heard herself getting angry, thinking about all the ways she shrank and contorted herself to please her mother, all the hours she spent begging to be let out. She couldn’t imagine being stuck that way, not even having enough headspace to delude herself into thinking things might get better someday. She took a deep, banshee-length breath and continued much softer, “No one ‘must’ do something like that, Deirdre.”

Deirdre whimpered into Morgan’s touch, eager for more yet torn asunder by the idea she didn’t deserve any of it. All she could do was squirm and muffle her sobs in her throat. She wanted to crawl back inside their warm world of love and ease, but she was stuck in this cold, unforgiving one. She didn’t understand her point about words being just words, her family coated things so heavily in metaphor that words were never just words to them—everything was a message. And she didn’t get the offer for Morgan to silence her mother, it sounded impossible and foolish. But she could understand violence being a tool, and figured that one out of three wasn’t so bad. Deirdre groaned against Morgan’s skin, mind heavy with conflicting teaching. Just as hard as she tried to understand everything else, she wanted to know what Morgan meant by stating these differences. If she could get a clean fifty percent on this, that was more or less a passing grade, right? But she couldn’t do it. She loved Lydia too much to see her doing wrong, she clung too tightly to her fae community to see their history as wrong. In her heart, she felt Lydia and her were one: secrets shared, sins equal. What better way was there? There was no better way. “It’s just what—you don’t understand it’s just—it’s not like that—she—“ Deirdre groaned again, pained. “How else is she going to—Lydia isn’t like—it’s not that bad if—but I—“ If she were less stubborn, she would have seen the transparency of her chopped sentences; even she couldn’t finish the thought. Deirdre agonized, and curled herself into Morgan. “She must,” she babbled, “she must.” Bile burned its way up her again, and she hissed all of her torrential thoughts away. “I don’t want to be better than Lydia,” she admitted, “she’s done so much good for me. I can’t be better than her on some strange moral ground. I don’t want to be. Don’t look at me like that.”

“Oh, my love,” Morgan sighed. “There’s no contest between you, no ranking system, and I don’t believe that Lyida or most people for that matter can be sorted cleanly into good or bad, better or lesser in the first place. Admitting that the way Lydia treats the humans who depend on her almost as much as she depends on them is cruel doesn’t diminish her kindness or her loyalty. This wouldn’t be so painful for me or for Remmy otherwise. Lydia used her power to get me something I needed, she never once questioned my fight against Constance, she warned me about the fae world and how dangerous it is, and let me ask her all kind of annoying questions about it and visit her when I was anxious. And she did so much for Remmy, and so much for you… none of that goes away, Deirdre. It’s all true. I just want you to admit it. And I think you already know it, at the very least…” She resumed her course of affection, curling down and inward so she and Dierdre made a cocoon out of their nesting selves. “And it’s okay, that you’re someone who would never be cruel the way she is anymore. Maybe because of what happened to you, you never could be, I don’t know. But it’s okay. I love you for it, Deirdre. You are kind and you try for your friends and you try to understand and I love you for all of it, and more besides.”

“What does it mean then...that I get to keep you while she’s...all alone.” Deirdre sighed, closing her eyes. She’d known how wrong it was all her life, in a way. As a child, watching their half-living human servants. Unease always settled inside of her with them around, though she was thankful for the unjudging company they offered. It was the same something that led that child to grow sympathetic to the animals; the child always cared in her own way. It was the very thing Deirdre hated about her. “I brought Chloe cookies,” she confessed quietly, “I bandaged her fingers.” She wouldn’t say it, but she knew Lydia wasn’t right. Her gifts to Chloe were admissions of guilt and understanding; she could not be strong enough to admonish Lydia, and she could not be strong enough to whisk Chloe away into freedom. The young child who cried for the cows, who dug her feet into the ground and pulled on her mother to spare the sheep...was her, whether she liked it or not. But the little girl that hoped and dreamed and still had the strength to try and disobey, was gone now. Only a bitter memory of something she tried to erase. “I love Lydia,” she said. “I just don’t want to be in a place where...she can’t exist. I want her here. I want people to like her just as much as I do.” Where her inability to justify Lydia cracked, tender loyalty pierced through the shell. “And all the other fae...my whole life, my community, I don’t want them...to sound so bad.” Morgan could say all she wanted to about the non-existence of moral binaries, of the rigid categories of right and wrong, but it wouldn’t stop Deirdre from feeling it. If they weren’t right in all capacity….then they had to be bad. And she couldn’t let them be bad. “They’re all I have...most days.” Tears born anew, and Deirdre pressed herself into Morgan as tight as she could, clinging to her like the only life raft in a choppy sea. “I love Lydia,” she repeated, “maybe she can...learn to be better too.” The young banshee wasn’t sure where her thoughts would be tomorrow, if she’d still hope for Lydia’s change or if the voice of her mother would come back to tell her that humans were like cattle, but she held on. The little girl seemed to breath again in the rare burst of thought, and she asked instead for her voice of rebellion. “I don’t know what I think,” she admitted, “I-I don’t know what I want to think. I don’t know if I take all this back in a couple of hours, I don’t know. But you’re right, Morgan. The way she keeps her humans is…” Deirdre sobbed in lieu of an answer; feet dug into the mud, crying, please not the pigs today. The world could never be kind enough to listen to the girl, but Morgan was.

“It just means I made a choice. Because of what happened to me, it barely felt like a choice at all, but I made one all the same.” Morgan said. “I could never stay with someone who made a person feel that small and desperate and miserable just because they could. Or I could never learn to live with myself if I did. I know too much about how it feels.” She gave more kisses and rubbed more circles into the tense spots around her body. She feared Deirdre would break under her new admissions. Deirdre didn’t know how to see gray, even if it was all over her. She described her work in terms of glory or pure evil, nothing in between, and Morgan didn’t know how to slip in between the two extremes and plant some forgiveness or mercy inside her. But at least Deirdre seemed to have lost the stubborn engine to deny the truth. Morgan sighed with no small amount of relief and whispered a flurry of you’re okays.  “I knew you were kind. I’ve always said so. It’s okay, my love.” It wasn’t the same as saving Chloe or defying Lydia, but given how much defiance had been cut and tortured out of her, it was still no small thing. Morgan remembered the stories of the animals Deirdre cried over, the silences left in their wake. She remembered how Deirdre had delighted in brushing the cows on that farm they visited, how attentive and attuned to their needs she was. If she could only be less afraid...

“I know you love her, even more than I do. It’s okay, Deirdre. And of course she can exist. She’s still your friend, and I would never ask you to choose between us and her unless. As long as you’re not like that…” she could deal with the apathy and the lesser culpability. It wasn’t much different than what she was doing, keeping the rest of Lydia’s secrets from Ariana and everyone else she knew. Other people would say it was wrong, but those people didn’t know Lydia the way they did, and how impossible it was to un-know someone. “Hey, not every fae is like her. You’re not like that, and Mina isn’t like that, and maybe even Felix too. He’s got his own dead witch girlfriend, so that’s a little promising, right? No one group of people is a monolith. Maybe you have prevailing views and traditions that typically get enforced, but you aren’t all the same, and spending time with your people doesn’t always have to feel like a fraught compromise or a betrayal to who you really are. And community doesn’t have to just be fae. We can make whatever kind of family or community we want. And, you know, maybe Lydia can come to understand. Maybe she needs to hear it from another fae, or to know that she’ll still have people if she changes the way she’s doing things.” That last one sounded more like a pipe dream. Lydia hadn’t even hesitated to tell Remmy she wouldn’t love them if they were human. And maybe that was a lie and maybe it wasn’t. But there was no war or anguish inside of her that Morgan had been able to see in that basement. Only loss.

Morgan gathered Deirdre up as if to lift her, ready to take them to bed if that’s what she needed. She wished she could lift Deidre out of her doubts so easily, and that there was a whole glen of fae who were too human to sit at ease with the rest, who could take Deirdre into their arms and smile at her bare back and see who she was under all the expectations that had been put on her. “You know, Deirdre. What she’s doing is cruel and she doesn’t need to. And at least for me, I would go back to her if she let Chloe go tomorrow and let us help her start over. You can’t un-know this, my love, even if you try. But I don’t need you to have any grand answers about anything right now. You’re hurt, and you’ve admitted something painful about one of your very best friends. You don’t need to know the answers for how to be kind and yourself and in touch with fae or anything else.” Morgan burrowed her face into Deirdre’s to kiss her cheek. “I love you. Tell me what you need right now. Whatever it is.”

Morgan had a way of sounding believable, or rather, as though her truth was so simple and alluring that to disprove it would be a far greater pain. It was comforting thoughts, that kind Deirdre had always wanted to fall into—recklessly, carelessly, like she really just might be that good, kind person. It was a kind she had been told to be better than embracing. The Dolans, watchers of life for centuries, knew truth; real, unrelenting truth. The mind could be weak to the temptations of falsehood, lies were always warm and inviting. But truth was cold, buried under mounds of damp dirt, only to be dug by hand where it would reveal itself under one’s nails. And it was right. Just as righteous as them. But there was Morgan, whom she loved, and whom she would never speak of with tongues of sacrilege. Her love was good and honest, and often a seed she never thought would grow in soiled truth-dirt. Yet it did, and where she dug she found thick roots. She could keep searching around them, down below where the truth lived, but then the seed would have nowhere to grow. And so, without the heart to uproot it, she considered that the truth might never have been in the dirt after all. It wasn’t so much that Morgan was easy to believe, like the sinful lie, but that growing always took a great deal more effort than digging ever did—plants withered, roots rejected soil. Deirdre sobbed quietly in Morgan’s arms for a moment, thinking about seeds and letting them grow where they fell. Maybe this one would grow into something. “I love you,” she mumbled, “I love you so much, always.”

She sniffled, and finally bundled together the courage to meet Morgan’s eyes. “Are you sure,” she asked quietly, “that you don’t need me to admit anything? Because I...I don’t think I can. I think I’m still trying to dig. I don’t think I can try anything else right now.” she lifted her hand up, heavy as it ached to have gripped Morgan so tightly, and rubbed her eyes with the tips of her fingers, as if rubbing away sleep instead of tears. “I want to go to bed, I think. And I want to hold you, that I’m sure about. And I want to wake up in a world that makes a little more sense.” Deirdre sniffled again, chasing the sound away with a chuckle as she leaned back into Morgan’s face. “You know, like the way loving you does. A place like that would be pretty nice.” There already was a seed that had grown full and lush, after all. If only she could remember to believe in it more. “But don’t carry me, I want to walk with you, I want to get there myself. I can, just so long as you let me lean on you.”

Morgan returned every declaration Deirdre gave with a quiet one of her own. Her girlfriend knew, of course she knew, but she hoped they served as a gauze over all the pierced places in her heart. When it was time, she eased them to their feet without letting go, the way they often did when they were knocked this low. “Then walk with me,” she said, leading her down the first few steps. “And maybe when you wake up, that place will be waiting for you.”

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Don’t Do Sadness || Morgan & Deirdre (feat. Ruth Beck)

TIMING: Current

LOCATION: Houston, Texas

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

SUMMARY: Morgan flies back to Houston to pick up Agnes’ bones. But there’s other family who need her attention first. 

CONTAINS: Mentions and discussions of past abuse

By the time the Houston trip finally rolled around, Morgan booked and planned their stay around her old hangouts in an autopilot haze rather than any eager sentiment. Thanks to modern technology, they largely avoided customer service desks and transitioned from plane to car to hotel without having to ruin anyone’s day. Morgan even put in a delivery order for her once-favorite Vietnamese restaurant from her phone and had it brought up like room service, with just a knock at the door and a quiet ‘thank you’ called into an empty hallway. There was little to say, since the gritty smog didn’t reach her nose and the lo mein she got for herself was soaked in soy sauce and sriracha before she could get a hint of any flavor aside from the brains she’d picked up on the way to the hotel. Morgan hadn’t even liked sriracha when she was alive. At the end of the night, they left the TV on (Titanic was playing on TNT) and laid down holding each other. Morgan thought of all the things she’d once imagined showing Deirdre, the cemeteries, the magic shops, the food, the landmarks. With crazy, non-existent zoning laws, high rises rubbed elbows with tire shops and mom and pop burger joints. There was no such thing as a ‘generic’ street until you were at least thirty minutes to an hour outside of downtown. But those were Alive-Morgan’s plans. This one just prayed that after they dug up what she needed tomorrow, they could bubble themselves up and forget all about White Crest and everything they’d left there on their last full day before they had to go crawling back.

But before they could dig up Agnes Bachman’s grave in the dead of night, Morgan needed to scope it out. And before she could do that, she owed her dead their respects. Sunrise seemed best for the visit. No one would be there except for the workers, the humidity was too intense, and morning traffic on the freeways was already in a gridlock. People would want to be anywhere but Washington Cemetery. Morgan reached for Deirdre’s hand as they passed through the gates, taking a second to appreciate the vastness of the sky. Houston was a flat swampland; from the right place, you barely had to tilt your head back to see as far as the human eye could see. The sky stretched above them like a golden purple dome, not a flash of wings or shadow or teeth in sight. The grass was patchy, but mowed even, so you could hardly tell the weeds from the rest. Flat headstones tiled the area in a perfect grid, so orderly you could play checkers on it with pieces big enough. Her parents were off to the side, near the roar of traffic and mumbling drifters. Every time she visited them, Morgan feared she would forget the way and get lost, but as soon as her feet met the pavement, she knew just where the next turn should be. “Agnes is kinda here by chance actually. When the older cemeteries got condemned, they split up the bodies to be re-homed or whatever, and some randos got the fancy cemetery next door, and Agnes and her kids got this one. They did some random algorithm or lottery thing, and apparently  it made my grandmother so mad that she would have to share space with her. But it’s really not that surprising, with our run of luck.” She winced. “I know it’s not…as pretty or anything as what we have back home. Not sure what Texas has against standing tombstones. Maybe it’s all the hurricanes? At least markers don’t drift off course when they’re nailed flat to the ground.” That didn’t sound how she wanted to either. “I’m sorry, what I’m trying to ask is, how do you like it?”

Deirdre would not let them drown. For all the sadness that congealed around them, for every shred of darkness that pleaded to be accompanied, Deirdre would be stronger, louder. For all the pain that weighed down her love, she would carry it in herself, and lift her free. Months ago, a trip to Texas together would have read like a happy occasion—they’d spent nights tangled together swapping stories of their homes. She knew Texas through Morgan’s eyes. The smells, the heat, the thick and sticky air, were not new to her mind, only to her ill-equipped body. Though Morgan moved like she wasn’t so much coming home as she was walking to her death, Deirdre held a measure of excitement about everything, despite everything. It was magical to be in the place that once only existed in the stories she loved. There were the trees Morgan described, and while not those ones exactly, they were just as important for Deirdre’s slowly filling image of Morgan’s life. Their hotel held a beautiful view, and a large, lush bathtub perfect for soaking off the Texas heat. Morgan couldn’t see it, she realized, which is why she pointed each detail out with a smile. It was fine, anyway, love didn’t need to be hundred to exist. Whatever tar was intent on dragging her girlfriend underneath, she would be the life jacket. She could love enough for the both of them; be enthusiastic as if she carried two minds and care as if she were born of two hearts. And, of course, Vietnamese food from such fame as Morgan’s stories of sad nights eating it alone, was just as good as she described it then. Titanic, played in low quality on some choppy basic cable, as featured in tales of Morgan’s viewing it, was just like she said it was. And the side-of-the-road cemetery was just like she heard it might be.

“I love it here,” she breathed, happily leaning over to stare down at each name they passed. Loving it here, was not entirely accurate. She’d complained about the sticky heat already, waltzing around in a thin summer romper and still feeling like her skin was melting off. And she always liked cemeteries, so much so that it wasn’t even a question worth asking. It was being here, in the places that Morgan walked, in the home that she knew, that Deirdre loved. It felt like she had a place in those stories too, in her life. “As if pretty matters...” she breathed. “Oh my love,” Deirdre turned her attention away from the names she didn’t recognize and smiled at her girlfriend. “Don’t worry about that.” She paused and drew her into her arms, picking her up for a quick spin and kiss. “I love you. Do you know how exciting it is to be here? I finally get to see the grass that you did, smell the scents that you did, see the—“ she gestured at the sky “—everything that you did. It’s like...being a part of you. Knowing you. And you—“ she grinned and pressed another kiss to her girlfriend. “—are my favourite thing to know. I would never tire of it.” Even if it felt like Texas was trying to dump hot glue on her. “Tell me more,” she asked, brushing Morgan’s hair back before she settled her hand on her cheek. “Show me more, whatever you feel like. It’d be impossible for me to hate it.” She turned her attention to the cemetery and chuckled, “were you worried about me not liking a cemetery or are you concerned about your touring skills?” Deirdre turned back with a smile. “I think you’re doing a wonderful job, and this isn’t the only time we’ll come back here—we can take a thousand trips, if you wanted them. So...don’t worry; I always enjoy myself when I’m with you. And you’ve got more important things to keep your mind on.”

Morgan’s eyes welled as Deirdre poured all her affection on her at once. She knew she was loved unconditionally, that whatever else came up, Deirdre would care and care and care as long as Morgan let her, but with the air beneath her feet and her banshee’s strong arms around her body, it all pierced her shell and rushed in as a flood. She had burned to give Deirdre pieces of her no one else in town, no one else alive possessed. She had kept them up for hours some nights, talking about how good, how interesting and exciting for all its mundaneness Houston was. The murals, the galleries, the roadkill, the sprawl, the smell. Now they were here and she felt so weighed down by herself. The air, so eerily imperceptible to her new body, felt like it was pulling her into the ground.

I want to be here, Morgan reminded herself. I need to be here.

She clung to Deirdre for a moment, anchoring herself in her body. “I love you too,” she murmured into her shoulder. “After this I’ll show you anything you want. We can go anywhere, I’ll take you to a play at the last minute, they have one with skeletons and murder in it. Or this Italian restaurant my mother would insist on going to that does brunch, or the little one my dad would take me to sometimes that’s not as fancy but makes the best fettuccine and you can have fresh scooped gelato there, and this giant chessboard, and the Rothko chapel, it’s all in black and the skylight is beautiful, but it’s always a little cold in a good way and you can pray to any being in the universe there, and…” The list tumbled out of her in a rush, even if her voice didn’t quite lift to the occasion. Half of the words on her lips were impossible to recapture the way she was. Fresh tears came to her as she parted with pieces of each memory. The awkward silence as she and Ruth scraped their forks at Birraporetti’s, running out of things to say about the ballet only twenty minutes after the show. The mess she made on her shirt with the gelato in Rice Village, the dangerous thrill of buying a new shirt at the boutique next door instead of mending it with magic while her dad lingered outside for plausible deniability. Having something new, and whole, and secret. And there were hours singing loudly in her car, sloppily slathering sunscreen on her forearms too late because she’d gotten so caught up in the escape of the moment.  It was all over and never coming back, as permanent as the ache her parents left behind.

Morgan breathed slowly and wiped her eyes, flashing Deirdre a sheepish smile. “Sorry,” she said. “I know everything is so awful back home and I’m trying to shake it off, but I am so glad of you, and so relieved. This is everything I want right now, even if it doesn’t look like it. I...stars, I hate not having anything to do after this visit most years, and now I do, and I’m not so painfully alone.” She jumped on her tiptoes and kissed her again as best she could. Wrapping herself against Deirdre as much as she could, Morgan led her around the next few turns along the path, guiding their steps by intuition and distant memory, until she saw two ghostly figures clustering by the fence.

Morgan stopped short. She couldn’t make out their faces, but she knew who her parents were. Somehow, even with all the Agnes drama, it hadn’t occurred to her that she might see them. Certainly not her dad. “Oh, stars…” Neither of them moved. Maybe they didn’t see her yet. “You see them, right? They’re really here, it’s not a trick this time. Shit, I can’t even…Deirdre, it’s my dad.” His face, from this angle, was whole and warm, and he did see her. He was just watching as serenely as he’d watched everything in life. His head tilted to one side, like he was working out how to parse a line of poetry, and Morgan burst with a laughing sob of recognition. He had the same ugly Hawaiian shirt he’d died in, and from this far away the sick on his shirt looked more like a food stain. It was so normal, so silly and safe and unlike anything in her life now.

Morgan didn’t know what to say to either of them, if they would be proud or even like the person she had become, but even having a fight in front of her girlfriend didn’t seem so bad right now. “It’s real, right?” Deirdre’s eyes could see them, if she tried. It wouldn’t be like before. How could it be, with her dad here? “We have to—he’s gonna love you, come on! Now!” She tore herself away and pawed for Deirdre’s hand, running for the spot so fast she nearly lost her shoes.

Deirdre leaned down to press her lips against Morgan’s neck, laughing in a warm flutter against her cold skin, afraid if she kissed her anyplace else, she might interrupt her. Her mind drifted as easily as Morgan rambled, she pressed nipping kisses in response to each point: a play would be divine, Italian sounds great, I’ve always liked fettuccine, what does a giant chessboard even look like? Houston held so many memories for Morgan, and just as many for Deirdre to learn. As well as she knew her girlfriend, there would always be some things that came new, and she could think of no greater delight than to know them. There was another feeling she didn’t know how to explain, something about life at her fingertips, a world under her lips. She loved their bubble in White Crest, but the earth was vast, and it could be theirs. Houston, Austin, whatever part of Texas Morgan wanted to show off—that was a new world for their taking. Was it so wrong for her to want more for them? To share in everything life had to offer, and then some? To love Morgan in White Crest, in Houston, on every inch of land they set their feet upon? Deirdre lifted her head from where she’d nestled it and smiled warmly. “Don’t apologize, my love. You don’t have to be chipper all the time, excited to show me restaurants and parks all the time….I just want to be with you, in whatever shape that takes. That’s always what I want. And if you want to do something after this, we can. And if you don’t, we can do that too. I’m really just happy to be here, and share in all of this with you….it means so much to me. Thank you, for letting me do this with you. Nothing will rob me of my excitement to be here. I love you, my Morgue, I always do.”

She held Morgan tight and careful, praying that her words might carry the power to soothe some worries. Visiting family graves was no easy task in general, there was no need for her love to be plagued by other thoughts. While the Dolan catacombs were a dark place of pride and worship—there was no sadness in death, after all, it was the greatest show of servitude—Deirdre imagined that Morgan, whose entire family was buried here, would find a visit heavier than most. She was prepared to hold her extra tight, even closer, kiss harder and love louder. She would not allow the sheet of sadness to smother Morgan. It was natural, then, that when Morgan happily yanked her along, Deirdre was shocked. She hadn’t even processed the information that Morgan’s father was a ghostly presence before she was running alongside her.

“W-wait! I’m not ready!” Deirdre yelped, laughing. She hadn’t expected to be meeting her girlfriend’s ghostly father either, and so she had no charming quips prepared. Should she have brought an offering? Did she call him Hector or Mr. Beck? Would he know what a banshee was? Was it appropriate to mention how rich she was before or after she explained the lengths at which she loved his daughter? “What am I supposed to say! All I know is that he likes musicals! I didn’t brush up on my musical knowledge!” She grew sweaty from anxiety rather than the heat, for once, blinking rapidly as her eyes spread into darkness and oh Fates, he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Of all the shirts she pictured he must have died in, that one wasn’t it. His face was soft like Morgan’s, and he tilted his head just like her and—Deirdre shook her vision back to normal and tried to think. She needed to ready herself. At this rate, her eyes would be glued to his questionable fashion and that’d just be rude. Did humans still do that thing where parents had to be asked before their daughters could be courted? Why was it that she suddenly couldn’t remember basic manners? They ran to a halt and Deirdre doubled over trying to collect herself. She huffed and tried nervously to straighten out the wrinkles in her dress. “What if he hates me because I forgot to bring flowers?” She mumbled to herself, deciding finally on a simple ‘hello’. She took Morgan’s hand back in hers for emotional support and as her eyes darkened, she rehearsed her introduction. Hello, Mr. Beck, so nice to meet you, I love your daughter so much I’d burn the world down. No, that was too strong. Howdy, Hector, lovely ghost weather we’re— “My love, I don’t see him.” Deirdre blinked her death-vision away, turning to her girlfriend. “...Morgan?”

Morgan only looked away for a second. It was too good to see him laughing to himself, beaming and shaking his head like he’d just figured out something wonderful and obvious to turn around every time she said, it doesn’t matter, it’s fine, you’ll be great. But she looked back once so Deirdre would know by her smile just how true it was, and when she turned to the grave where her dad was waiting for her again, he was gone. Morgan stopped short, staring at the empty space. There wasn’ anywhere for him to hide in all this open space. And he wouldn’t. He’d never played those kinds of tricks on her. She searched the sky, and the roof of a plain mausoleum across the way, the still-fluffy top of an oak tree, but he was gone.

“What the fuck…” she whispered. She had seen him. It hadn’t been in her head, she’d really seen him, and he’d looked at her. He’d been happy. He didn’t know anything about the choices she’d made since her last visit, but he’d been happy and he’d wanted to see her. “Where did he go? I don’t understand.”

“Oh, and what am I, chop liver?” Ruth Beck demanded.

Morgan was too hurt to hide her pained grimace. This wasn’t about her mother, at least she’d gotten to practice speaking to her once before. But she hadn’t had a conversation with her dad since she was eighteen, a stupid kid in over her head. Why hadn’t he stayed to talk to her? Why didn’t he want to meet her again? Morgan continued to stare at the emptiness over his grave, mouth trembling.

“They don’t bring you the metaphysical manual for ghostly rules and behavior, Morgan. You don’t seriously expect to be handed a tidy little answer to make you feel better, do you? It’s fine; I've known all along how much you two care about me.” Her tone cut with bitterness. “I knew he wouldn’t stick it out with me forever, but I’ll give him this, I don’t think it was an entirely conscious decision. Whatever you took or whatever spell you cast to see us like this, it scratched his itch and now he’s signed off and done.”

Morgan stiffened. Nothing her mother said felt untrue, exactly, but it all sounded so twisted and awful, like her dad had betrayed her by crossing peacefully or like Morgan should be sorry for missing him after having a second chance dangled in front of her. She could never just be; Ruth always demanded her due. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she mumbled, trying desperately to keep her tears in. “I am happy to see you too. I should have said so.” She swallowed, forcing her body to remember breathing. “Are you okay?”

Ruth scoffed, unimpressed, and turned her attention to the woman with her daughter. “Who’s this? She’s taking you talking to the air pretty well. Should I be concerned?”

She knew it. It was her ruffled romper or tousled hair that did her in. Or the sweat, maybe it was the sweat. Hector took one look at how sweaty Deirdre was and vanished out of disgust. Or maybe it was that she’d taken so long to introduce herself, she should have ran up with her greeting instead of standing around waiting for her chance to do it. Deirdre frowned, turning to Morgan to apologize when another voice cut across the air. Deirdre couldn’t see ghosts without summoning her vision, but she could hear them perfectly fine. And she remembered then, hearing this woman and her biting remarks, that she’d seen two figures—the now-gone Hector and someone who was unmistakably Ruth Beck. Out of politeness, she tried not to look angry. She knew Ruth Beck better than she did Hector, not because Morgan loved Hector less, but because Ruth controlled her life even in death. Her painful, complicated memory could not be shaken. Deirdre knew Ruth by way of tearful retelling, shaky explanation of locked rooms and denied love—and the infuriating hypocrisy of her journal, left behind as if to taunt her daughter. And she knew her now, by the sharpness of her voice, and the burden shuddering down Morgan. Eventually, politeness was dammed, and Deirdre’s face twisted with displeasure. She drew Morgan close to her, and then—though she knew it wouldn’t help anything—shifted their bodies so she stood between Ruth and Morgan.

Deirdre let blackness spill across the whites of her eyes again as she looked up and stared Ruth down. She had Morgan’s brilliant blues, and lips that might’ve looked like her daughter’s if they weren’t pulled thin. Her sour expression was different both from Morgan’s transparent emotions, and the pictures Deirdre had seen of Ruth’s past. There were a thousand things she wanted to say to Ruth. She blurted just one, the thing that burned on her tongue, pulled her brows together and her lips down. “Your daughter is dead.” Couldn’t she see it? Feel it? Was it really so important now to be thinking about anything else, when the life of her blood was a zombie? She’d wanted to ask about the locked rooms, about why her husband could find peace in seeing his daughter but she could not, about why she loved Morgan so poorly, or if she remembered being in that cursed coin at all, but Deirdre’s confusion stuck out instead. She’d known Ruth was a questionable mother, but hearing her more offended about a greeting than noticing her own daughter was dead, was something strange. “I’m Morgan’s girlfriend; Deirdre. I’m sorry your husband’s vanished so suddenly. I wonder how terrible that must be for someone who hasn’t seen him since he died. It must be exciting to see someone after that long, don’t you think? Perhaps you’ve been spending so much time remembering that there is no competition here that you forgot your own manners.” Deirdre didn’t know what she was saying, exactly, the words tumbled from her mouth freely. Unlike their forgotten meeting on the beach, Deirdre knew the kind of woman Ruth was now, and she wasn’t so eager to impress her. It would be nice for Morgan, she knew, if her mother approved of something she held dear for once. And perhaps Deirdre should have taken more care for her manners, but Ruth’s words were needlessly petty, and Deirdre didn’t care to make either of them listen to it. She stood straight, stern, breaking her stance only to attend to Morgan, and lend her strength where she needed it.

Ruth had to do a double, no, triple take at her daughter to see if this strange woman was telling the truth about her daughter. She had assumed that sentimentality had gotten the better of Morgan and she’d taken some drug or commissioned some truly powerful magiks to see if her talking to the air all these years amounted to something or not. But she looked, and even with this Deirdre woman blocking her full view, she understood. Then, of course, the woman kept talking, offering her opinion on things that weren’t any of her business. How could she know that Ruth had been looking forward to seeing her every November? Or how much it stung that when granted her ghost-sight, Morgan hadn’t said, it’s my mom and dad, it’s my parents. Only her dad, the one who had coddled and endangered her with his stubborn sensitivity, and then marked himself as a damn saint when he died just four months after Morgan turned eighteen. And this Deirdre couldn’t know how much she’d tried to shuffle off this god-forsaken coil, or how it felt to be left alone, for good this time, by the only person in her miserable life who had been stubborn enough to stay in the first place. No one knew. Even in death, Ruth Beck was certain she remained cursed. When she was sure this Deirdre was quite finished, she looked at the fluff of hair poking out from the woman’s arms. “Is this true, Morgan?” She asked.

Morgan let Deirdre whisk her out of sight, if only so she could compose her face and gasp out the few sobs that wouldn’t be swallowed away. She should probably be happy that all her dad wanted was for them to really see each other again, or maybe see her happy and loved. But her mind was still circling that one second. She could’ve squeezed out an I love you, or a hang on. Just hang on a little fucking longer, enough to meet my girlfriend, enough to know that I’m teaching at a real university, I’m going to make Constance pay for what she did to you, I miss you… but all those possibilities had evaporated in an instant.

But Morgan couldn’t evade a direct question from her mother, no matter how Deidre tried to shield her. Morgan lifted her head and nodded, still holding onto her girlfriend. “Surprise,” she said, breath shaking. “The curse got me, just like you said.”

“I told you,” Ruth began. “On our last phone call, I told you, Morgan--”

“Yeah, well I tried anyway!  And actually I got kinda close, but…you were right and I was wrong.” Morgan shrugged, her smile pulling into a pained gash on her face. “So now I’m this. Sad zombie lady. About seven months and counting. And it’s the worst, but I have at least a couple of friends, and Deirdre, who loves me, and who you would probably like if you weren’t spending so much time scrutinizing her like she’s a science problem. She’s insightful, and clever, and curious. She loved me even before I was like this, and she’s still here. So I can’t say I truly regret any of my actions, because I don’t want to know where I’d be without her. But I know that doesn’t sound like good news to you, so I’m at least partially sorry for that, I guess.”

Morgan changed the topic by way of reaching into her bag and fishing out a now partially crumpled bouquet of flowers. “I was gonna split up the bunch in two, but I guess they’re all yours now.” She held them up for inspection out of habit, before realizing that Ruth may not be able to take them for herself and so knelt in the grass to cram them into the bronze vase welded to the gravestone for this purpose. As she arranged the mess, the real news she wanted to share burned on her tongue. But some habits were hard to break, and she was too stiff with ritual fear to begin without first asking, “Are you really okay, Mother? Is there something I can do for you?”

Ruth Beck didn’t say anything for a good long while, but stared, just barely holding her heartbreak at bay. “Oh, pumpkin. I told you going to White Crest would only bring you more suffering,” She sighed. She looked over at Deirdre, defiantly transparent in giving her a critical once-over. “And what are your thoughts on this nonsense? If you’ve been with her through death, you’ve had to learn about our little family sickness eventually. Has she told you what happens to nice, loving girlfriends yet? I’d give you three guesses, but you just saw one of them disappear. And just how are you perceiving me, exactly? I don’t think you’re the one responsible for granting Morgan an extra half-life, but the exorcists and the wannabes who come out here don’t generally get ink in their eyes when they look at me.”

Morgan bowed her head as she worked, visibly cringing at the exchange. “Please be nice to her, Mother,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Deirdre had been expecting more bite, perversely, she had hoped for it. Not for Morgan, but onto herself. She hoped, perhaps, that if her annoyance shifted someplace else, Morgan could be freed from it. Yet, as she had been learning about Ruth, the woman could not make herself easy to hate. Complicated was less like a descriptor and more like a way of life. Even Deirdre, who had no intentions of conceding to Ruth, slumped a little when her bait wasn’t taken—embarrassed that she tried it in the first place. But she shook the sensation away and watched Ruth carefully, listening with an attentive ear. If that bite ever came back, she’d swallow Morgan up in a hug again and stand between them...but if she could be gentle...Deirdre shifted, releasing her high wall of protection for a sturdy one of support. Though she felt a little more like a guard dog, ready to snap if anything came too close. She anchored herself to Morgan’s side, even as she moved, as if stuck there. She hadn’t been expecting, either, that Ruth would address her again. She thought one angry comment was enough for her to ignore her, but Ruth was, as Deirdre supposed, terribly complicated. All she had really wanted to say to Ruth was how dare you and if she had some corporeal body, she might have settled for one dramatic slap. She knew Ruth by her failures as a mother, and as someone who loved Morgan as well, she was the harshest critic of the woman. Just as, she imagined, Ruth was in turn harsh of her.

“I love Morgan very much,” she began, though speaking to Ruth, she smiled warmly at Morgan. “I’ve loved her for a long time. If you’ll let me be dramatic to say it, maybe since I’ve met her. I intend on loving her for a longer one.” She turned to look at Ruth, her smile colored by confusion. Surely the woman who loved, and started a family, understood why Deirdre stayed, so was she testing her? Or did she really not know? “I always have. I’m not so afraid of death, that I would refuse to live. You and your husband have had a good life, wouldn’t you say? She has told me what happens, it might have been the first real thing she told me—and even if it wasn’t, you and I both know that Morgan wears her emotions freely.” Deirdre tilted her head to the side, withholding remarks about how terrible it would be to stamp that away. Or that she couldn’t understand how Ruth would know how badly her daughter wanted love, and then deny it. And if she could understand it, then she certainly couldn’t grasp how a mother would do that, and then expect that her daughter might still be excited to see her. She either played the villain and accepted it, dealt her tough love and recognized what it must have done or...well, she was the standing example of what happened when someone didn’t. “In a good way; in the best way,” she added quickly, nearly in a hiss. “I thought it was noble of her to want to fight fate, silly maybe, but the spirit to fight is a commendable one. How could I not want to be by her side? Maybe we would have had five years, or a few good months, maybe she would have won and freed herself...all I knew then was that I loved her, I wanted her to be happy, and if I could be there too...maybe we could make something together. Pain is unavoidable for anyone, death is equally as demanding, but somethings are worth it, aren’t they?” She had more to say about risks and love and much she knew that death could take prematurely, but that she was always ready. It never was so much the length of time, but how well it was spent. That she knew, better than the average person, just what fate she might have agreed to, and that she didn’t care. She loved Morgan more than letting fear rule her, or them.

But she realized quickly that Ruth was not as endeared to her long speeches and Morgan was, and left it there. ”I’m a banshee,” she explained simply, pressing a kiss to Morgan’s forehead. “And you didn’t answer her question: how are you?”

Ruth’s face remained impassive as the woman, the banshee, spoke. She understood a great deal, though how, Ruth didn’t know. It hadn’t been from Morgan. It would have been nice if she had been able to put those desperate puppy eyes Morgan seemed to have for her to good use and stop her. Keep her alive. But of course she hadn’t. The only way to get Morgan to do anything she didn’t want to was to make her. “I can see why she likes you,” Ruth said. “You’re a romantic fool as much as she is. More common sense, but…” Not enough to keep her in check. “In a less cursed lifetime maybe more of what you said would be true. Maybe wherever the heck you come from, it is. I guess I’m glad she stopped being a liar long enough to tell you.”

“Mother—“

Ruth continued as if she hadn’t heard Morgan’s interjection. “You seem kind, Deirdre. Enough to deserve better than whatever being attached to us is going to bring you. Everything is a bargain, Deirdre. And sometimes the universe cheats. And if she’s gone and made herself a zombie and made this mess last until some dumbass with a sword comes along, I’m not sure if you can know what you’re signing up for.”

“The curse is over, Mother,” Morgan said, hand clenched in Deirdre’s. She feared what looking away from her mother would do, if she would be left dangling and abandoned again or if her mother would read something cruel into it, so she only held onto Deirdre, tight, and hoped she understood that her love was keeping Morgan from falling apart. “I didn’t break it, but it’s done with me. And there’s more, something good and more I want to tell you, but for the mother of earth, I wish you’d just tell me anything about how you’re doing or what I can do for you.”

“I’ve been about as well as you can be after three years being a specter in this place. Neither of you want to know how well I’m really doing.”

Morgan exhaled stiffly. “I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t—I died too, okay? I ‘m not a ghost but I do get something about how awful—

“Don’t say that like it’s something I want,” Ruth’s voice managed to cut without raising to a scream. “If you had just listened to me, if you had accepted for once that I know what I am talking about and I’m not some evil gorgon bent on ruining your life, maybe you wouldn’t.”

“I am trying to tell you that I am taking our power back, Mom!” Morgan flinched to hear the way her voice snapped with anger. She always took the bait, no matter how long it had been or how much she said she wouldn’t. And realizing this made no difference. She couldn’t stop herself from going louder, more determined. “I found the miserable little witch who cursed us. I ripped her out of the ether to make her confess and after she came back to finish the job she started, I found a way to make her pay. She is going to suffer as much and as long as a ghost can for what she did to me and to you and your mother before you and mother before her. I am doing that. Me, Mother! I am taking control of our lives and if there is some miserable little Bachman descendant out there, they aren’t going to have to suffer another cursed year when I’m done with her! I am as free as I am ever going to be, and when she is ground into nothing but floating particles, she is never going to be able to cast her shadow over me or you or anyone. That’s what I wanted to tell you.” She smiled sadly. “I thought it might make you happy. I may not be doing what you wanted, but I am doing something right.”

“Morgan—”

“I’m not finished. I know you lied to me about going to White Crest. I met Nisa and her kids. I found your stuff. Everything you kept from me about your time there. I know, Mom. Everything you pretended you never were.”

“White Crest was a mistake. If you knew, it would only give you hope, it would encourage your outrageous tendencies to reach for something that’s not yours to have. I wanted to keep you safe, Morgan. Are you trying to say that’s a crime, now? Clearly I didn’t do a good enough job teaching you or protecting you, but now I’m a demon for even bothering?”

Morgan hung her head and wondered why she bothered.

“I’m waiting,” Ruth murmured.

Somehow her quiet tone hit Morgan worse than the rest. The words on her tongue started to dissolve. The questions she had for her drifted away like so much dust. What had she really expected? What could there have ever been to hope for? Morgan didn’t have it in her to hold back her tears. Everything went into keeping her voice even. “Maybe the way you tried was. Maybe…” Maybe it should have been.

Deirdre grimaced, pulling Morgan in so she could be tucked tight against her chest. It would have been wholly inappropriate to throw salt at Ruth, but that didn’t stop Deirdre’s hand from inching towards Morgan’s purse. “Hey,” she cooed for her girlfriend’s ears only. “You’re okay; you’re doing good.” She wrapped her arms around her tighter, just the way she liked, like the two of them were the only people who existed. She pressed her lips to the top of her head, hard as she could, and turned to look at Ruth. “It’s a terrible crime, actually. To let fear masquerade as love.” She pulled back just enough to lift her hand up and thumb Morgan’s tears away, as covertly as she could—not that the tears themselves were shameful, but because she understood the desire not to lend any more ammunition to an angry mother. “May I say something?” She asked Ruth, having no intention of listening to her answer anyway. “It’ll be long, so bear with me. But if anything, maybe we can let it serve as a breather for this conversation. I ask you, Mrs. Beck, do you love your daughter? Is there an answer to that you can admit? I would assume you do, and if so, there’s just something I don’t get...let me try and understand you a little better. Correct me where I’m wrong, but let me take a stab at your life.” Deirdre breathed in, drawing her attention away from Ruth so she could care for Morgan. There were tears to wipe, and strength to work back into her bones. Look at me, she was saying, don’t think about your mother, look at me. And like that, she began. “You hate the way your mother raised you, Mrs. Beck. It was cruel, and unfair, and I’m sure she must’ve justified it to you—if your life was suffering, if you loved nothing, there would be nothing to take. Or maybe she just didn’t care, she didn’t want a child anyways. But you grew up, and you got away, and you lived your terrible, tragic life until you found your way to White Crest with hope. But your curse, and the pursuit of its end, hurt people or it would hurt people, eventually. Good people, kind people, even yourself. Maybe the guilt was too much to live with, maybe you tried and tried and there really was no end—not without something too drastic even for you. So you left. And then you met your husband. And he, like you’ve called me, was a romantic fool. Stubborn, I bet. What did he say when you told him about the curse? That it was okay? That he would stay with you anyways? That he didn’t care?” Deirdre looked up at Ruth, smiling softly. “So, he finally convinces you and you two get married. And then you think, or maybe he gets through to you, that there might just be a life around your curse. If you’re smart, and careful, maybe you can make something good. And then you start a family, maybe by plan, maybe by surprise, it doesn’t matter how just that it did. And you have a daughter. And you realize that you can’t raise her like you were, so you try to be better. You don’t tell her about the curse, because the curse only brings pain, and ignorance can be a powerful thing. Either that’s your idea or it’s your husband’s, but that doesn’t matter either. You don’t say anything, and neither does he. But his love is open, yours is not. And how could it be? You know the dangers of love better than anyone else. You’re smart, and careful. And so your daughter wonders, tragedy after tragedy, what’s wrong with life. But you don’t tell her. And ignorance isn’t enough, she needs to be more careful, like you. You try to teach her how not to laugh, love, look forward to things. But you know it’s not working, despite your best efforts, because your daughter is like her father, in that regard—open. And then he dies, and there are some secrets you can’t keep alone. And suddenly all your daughter’s self-hatred has another place to go, and you know what happens next. You’ve lived your life, you know what it does to hope and argument. You try to tell her that she can make a good life with her curse, a smart one, a sensible one. You did it, after all; for those few years. And then you die, and she goes anyways, and you wait for her every year like clockwork. But you see, what I don’t understand with this story is how? How did you ever expect her to learn how to be happy in between the years when you taught her to fear happiness? How are you so blind to the fact that you hurt your daughter? How can you claim to know her so well, and yet speak with such ignorance? How is it that you can love your daughter, and yet never say it? She wasn’t wrong to go to White Crest, just like you weren’t. It’s a courageous act. How do you not know that? Her recklessness, her naïveté...none of those things are bad. She hopes, she fights, even when her odds are impossible and to do so doesn’t make her wrong, it means she was able to do something you couldn’t. How are you not proud of her? Morgan is the strongest person I know, strength she learned not because of you, but in spite of you. How can you think so lowly of her, that you don’t trust that she understood the risks? How?”

Deirdre shook her head, sighing her speech away. “You know what effect you have on your daughter. I know you see it. The curse is gone now, and even if it wasn’t, you’re both dead. You don’t have to keep this up, Mrs. Beck. I know you want to be a good mother, there’s nothing stopping you now. I ask you again, do you love Morgan? And are you sorry, for the role you’ve had to take in her life? Or do you want to float there and justify it to us like your mother might’ve?” Deirdre offered another smile, small but not but less sincere. At least, if everything she was saying was wrong, she hoped Ruth could see that her love for Morgan was true. And if she really cared about her own daughter, then they’d be two people on the same page. “Why don’t we try this conversation again, Mrs. Beck? Maybe listen to Morgan a little better, for once.”

“You don’t know fear,” Ruth tried to interrupt. Whatever airs this woman put on, she didn’t understand what it meant to be a mother, or what the cost of their existence truly was. She didn’t know how much of the banshee myths were true, but she couldn’t know enough about the universe to know when you were pinned down and doomed. “You don’t know me--” But the woman wouldn’t be stopped, and Ruth fell quiet. For the first time, she began to believe that Morgan had figured some things out. She had at least figured out enough for Deirdre to connect most of the dots. She didn’t have enough to make the spell work, to see Ruth as she truly was. Her affection for Morgan, blasted and cursed and biased, was too strong for that. But it was more than Ruth had expected. She couldn’t help but be stricken by it.

The only thing that kept Morgan from turning into Deirdre’s arms and hugging her was the pull of her mother’s face. The more Deirdre went on, so gently and kindly and with so much confidence, the more Ruth seemed to crack. It probably wasn’t visible to Deirdre, but Morgan had scrutinized her mother’s face for years searching her mother’s face for approval, for forgiveness, for a shadow of affection. She could transmute any scrap of tenderness into just enough to hope for. She knew the widening of her eyes, the way the edge dulled in her jaw or her frown slackened, there was something there. Some feeling that was for her. Morgan wished then for any passer-by to wander past them so her mother could borrow their body for a second, just long enough for Morgan to throw herself into her arms and beg and drag that feeling out of her.

“Mommy--” She whispered.

“It was a mistake.” Ruth said, clenching her airy fists. “I didn’t want to bring a child into this world with my problems, my curse. I am aware that I lack the typical temperament people look for in a good mother. And besides that, I wanted to be the end. And my one job above all else was to protect you. Not to be your friend, not to coddle you--”

“Mommy, please.”

“You need to understand.”

“I do! I do understand why you hurt me! I know you tried and I know you were afraid of loving me because of Constance’s fucking curse, but that doesn’t mean it was okay! And you can’t throw me into a room anymore just because you’re afraid that I’m having too many feelings for you to handle!”

“I wasn’t afraid of loving you, Morgan,” Ruth said, more quiet and stiffly controlled than ever. “I was afraid because I already did. I took one look at you, doughy and red and screaming and I loved you. And say all you want about chemicals and hormones in the wake of a pregnancy, but I couldn’t shake that love no matter how stubbornly you disobeyed me or how miserable you tried to make me. A love like that could only mean it would find you sooner rather than later. So I protected you.”

Morgan’s face crumpled with tears. She had waited her whole life to hear her mother say she loved her and now she wanted to scream to drown it out. “You hurt me. You didn’t even want me and you hurt me.”

“I changed my mind about wanting you as soon as I saw you.” Ruth said.

“That doesn’t matter. Like what, if your mother was here and she said she loved you, that would excuse how she destroyed you? Everything she took and burned and beat out of you?” Morgan stared wide-eyed at her mother, daring her to challenge what she said. “She turned you into someone capable of locking your kid away all day. Someone who would try to yell at her out of a fucking panic attack. Someone who would rather gaslight her child into hating herself to the point of danger than admit the truth. Someone couldn’t say I love you for her whole life. Is making you capable of that okay if she loved you? Love isn’t supposed to hurt like that, Mother. It’s not anything a person should want or be giving if it’s giving out licence to be cruel too.”

“Sometimes, pumpkin--”

“No. Not with love. Other reasons, fear, jealousy, anything else. But not that.”

“Then what is it you want from me, Morgan?”

Morgan had to think. She couldn’t touch the thing she wanted, not if it came with accepting all those miserable years, all that misguided bullshit, the skewed equations that meant her self-hatred was worth this so-called perfection and calling it love. She clung to Deirdre’s arms, fastening her tight to her back. It had been a difficult autumn, but what they had was never cruel, never calculating. Their mistakes and lapses were honest. They told each other what was wrong and what they needed. They were honest. They were sorry. Morgan threaded their fingers together as she cried. She tried to breathe with her, steady and confident. “I want you to apologize,” she said.

“I did the best I knew how. I swear to you, no, you--” she pointed at Deirdre. “If I am holding back even a little truth, I will vanish from this cemetery and haunt somewhere else for the rest of my days. I swear--”

“Don’t, Mother,” Morgan said softly. She let go of Deirdre and slipped away, coming right up to her mother until they were face to face. She needed to do this much on her own. “You don’t have to swear. I get it. This is hard for you. And you just want to feel like it was all worth it. All those mistakes, those shitty choices, all of that pain you made both of us carry. You want the exchange for what you sacrificed. But the spell isn’t what you thought it was, Mommy. You got it wrong and it’s not going to bring you what I feel like you’re asking me for.” She sniffled and tried to cup her hand around the shape of her hand. If she could just squeeze it, if she could hold even a piece of her for a second-- “Now, I’m going to destroy the person who really started this. Because you used to be just a sad little kid like I was and none of it was ever going to be fair and you deserve to know that she’s going to be punished. I’m gonna do that for us. Her soul will be nothing and she will hurt as much as we have the whole way. But I can’t get rid of what you did by destroying her. If you want something back from me, you have to at least tell me--” Morgan shuddered as her resolve crumbled one word at a time. “Tell me you’re sorry and you know now it was wrong. Just tell me that much.”

Ruth didn’t say anything for a long time. She could not bear to look at her daughter’s face, unnaturally pale as she began to sob. Morgan always grew red so quick. She forgot how to breathe, it was like she was so ready to run from any suffering, she’d try and take herself into the ether to hide from it. How she made Ruth panic when she hyperventilated. Her eyes would grow big she’d wheeze so helplessly, expecting Ruth to simply know the antidote. “I love you, Pumpkin,” she whispered, just for her daughter’s ears. Then she leveled her gaze at Deirdre. “My vow still stands. I swear I shall not haunt this place another moment again if I am holding any lies or doubts in my heart. I was wrong. I was wrong and I’m—I’m—”

There was a terrible pause before Morgan saw her mother dissipate. She had expected the trick as soon as the words had begun, but there was no bracing herself for the silence that claimed her mother’s voice and in the farthest, saddest parts of her, she thought she screamed just so she didn’t have to hear it.

There were several reactions Deirdre expected—anger, acceptance, sorrow. But for all she expected, Ruth was undeniably hard to read. She reminded her of her own mother in that way, as if her only emotions were anger and pride. Deirdre had yet to see the pride though, but she imagined it would come. And she hoped, as anyone who loved Morgan might, that it would be the right kind. She watched her intently, knowingly. Ruth had an answer delivered to her on a plate in two courses; an admittance of love, and an apology. She knew one would be easier than the other, but as Morgan had taught her, she hoped for both parts. And she waited. And she listened and she cut her ears through all of Ruth’s filler. And she waited. “I don’t accept that,” she mumbled, rejecting her vow. How could she? Neither of them were asking Ruth to leave, only to accept the truth all of them knew. There was no reason to swear to her, and Deirdre held no desire to humour her game. She would stand there and she would be honest on her own merits. She would listen to the sound of her own voice for once. And so she waited. The love came strangely coated in guilt, before her attempt at bolstering a fae bind, but at least it came. As Ruth continued to speak, Deirdre realized her vow was some manner of a performance. She had been withholding the truth from the start, hadn’t she? And now she wanted her exit, and freedom from Morgan. How would her daughter ever find her if she haunted some other place and she had no more magic to search? The hope she had, little as it was, shrank. Ruth revealed herself to be many things: a liar, a coward, and a bad mother. “I don’t accept,” Deirdre mumbled again. She wanted to ask her what it was this time, fear or guilt? Which did she let disguise itself as care? But she was gone soon, perhaps realizing Deirdre hadn’t created any promise between them, and she needed to be away from any more ideas she didn’t like. Deirdre turned her gaze to the cemetery gates, half expecting to find Ruth there, tip-toeing her way out with her bag of stolen goods over her shoulder.

Satisfied that Ruth wasn’t lingering behind some tree, Deirdre blinked her death-vision away and wrapped her arms around her girlfriend. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, trying to pull Morgan against her, “I’m sorry.” As it was, even trying to show how much they understood of her—how much her daughter, the very woman she didn’t think understood much, knew—and how she had no more places to hide, she still manufactured her own escape. “I’m sorry your mother is...like that.” She surrounded Morgan with her love, affection that would not leave, and hoped it could make something okay. “I didn’t accept her promise, by the way. It didn’t seem right to let her have that. But I suppose she just left anyway.” Deirdre sighed, and tried to meet Morgan’s eyes. “How are you, my love? Are you okay?”

Morgan whipped her head around, one side, then the other, searching for where her mother had gone. How far could she have gone? Where was she? Her chest burned and she clenched her fists to keep herself together. “You coward!” She screeched. She strained her eyes on the horizon, hoping to see her silhouette, even a vague Ruth-shaped blip nearby. How good could she be at this after only three years? “You don’t love anything, how dare you!” She kicked the bronze flower holder, over and over until it bent and the flowers spilled over. “You don’t want to talk to me, fine!” Her voice broke and she slumped in Deirdre’s grasp, weeping and gasping. “I should’ve known, I should’ve known she would never--” She grit her teeth and shook her head. “I heard you, and I knew you would never, you wouldn’t take her from me…” She shuddered, choking on sobs. “I don’t want you either!” She screamed to the sky. Maybe she was hiding there, or in a treetop, or behind a car. “I don’t want anything from you until you can tell me that, you coward!” She screamed again and buried her face in Deirdre. “I should’ve known she wouldn’t ever--” Change. Be different. Be better. She had died cruel and now she was determined to be that way. All that fear, all those stupid horror stories and bad memories-- Morgan sobbed and sagged against her girlfriend. “I’m sorry,” she said, still gasping. “You shouldn’t have had to put up with her, and what she tried to put on you.” At least she had run away on her own terms, if that could even be counted as a bright side. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I guess at least I don’t have anything left to say to her,” she laughed bitterly. “I don’t know. I wanted her to be better. If she was here, I was hoping she would...be someone who wanted to be better. I thought if I just understood…and I do, I do understand her pain. But she couldn’t…” Morgan shook her head and let it fall onto Deirdre’s chest. She was tired, and she wanted to be somewhere else.

“It’s not so bad—not so wrong—to hope.” Deirdre hummed, holding her girlfriend close, arms weaved around her as tight as she could manage. “I did too. I really thought she would—“ Deirdre swallowed, sighing the rest of her sentence away. It didn’t matter so much now that they had; Morgan wasn’t at fault for expecting her mother to...be a mother. Deirdre breathed her girlfriend in, pressing her lips against her jaw. There was much she didn’t know about motherhood, or family itself, but she had hoped that Ruth loved Morgan enough to face herself. She couldn’t imagine any other feeling being stronger than love. “It’s okay,” she kissed her cheek now. “Don’t be sorry to me. I’m okay.” She reached her hands down, and felt around Morgan’s purse for a pen and a tissue. “Let’s go back to the hotel, okay?” She kissed her again, pulling back and clicking the pen. “And we don’t have to do anything else. And if you’re feeling up to it, we can come back for the bones tonight like you planned, or we could do it tomorrow, or I can get them, or—“ Deirdre smiled softly. “Let’s just go back, and we can figure out the rest from there. We always do.” She scribbled carefully on the tissue, showing its contents off to Morgan when she finished. “Our address,” she smiled, stuffing it under the bent flower holder. “In case she wants to be civil for Yule. If not, I can throw salt at her. Ghost mothers are convenient like that.” She stepped back, her eyes drifting to the small note she left in the corner “if you want to try it differently”. Deirdre took Morgan’s hand in hers. “All good?”

Morgan rested in Deirdre’s arms, barely standing at all. There was something so counterintuitive and strange and gratifying about knowing Deirdre had hoped too. Even with all she knew of the world and all she knew about Morgan’s mother, she had it in her to hope. Morgan hiccuped another harsh sob and squeezed her girlfriend tight. “I love you,” she mumbled. “And I never, never want to hurt you the way either of us were. I love you and I want our life to be better. And I don’t need anything she has if it’s not going to fit with that.” She just wanted it. Or rather, she wanted her mother to learn to give something she could keep. Just one thing. One nice thing. Morgan hadn’t been able to give her peace with anything she had to say and she had nothing left in her to offer. She clung to Deirdre’s body as she fiddled in her bag and scribbled on the tissue. The rawness in her throat eased as she saw the note, the hope Deirdre was determined to carry for her, for both of them. She felt like a discarded pumpkin, hollowed out and too soft to stand. When Deirdre had finished her work, Morgan squeezed herself flush against her body again. “Thank you,” she said. “I...really like that. I guess when she can choose different…” Morgan shrugged, even as her trembling lip gave away the lingering pain.”Maybe she’ll be at peace. Maybe we both will.” Because that ache was still in her, the one cut by the girl she’d been, banging on her locked door and begging her mother for another chance, for her love. Morgan told the ache to hush, and wait, and have hope. She breathed slowly, trying to make her body still again. If it worked at all she couldn’t tell, but with Deirdre’s hand in hers, it didn’t matter. She nodded and started walking back toward the parking lot. Morgan cast one more glance at the cemetery, watching the shadows and the ripples in the short grass. Was she here? Was she watching? Was Agnes? But there wasn’t a soul to be seen, living or dead anymore. Morgan tucked herself into Deirdre’s side, murmuring, “I still want today to be good. I just need to lay down with you for a little bit, in our world. And then we’ll do all those things we said. And when we come back for Agnes--” She cast one more look back at the cemetery, lingering on her mother’s grave before turning to the spot where she knew Agnes was buried, too much in the shadow of the mausoleum for  the grass around her to grow even, her placard probably weathered down to nothing. Morgan squeezed Deirdre’s hand to signal that she’d be back. She scooped up the fallen flowers and ran them over to Agnes’ neglected grave. It was so old, it wasn’t even granted a bronze vase with the others. Who was alive to care about her? Morgan laid the flowers down as neatly as possible and ran back to Deirdre’s arms. “We’ll make things good for Agnes too. If she’s still around here, we’ll help her too.”

“I love you too.” Deirdre said, marveling at how right those words always felt tumbling from her lips. Like breathing, she thought, and couldn’t imagine how anyone else thought they could be so hard to say. She nodded her agreement to Morgan’s words; they would be good to each other, as good as they possibly could be; they would be kind; they would be honest; the hurt they had endured would never be the hurt they left in the world. She could understand Ruth’s fear and cowardice, but only where it had come from, not why it needed to be clung to. She would not emulate her, and she knew Morgan wouldn’t either. It felt so simple then, holding Morgan in the cemetery that held her family, that they could be good. But as she had started to learn, simple did not mean bad. “Are you sure you want to—?” Deirdre swallowed, nodding. “Okay.” She watched Morgan with fondness and curiosity melded into one soft smile and head tilt. As she had also begun to learn, “good” was not some looming branch, fruit too far above to be plucked, it was smaller than that. Seeds, perhaps. Old roots, maybe. It took many shapes, just as evil did. Good was, sometimes, flowers for a neglected grave, dirt brushed off an old name. It was listening to a girl who knew far more about the world than anyone gave her credit, even her own mother. It was life’s discovery, one day at a time. It took the shape of people, or of arms wrapped around. “Yes,” she breathed, leaning down to kiss Morgan finally, fiercely. “We can make it good for her too, even if she isn’t around, even if she is.” Good was not one thing, once, but many things, all the time—shifting. It was choice. And there was no one who knew choice better than Morgan Beck.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Wait For Me || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: Current

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

SUMMARY:  “I don’t know if I can do this. Not if this is who you are going to be. Not if this is what our future has to look like.”

CONTAINS: descriptions and discussions of self-harm, references to suicidal ideation

It was gauche, Deirdre thought now, to come bearing flowers whenever she had something to apologize for. But the flowers were pretty, and rare, and only grew one place in the world---a place Morgan may not ever come to, though Deirdre ached to take her. The fae world she held delicately in her heart wasn’t friendly to outsiders. But it had saved her life, and it had clothed her, and it had given her the strength to come back home to the person her heart belonged to. And She’d make a place for Morgan there. Deirdre wore a stolen sweatshirt, about three sizes too large for her, and shorts that covered nothing. In her crudely bandaged hand she held a bundle of flowers from the mirrored district, some of which were like mirrors themselves with their reflective petals, others as bright and pale as the moon. And a few, from the Lydia tree, striking red against the rest. She groped around the large sweatshirt pocket for her keys only to remember that she’d lost them in the forest--right along with her phone. All she felt there was the crinkle of the articles she cut. And so, she stood awkwardly in front of her own house, like a stranger--a beggar. In the days of her absence, the fog of rage and grief had lifted from her mind, and left behind a hollowed woman. What pieces she needed to pick up, where she went from here, she didn’t know. But one thing had remained true, and she always knew the place to start remembering herself. Deirdre lifted her hand and knocked against the frosted glass of their door. In the cloudy, skewed reflection, she could see a face that hardly looked like her own under all of her injuries. Stiffly, she tried to adjust her damp hair to look more the way Morgan remembered it, even if the ends had been singed in the fire. She was more bandage than skin now, and had about half a dozen jokes about being a mummy she would never say.

Instead she stood there, and waited.

Nothing good knocked on your door in the middle of the night unannounced. After almost forty years grappling with a curse, Morgan knew this better than most. So she held no hope, no illusions of her world getting one stitch better when she opened the door. Then she saw Deirdre, or what was left of her. What precious bits of skin she could see were swollen and streaked all the wrong colors. Blood crusted the edges of her bandages, and in her hand… a fucking bouquet of flowers. Morgan took her in with a long, terrible look; she couldn’t hide how sick, how wrong Deirdre looked with the stain of violence on her in its stiff, crusty, puss tinted glory.

“What the fuck,” she hissed, her voice cracking with sobs. “What the fuck was that? What were you fucking-- What is this fucking bullshit, Deirdre--” Morgan wanted to shake her, scream at her, knock those flowers out of her hand, show her exactly how much of an insult they were. But the woman before her was Deirdre, broken and small and finally home. Morgan shook her head, still burning with rage, and flung her arms around Deirdre and dragged her inside.

Resolve cracked. All the fancy words she drafted in her head on the way back home crumbled against her quivering lips, and Deirdre let loose a volley of apology and sobs. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, my love.” She breathed Morgan in, held her back just as tight, just as desperate. She threw her flowers aside, they were dumb anyways. “It’s the—it’s the way the mirrored district works; it takes time away and I just—“ She trembled against her love, pain flaring in the places she was hardest held, and in the sore muscles that begged for rest—for once. Deirdre ignored it all, eager to be with Morgan again. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “I’ve been so stupid. I’m so sorry. I love you, I love you.” She kicked the door closed urgently with her foot, keeping steady as they backed up blindly into their home. After all this time, after all her thinking, the only thing she could manage now was apology. “I’m sorry.” She pressed her lips firm against Morgan’s skin, peppering her in kisses as she mumbled more sorry’s. “I know it’s not good enough,” she pulled back, “but I am, I am.”

Morgan’s sobs shook her body. This was everything she had craved for weeks, but like some starved human given a five course meal, she was throwing it all back up. Deirdre’s touch burned, her soft voice made Morgan want to scream, and she did: tired and frustrated and bleeding with hurt. “You’re sorry,” she said bitterly, hating how fragile her voice sounded. “Now you’ve decided you’re--” She shook her head, trembling so violently her spine would’ve popped if she were still alive. Deirdre was always sorry. What did sorry mean after six days? “Stupid? Is that the word you--No! It’s not enough!” She pushed one of Deirdre’s hands away, but didn’t move to separate herself. “What were you thinking, what even happened to you, what is this?” She gestured wildly to Deirdre’s latest injuries, her face crumpling as new details caught her eye. Morgan couldn’t help but reach out for her face, even just a little, just enough to brush the patch of bare cheek she could. She shook her head again, uselessly scrubbing her hand over her eyes. “No, why don’t you explain what you’re sorry for now and why you didn’t feel like you could tell me or how I was supposed to know on my own. Tell me. If you are half as sorry as you say you are, you will fucking tell me!”

Deirdre knew now to be less startled by feeling Morgan’s anger against her—it was startling, yes. Something that she never should have let fester to begin with. But it didn’t spark the same bubbling panic it had the first time, or during her moments of immeasurable grief. “I’m sorry…” she mumbled again, face fraught with apology and concern as she looked at Morgan. Her girlfriend lobbied several questions, all good, all she was more than willing to answer. She started with the obvious. “For leaving. For not coming back like I should have. For sending pixies off to deliver you a note. For the way I’ve treated you recently. For the things I’ve done to myself, with no regard for you. For thinking it would have been okay to die on that driveway, for wanting it. For forgetting how much I want this life with you. For not being here to help you too. For running off the first time, and the second time, and this time. For going off and doing these terrible, stupid things, and then leaving you to find out through other people, or not all. I—I’m sorry, Morgan.” Deirdre breathed, eyelids fluttering as she blinked back tears. “I was—I couldn’t contact you, exactly. But I should have come home first, I should have told you. I should have done a lot of things that I can’t change right now, but I’m here, and if you’ll let me...I want to make things right. Please.” She shifted, wondering if Morgan would let her wipe her tears away, and then deciding she would try it anyway. “Do you want to sit, my love?”

Morgan squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t look at Deirdre, so desperate and pleading and soft. It made Morgan want to throw everything from the last two weeks away and forgive her so she could nest in her body. Deirdre wiped her tears and Morgan’s mouth fell in a silent scream. How could she skip to the end of this when she felt as raw and pummeled inside as Deirdre was on the outside? How long did she wait for her before she became pathetic? Morgan hid her face in her hands, nodding. She didn’t want to do anything, exactly, but she couldn’t stay standing in the hall. She stiffened her expression as best she could and led the way to the great room. She sat in the middle of the couch, hugging her knees. “Why should I believe anything you say right now?” She asked, her voice still wet and rasping. “I’m finally worth talking to, but why? Because I don’t understand. I would have done almost anything for you if you had just thought to--” Her voice squeaked with pain again. She shook her head tiredly. “I just don’t understand anything right now. What is this? What’s happening now?”

Deirdre fell beside Morgan, softly as not to disrupt the couch. She hovered anxiously beside her love, unsure how much affection Morgan wanted now, if any. She settled for resting her hand close to her, yearning for her touch. “I don’t know….” she confessed quietly. “I don’t know. And I know you can’t trust me but I can promise it. Everything that I just said, I can say it again as a promise. I mean it. And you don’t have to accept it, my love. I’ll still mean it tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day. I love you, I want our life together—I promise I do. And I’m sorry, I promise I am.” Deirdre breathed shakily, voice quivering. “You’re always worth talking to, you were always, I promise that. I just—I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking right, I guess. Lydia died and in my head I knew everything I had to do. Torture, pain, death...for Lydia’s peace and her justice. I have to do it. But I didn’t want—I didn’t want to bring that to you. You said you didn’t want to be complicit in what Lydia did and I couldn’t make you complicit in my acts. I thought it was right—I was right. I thought a lot of things, I know, but I just didn’t know what to do. I want Lydia back so badly...I want a good death for her, still.” She reached for her girlfriend, hand pressed against her knee. “But then I almost died again, and these fae they—“ She swallowed. “I saw what they did for Lydia. And it was beautiful, and kind and all this pain and anger I have...it hasn’t brought me anything, and it hasn’t brought Lydia back and I haven’t done anything right and I...I’m so tired, Morgan.” Her hand fell down, grasping the air. “What’s happening is that I’ve taken too long to remember what’s important. The thing I’ve always wanted is you, Morgan. And whatever I need to do to bring Lydia peace...I don’t think it means hurting you. I never want to hurt you, not ever. Not for this, not for anything.” She paused. “I’m sorry.”

Morgan slumped as Deirdre made her promises. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t who they were, but Deirdre wasn’t sick or choking on her words. They were true. It didn’t make sense, but she was speaking true. And the choice of what to believe, the woman next to her or the one she remembered, had been taken away. Morgan listened, weeping silently as she did. She understood these words, to an extent. She knew death. She knew loss. She knew bloodlust. (She was still trying to figure out what to do with her own.) And she knew that some pains demanded to take rule. But-- “But you did...” She said faintly. “You hurt me. And you never told me what I was doing wrong. You said I didn’t do anything but you wouldn’t even let me touch you at night towards the end, and then you just vanished! And then that...that note, that didn’t...what was I supposed to do?” She shuddered, whimpering. “I didn’t even do that to you when I died. I came back to you. I always came back. And I know you needed me, and she meant so much more to you than me, and I tried, I swear I tried. I wanted to be here for you! But you wouldn’t talk and I couldn’t do anything…” Morgan clutched Deirdre’s sweatshirt and tried to curl up tighter against herself.

“Because you haven’t done anything wrong. You hadn’t. I promise. I—“ Deirdre grimaced, memory slotting into place. “I didn’t want you to see…” she admitted, small and broken. But she could show Morgan now, not because she had grown any less embarrassed, but because she remembered sharing herself with Morgan was a safe thing to do. And it was the least she could do now. “Hey…” When she peeled Morgan off of her now, she offered explanation. “I need to take off my sweatshirt, okay? I’ll show you. I just need to take it off.” And she pulled up the fabric, wiggling out of its cotton hold until her body was bare and open. Crudely done bandages wrapped around her abdomen, covering the iron stab wound that would’ve claimed her life, if Athena had been any less arrogant. But she gestured to the bandages around her back that wrapped around her arms and chest as the pixies found it hard to secure. They weren’t expert medics by any stretch, but they never questioned her. It was simply what fae did for each other. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Morgan. I didn’t know how to say anything, I…” She trailed off, bitting down on her lip. “I’m sorry about the note, about whatever the pixies wrote. I should have just done it myself. I should’ve.” She sighed, and motioned that she was going to turn around now. Finally, with her back to Morgan, she looked over her shoulder and nodded. “You can take those off...I think all of these need to be changed anyway. But that’s—I was just trying to—“ Deirdre sighed. “I was scared, I suppose. I was hiding.” And underneath the bandages, she’d find the marks of a woman who had tried to seek repentance in an old technique yet found none. Where she couldn’t use her words, it was easy to turn to violence, even if that violence had to be leveled against herself. “I didn’t know what to say.”

Morgan searched Deirdre’s eyes as she spoke, desperate for some deeper affirmation. Are you sure I didn’t do anything? Are you sure I wasn’t being punished? But she had asked, Deirdre had promised, and what else could she plead for? Morgan squeezed Deirdre’s fingers as she stood. She couldn’t stifle her gasp as she saw how thoroughly wrapped in bandages her body was. Morgan meekly stood and undid the knots and unwrapped the bandages. The first few layers came off with ease, but as she got closer to Deirdre’s skin, the color grew brown, then red. There was a sucking sound as Morgan eased off the last layer, whispering, “I’m sorry, I can… I-I can…” Still half in the nightmare version of their relationship, she fumbled for the words that had been slapped out of her hands the most : help, heal, fix, soothe. But then she saw the ruin of Deirdre’s back and there was nothing left to say. Streaks of red sores crosshatched over each other so thick they swelled together in bloody spots in some places. Blood eeked out where the bandages had stuck. Morgan was silent for what felt like a long time, then at last managed, “May I get the first aid tub for you? I’d like to... you need to have these touched up for them to heal right, and you shouldn’t do them by yourself.” She stepped to the side and met Deirdre’s eyes sadly. They hadn’t solved anything yet, and she had more questions, but this much could be simple for them.

Though largely unaffected by the cold, Deirdre shivered. It was humiliating in a terrible way, but then, she supposed she ought to feel it. It was stupid in a thousand more; the desperation of a fraught woman. The only thing her pain had really done was change her body into one she hardly recognized. Deirdre looked up at Morgan, hoping to explain herself, somehow, not that there was much to explain. Instead she found her asking to get their first aid tub, and she shifted in her seat. “Are you sure you—“ she swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, that’s okay. That’s fine, if you want to. You know you don’t have to, right? But yeah, it’s fine. More than. Um—“ In truth, she hadn’t wanted Morgan to leave, some part of her worried she wouldn’t come back. But Deirdre trusted and she nodded, and she hoped they’d be able to get to the thing she actually wanted to confess sometime before it was too late—though it always was too late, wasn’t it? “I’ll be here.”

Morgan held up a finger for enough. “Of the two of us, I’m not the one who’s found ways around honesty,” she said, a solemn statement of fact. “I want this. Thank you.”

It was a while before Morgan padded back to Deirdre’s side. She set everything down in a daze and gave her back another look, still struggling to process the violence on display. “I am going to be as gentle as I know how to be,” she mumbled. “But if anything hurts worse, you need to let me know.” She frowned, fighting the urge to kiss Deirdre’s shoulder with comfort and went to work. Her hands tingled. They seemed to crave giving the tenderness they were finally allowed just as badly as the rest of Morgan craved receiving it. She made tender caresses on the brown, ridge lined scar tissue of Deirdre’s old wounds. She was so soft the movements were discernible to her only by her eyes. After over a week of loneliness, there was novelty in care this exacting and relief in the concentration it required too.

“Of course I hate seeing you hurt,” she said softly into the quiet. “And this is...incredibly extreme. I know what fae funerals ask of you, but there are at least two different occurrences on your back. I’d like the story when you’re ready for it, but this feels like you went back for more just because it’s something you could do.” She continued in quiet, then, “It’s not like I don’t know you sometimes turn to self harm when you’re destabilized. You could just have said. I don’t want this for you, even now, but I’m not going to judge you for it. Just, please stop, my—” Morgan stumbled over the endearment that usually fell from her so easily. It would not come. She sighed, her gentle voice turning tired. “Please. Try your best not to anymore.” She applied salve to the cuts, then a fresh roll of bandages. “You still haven’t said what it is you’ve done. You didn’t do all of this to yourself—“ She came around briefly to look at Deirdre as she wrapped up her body again and gestured with her eyes to the rest of her injuries. “I need to hear what happened. All of it.”

Deirdre frowned, feeling the truth and harshness of Morgan’s statements—and silences—worse than any pain she had put on herself. Even now, she lacked the language to explain the thoughts in her head, the grief in her body—the intensity of it. But she would try. “Six,” she corrected. “Six times, I believe. From what I could remember. You see my family...as a way to...it just—“ She hissed, not from pain—Morgan was unbelievably gentle with her—but from trying to pick apart the things her family told her to make violence okay, an unbiased fact. “Atonement...is not found the way I used to think it was. But it was familiar, and for a moment, it felt like the right thing to do. I didn’t know how to tell you how much pain I was in but this is….I don’t know,” she sighed. “I suppose you know now.” Deirdre slumped, weighed by fatigue, guilt and remorse. She pulled at the bandages on her wrists; iron burns. Her only thought was that Athena could have done much worse, and that she probably should’ve. She reached down and picked one of the articles out of her sweatshirt pocket. Amanda’s face, smiling in black and white, stared back at her. She placed the clipping on the table. “The girl who killed…” she closed her eyes. “The warden who tortured Lydia was close to this girl. Like sisters, in a way.” She opened them and stared down at the headline. This was only the clipping from her disappearance, old now, she wasn’t sure if her murder had been reported. “I wanted the warden to feel pain, like I have. But she—“ she tapped Amanda’s face. “—was innocent, truly. And young. And against everything I believe...I killed her. I needed information from the warden, I needed...Fates, I don’t even know. But I killed her and she didn’t have a thing to do with it.” She reached down and pulled out two more clippings of missing people; Roger Johnston and Joseph Wood. Names she had to hunt down in her memory, faces she had to fight to remember as they were and not as she’d made them. “Those men too. For no purpose, in fact, not even to terrorize someone else. Just because I could...just because it hurt.” she turned back to her injuries, which seemed like too little now. “The warden did this. I’m alive only because she wanted me to feel pain too. That’s the cycle we’re stuck in...pain begets pain. I felt so much of it—I feel so much of it—I don’t know where it goes. But not there, not on them. And not on me...but then where else?”

Morgan finished wrapping up Deirdre’s back and clipped them in place. She couldn’t help but brush her fingers over the spot and down her arm. She’d done a good job, worth affirming, and Deirdre’s body seemed to beg for comfort. “Sometimes the worst things we can do are ones that are most familiar,” she whispered. “But you can’t stay in that place, Deirdre…”

And then Deirdre explained how she had earned her injuries. Truly earned by the bloodsport rules of their world. Morgan dropped her hand and took the clipping, eyes wide with horror. The girl was young, practically Ariana’s age. She crunched it in her fist. “There really is nothing you won’t do,” she whispered. “She didn’t even know Lydia--none of them knew her, or so much as heard of her, much less had anything to do with what happened--and you destroyed them. Not even for fate, or for her. Just you. And I used to think you had more principles than me.” She looked away from Deirdre then, over at the walls where their skeleton paintings hung, the floor where the book of Mary Oliver poetry had fallen, the windows repaired and braced against their trauma, the snow globe (now just a tiny sculpture on a pedestal, without its glass dome) of a winter cemetery, a hope of a future that seemed to disintegrate the more Morgan watched it. “You know, that would’ve been a great question to ask the person breaking herself to try and help you. Before you destroyed yourself and everything you supposedly stand for. That would’ve been something great to figure out together.” She let out a long, shaky breath and shut her eyes. She couldn’t sit in their home and watch the life that had made her into a person again color with pain.

“I need you to swear to me that you understand that you are loved. Even now, you are loved. And none of this was necessary. You are the one who did this, to yourself and to us. You were loved through all of this mess, and a single word from you to clue me in could’ve made it stop. You are so loved, Deirdre,” she whispered, tears creeping over her lashes again. “But I don’t know if I can do this. Not if this is who you are going to be. Not if this is what our future has to look like. I don’t think I’d survive it.”

Deirdre closed her eyes, curling into herself. In her mind swirled a thousand explanations about the rules of the fae; how revenge worked. It didn’t matter what humans were trampled on the way, it didn’t matter how young they were. Lydia would understand, because Lydia was a fae just like her. But Lydia wasn’t here. “The warden took someone from me, I took someone from her. I should have killed her but I wanted pain…” she mumbled to herself, not offering her words as an explanation, but a trickled thought. She turned, and planted her feet on the ground, resting her arms on her legs. “It all seemed so clear at the time, all the things I needed to do, terrible as they were. Everything I was taught,” she sighed, shaking her head and pushing her inadequate explanation away. She couldn’t meet Morgan’s eyes, though she didn’t imagine Morgan was looking at her anyway. She knew what this house looked like before, like the set to someone’s life, but not hers. It was a home now, and she seemed to keep ruining it. “It would’ve,” she agreed, “in some other world, maybe I would have been smart enough to ask it sooner.”

The words that came from Morgan next were no surprise, she had imagined them on her way here. She had feared them. What would I do, she asked herself, if it was what Morgan wanted? She looked up and remembered the empty that her house once was, not a single book or decoration she cared about. No gifts, no cat tree in the corner. “If it’s what you want…” she began, “...then I won’t stop you. And I understand, I do, if it is. Because I love you too, Morgan.” She swallowed and turned to her girlfriend. “But I’m not giving up. When I said I wanted to be a better person, I meant it. When I said cruelty wasn’t a thing I wanted in our lives either, I meant that too. What I’ve done was wrong, and it’s not what I want. It’s never been what I’ve wanted. Because I am tired of it Morgan, these cycles of pain. I don’t want them anymore. I don’t want to hurt people like this. Not without cause, not like...not like their lives don’t mean anything. I don’t want that.” Deirdre tensed, though the desire to turn away flared up in her twisting stomach, she continued to look, determined. “But I do what I have to...sometimes. And most of the time I don’t understand what it is I have to do. I promise you that I will try, because that is what I want. But I can’t say this will never happen again, because I don’t know. My duty is to the greater good and I don’t—“ she swallowed. “No, there’s no greater good that involves death like that; senseless. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t know. If trying my best sounds good enough to you, stay and I will give you everything I can. But if it doesn’t….then please, let me take my things out. You should have the house, it suits you. I can stay somewhere else.” She finally broke her gaze, unable to find resolve or foothold in the idea of leaving Morgan. She didn’t want it, she would have done just about anything to avoid it...but lying was not something she could do to Morgan. She could not make guarantees where there were none. “We’ll—“ her voice cracked. “—f-figure something out about the cats. If you...think it’s the best thing for you. I want your future to be good, Morgan. The best it can be.”

For the first time since Lydia’s death it wasn’t the world that cracked in two, but Morgan. Part of her still bled inside, hurt and twisted and needing validation as much as a way to punish Deirdre until things felt fair. Another burned to sweep Deirdre into her arms saying, okay, okay, we’ll be okay. She looked at her sidelong, taking in her familiarity: her sad brown eyes, her trembling lips, her earnest voice, pieces of a woman Morgan didn’t want to do without. But she had looked that way before, and then she’d done this. Morgan continued to watch her and continued to think. There was no way to guess what circumstances they would be faced with, what they would be pushed to consider. Deirdre was offering so many promises, but they brought so little comfort in return. How was she supposed to do this, knowing this woman could drop her and run? And yet…

“If we do this…” she said slowly, reaching halfway for Deirdre’s hand.“If we do this, we have to be different people. Being like this, treating me like this cannot be our normal. You need to tell me things even if it hurts. Before you get yourself into some deadly mess. I get wishing you could join the dead better than most. But I cannot watch you destroy yourself. This needs to stop. And however rare your connection to Lydia was, we are supposed to have long lives. We need something better than this for our grief.” She shifted her body, angling toward Deirdre. “And we can’t pop back into what old shapes we had. I know...there was a time when you were all I had to cling to in this world. You told me it was okay if I made you my sole anchor. And I was scared because it seemed unfair to put that weight on you. You already have so much to carry. But I did it. And because of that decision I am still a recognizable version of myself at all. But what I didn’t reckon on was…building my existence entirely on you meant that whenever you break or leave me, I beak too. Every moment since you sprinted out of our home and practically died in my arms on our driveway has destroyed me. I am nothing without you, the way we’ve been doing this. And that is not fair. And it is not right. I need to do that much differently, for myself, and for us too. We can’t destroy each other so fast with our mistakes. You’ve done a lot, and I think even the strongest version of myself would be wrecked by now, but I fell apart so fast, and I’m still really broken...” Morgan’s voice broke as she remembered screaming and wailing in Lydia’s bedroom. She shuddered, shrinking in on herself. “And, I don’t know, maybe if I was different, some of what happened could have been different too. Does that make sense, what I’m saying?”

Deirdre’s gaze fell, her eyes stuck on Morgan’s hand. Her own fingers twitched. She stared, wondering if it would be okay. She remained silent for a moment before she met Morgan’s hand the rest of the way, held firm in her grip. She looked up. “I think it makes sense. It feels like it does.” She drew her lip in, scraping it across her teeth. She would’ve liked to imagine that she could carry Morgan on her own, but it was true that her own stability had been threatened. She didn’t know who she was, and she couldn’t ask someone to depend on an identity that she wasn’t certain of. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do it, Morgan. I never thought…” She sighed her words away and slumped. “I wanted to be enough. For someone.” Deirdre turned towards Morgan, running her fingers along the fabric of their couch, the same motions of comfort she normally shared with Morgan. “I can do that. I can do better.” But she didn’t have anything better to build her life on; her duty was a demanding thing, the fae had rules that often created more ruin than she wanted. Morgan was her shred of happiness, and she couldn’t imagine finding that any place else. She couldn’t even imagine where to start looking. “Can I--can we hold each other? Can we be doing that now?” Her voice was a soft plea as she gulped the rest of her anxiety down. “It’s just--It’s been so long. I’ve missed you, so much.”  

“It’s not about being enough,” Morgan said quietly. “I need some-thing, stars only know whatever that is. And you are someone. My most important someone, whatever else happens. The someone who made me as alive as I’m ever going to be. It’s just different.” She let the thought sit between them and hoped it stuck. She wasn’t sure if she had enough of herself left to try explaining it another way. She ached like her bones were just waiting to turn into putty, and her mind, tortured by its restless shamble from one thought to the next, deflated.

At Deirdre’s question, Morgan slumped, shaking as a sob broke free. “Yes,” she said, her voice whistling shrill. “Yes, please. Please...” She didn’t reach for Deirdre so much as she tipped over and fell against her. Whatever resolve or pride she had left washed away in the tide her tears had unlocked. She clung to Deirdre, careless and full of need. Morgan nuzzled into the crook of her neck and remained there, crying, until new words floated up and cracked through her throat. “I need to release you from the promises you’ve made tonight. I’ve already lost track of them and I don’t want you to be forced into being here.” She hiccuped a cry. “But I do need some, until I figure out how to trust you again. I need something until I’m a whole person again. I still need you…”

“I am a thin-ermng--” Deirdre mumbled, having just enough sense to realize what Morgan was trying to say, and how her self-deprecating thoughts didn’t play a role. She coughed. “I understand. That isn’t going to stop me from wishing I could be, though. I want the best for you, whatever I can offer and whatever I can learn to....You wouldn’t ask me to be something, I know, but I’m saying I would.” As silence drifted over them, Deirdre’s body began to quiver and her face contorted. She erupted in laughter, head raised to the ceiling. “Oh, Fates, that doesn’t sound romantic at all! That just sounds terrible.” She wiped away a tear, bubbling with a smile. Though the amusement was short lived, she offered the grin to Morgan, pulling her love tight into her arms. “I’ve forgotten them too, actually,” she chuckled softly, trying to hold Morgan as tightly as she could, with all the longing of the days she’d neglected. “But I’d be alright with that, all of it.” Working for Morgan’s trust again wasn’t as heartbreaking as she thought it might sound--to have lost it was terrible, was something she hurt for--but to work to love Morgan didn’t sound awful at all. She already did, and finding better ways to love was her honor and privilege. Horrible as it felt to have treated Morgan so poorly, loving her was no task at all---it was a matter of course. “I can work with that,” she smiled softly, “and that’s okay, whatever you need. I can do that. What do you want me to promise? I can do that now, put your heart at ease….I’d like to.”  

“I—release you—“ Morgan gasped, mumbling the words into her skin. “From every promise you’ve made tonight. I relinquish you.”

Time turned slippery as she cried, carried off by the current of her tears. After a while it wasn’t even one particular memory she was agonizing over, so much as her pain itself. Maybe if she screamed louder, it would spend itself, and the throbbing would end and her bones would settle. Maybe...

When she could speak more or less without gasping for air, Morgan said, “Will you promise you won’t leave me tomorrow like you have before? And promise you won’t hurt yourself on purpose until your body’s been completely healed for a week. Promise...p-promise me I’m safe with you. For tonight, for tomorrow.” She shivered and dug into Deirdre tighter. “I’m so scared,” she explained in a whisper. “I keep thinking the phone’s going to ring and you’ll throw me away and I won’t know how to get up this time. If nothing else, I need to know I’m safe here, like this, however we are, through tomorrow.”

For all the times Deirdre had held Morgan in her arms, there’d never been a moment so clouded by her own mistakes. Even the times before they started dating, sprung apart by Deirdre’s fear, it hadn’t felt so different. All Morgan wanted was to be with her, and though Deirdre wanted the same, she kept finding some way to twist it. She could’ve promised herself to Morgan for the rest of time and thought nothing of it, she could have sworn to stop tearing them apart. But these promises, just for tonight and tomorrow, were hopelessly Morgan—and heartbreakingly earnest. “I promise I won’t leave you, like I have been, tomorrow. I promise I won’t physically hurt myself on purpose until my current injuries have been healed for a week.” Deirdre shifted their bodies, just enough so she could look at Morgan. “I promise you’re safe with me, today, tomorrow…” she swallowed. The desire to say she would be safe everyday was strong, though it wasn’t what Morgan had asked—and it wasn’t something her girlfriend would feel comfortable holding in the form of a binding contract. Deirdre didn’t think it lessened the truth of her words though, even if she couldn’t say it. “Hey,” she cooed, momentarily lifting her hand away from holding Morgan to cup her face instead. “I lost my phone so you don’t have to worry about that part but how about this?” Deirdre smiled warmly, “I promise I won’t abruptly leave your side without telling you where I’m going.” She pulled her hand away, wrapping it back around her love. “I know that one’s a little bigger…” she leaned in and pressed her lips to Morgan’s forehead. “But you can let that go when you feel like you can trust me again. Until then, for as long as you need it, you can keep that. And anything else you want me to promise now.” She smiled again; promises could be dangerous for a fae, deadly even. But she didn’t imagine these would be hard to keep, or something she’d ever break. It was fine, and even if it wasn’t, she imagined that they’d figure it out. “Is that okay? You can ask for more, my love.”

Morgan whimpered as Deirdre shifted to lift her head. The vulnerability her softness inspired frightened her. Her urge to surrender was almost instantaneous, she barely knew how to keep from hurling herself into this woman, so comforting and painfully familiar. Morgan’s eyes pleaded with hers as they met, clinging to the words spoken and unspoken. Today, tomorrow, and every day thereafter. They couldn’t dare, even if whatever punishment fae magic might devise felt fair in this moment. But it was tempting, more than it had ever been before.

She was awed by the promise Deirdre volunteered. It was so kind, a gentle salve over one of the worst wounds on her heart. She itched to touch her face, to kiss her, and only just held back. “You don’t have to say where,” Morgan whispered. “I know sometimes you need to be away from me, or you don’t know where you’re off to. You can just say why, if that’s better. Either.” She hesitated, searching for any sign of reluctance in Deirdre’s expression, something to keep her back from hope. But there was only her tenderness, only her affection. “Thank you,” Morgan said, mouthing the words more than speaking them. She pressed her face back to Deirdre’s. She had almost forgotten the way her lips brushed so faintly against her skin and how much it felt like love. “Maybe after tomorrow,” she admitted. “We’ll have to see. But there are...I need to know some things, before I get too comfortable too fast. Even if I just want to lay down with you holding me...” If the universe was still in her, she would have reached for it for strength. But there was only herself and her want. Anything more would have to come later. “If I put you on my insurance, would you try therapy? I know we can’t talk about everything, but even just for methods around your self harm, or your idea of yourself, or us. I need to know if you would.” Morgan swallowed thickly. “I need to know if there’s anything else you’re keeping back from me. Because I can’t take more surprises right now, I need all of it, whatever’s left. And I know I can’t make you swear never to do this to me again, but you need to know there’s every chance we won’t make it if you do. I don’t even know if we’ll make it right now, but If you don’t let me stop you, if you don’t let me in enough to even try next time, we’re not going to get years you say you want. And I need...stars, I don’t even know. It feels like so much but I’m so tired… I wish I could sleep, I’m so tired.” She shuddered and clung that much tighter to Deirdre. “Tell me you love me again. Tell me it wasn’t my fault…”

“I don’t particularly think I’d ever want to be away from you…” Deirdre whispered with the same reverence as a promise. It wasn’t want that ever separated her from Morgan, though she knew she’d shattered her girlfriend’s trust. “Then: I promise I will never leave your side abruptly without telling you why and/or where I’m going.” She pressed her forehead against Morgan’s, slow and careful, offering just enough time for her to move away. It had been so long since they held each other, even longer since they’d kissed. But she didn’t dare close space between them as she once had; Morgan said it would be different, and while she learned just how different, Deirdre wanted to respect it. But even for all of the respect she wanted to summon, she couldn’t help the grimace that flickered across her face at the mention of therapy. The fae had their version of therapy, it involved mushrooms and torture, usually. “I went to therapy...actually. Group therapy, if you can call it that. It was…” she sighed; it was helpful, in a strange way. “Are you sure you want me on your insurance? I—well, you know money isn’t an issue for me...the only thing that would do is….well, it would be a commitment. Is that—are you okay with that?” Deirdre shifted, which in her position, amounted to wiggling stiffly. “I could go...yeah. I don’t know how much I could tell a therapist….I don’t know if they understand ancient banshee religious practices. But I would; I would go. If it would help, I’d do it.” And while the imagined embarrassment of having to sit across from a human and tell them all about how much she hated herself was a strange, stabbing kind of pain, it felt more like a step to her. She had tried being better on her own. She had tried it with Morgan’s help. If she could push her own pride aside and try it a little differently, maybe it would stick this time. “I….” Deirdre swallowed. “I’m sorry again, Morgan. And thank you...for letting me try. I love you. Everything that’s happened, the way that I’ve treated you, that wasn’t your fault. None of it has ever been your fault. I love you, I love you so much.”

Morgan soaked up the pressure of Deirdre’s forehead like fresh water. She still felt right. It was almost galling how much she could do and still feel so right. “You...what?” She asked, almost laughing with surprise. “When? Did you--group? Really?” Deirdre didn’t really strike her as the ‘play nice with others’ type. “Would you want to go again?” At the timid mention of commitment, Morgan rolled her eyes with a sigh. “I just mean--the American healthcare system makes enough money off of people without you paying out of pocket, first of all. And obviously someone supernatural would be ideal, maybe through some telehealth service since we probably won’t get lucky looking local, but for now, with what you feel able to talk about, I think it would be ideal. And…” She sighed stiffly. “Even if this didn’t work, I would want to help you. Do something for you. I’d want you to be happy and okay. So...it’s okay. No matter what happens, it’s okay. I’ll do this.” She offered a thin, sad smile, still in the process of reconciling the fact of her devotion with what they could make work in the wake of their mess.

Morgan sank back down against Deirdre’s chest as she made her assurances, sniffling quietly and nodding along. The thought of blame was the hardest to rewrite, and even as she felt the calm of Deirdre’s chest against her ear (no tensing, no gurgling, nothing that felt like a swallowed lie), she tried to replay their interactions and comb them for mistakes she could fix the next time around: when she’d gotten short and frustrated, when she fell to pieces, when she surrendered to Deirdre’s wishes after the first rebuff instead of the third. Maybe it was just that hard, admitting how helpless she’d been.

“It was...a thing for fae who don’t want to hurt humans anymore. They said…” Deirdre swallowed thickly, trying to shrug. “I think I’ll go again. They said they’d have pie for me this time. They only had donuts...which kind of suck as far as dessert foods go.” The food wasn’t the point, obviously, but as Deirdre navigated her own comfort with speaking of the topic, she found herself latching on to what was easiest to talk about; the food, the shitty chairs, the weirdly specific posters. “It felt nice,” she said eventually, “to talk to people like that. I kept thinking they would start laughing at me but they never did.” Deirdre shifted again, as if getting a better position on the couch would magically make talking about her feelings easier. She waited for her mother to materialize and chastise her for her behaviour, to say this was all some elaborate test and she failed terribly—there was always a breath held in anticipation for it every time she spoke of something forbidden. “I don’t think me not paying for therapy is going to ‘stick it’ to the American healthcare system.” She tried to laugh, but the sound came out as a shaky exhale. “If—if this doesn’t work out—which is…” A terrible thought to have. Exactly what ninety percent of her nightmares were filled with. The last thing she ever wanted to think about and even as someone who adored argument, it was a thought she felt horrified to entertain. “...a hypothetical I don’t enjoy considering. I don’t want to make anything harder for you. If it does...I can promise you I will continue to attend therapy, and you don’t need to have me stuck on your insurance. You could….save that for someone else, I suppose.” Or something. Deirdre didn’t want to speak more of it than she had to, but her mind had already worked out the logical steps they needed to take. Morgan would get the house, because she’d always wanted one; everything inside the house would be hers, save for Deirdre’s clothing and personal belongings; and Deirdre would continue to provide financial support, until the day she couldn’t. The only thing she hadn’t figured out was the cats, but every time she tried, her body was seized by sadness. And so, she left that one in the hypothetical space.

There were more important problems to solve, anyway. Like what to say now, if she needed to or could do more, what things had she forgotten to apologize for? It was a long list, when she’d taken mental stock of it, and she felt like she only spoke a fraction. But time, she realized, was what she had to leave the Fate of her most precious relationship to. She couldn’t force Morgan to love her like she had before right now, right away. She couldn’t soothe every issue with some promises just at once, like she hadn’t been gone for days. “Can I kiss you?” She asked quietly, blurted out as her mind drifted. “I know it’s been a while and I know I don’t—it’s okay if you don’t want me to. I understand, I can wait for...whenever you’re ready for that again. I just...thought I’d ask.” She flushed with guilt and embarrassment. “It’s fine if—you can just forget I asked. I’m sorry.”

Morgan couldn’t help the watery smile that spread over her as Deirdre explained where she had been. “You have a fae support group...?” She said faintly. For the first time this night, her voice lilted up with hope. She lifted her fingertips to tenderly brush along Deirdre’s cheek. The faeness of the group made the strange parts fit together, why Deirdre felt comfortable speaking at all, why she took the idea seriously in the first place. And it was why Morgan thought it might stick. Deirdre had a community. Maybe not a banshee community, but one who knew what it was like to be raised similarly, where wings mattered more than hearts. “That’s incredible. You should go, as much as you can. I’m so proud of you, for doing this for yourself.” She kept stroking her face, moving down to her jaw, as she thought about the rest of what Deirdre said. The habit was so compelling, she didn’t want to stop.

“I don���t want to think about there being someone else,” she admitted. “I don’t want someone else. I just…” Say these things to protect myself. Remind myself the woman who hurt me looked just like you. She grimaced, hoping that by process of elimination, Deirdre would understand. “We don’t have to keep talking about this in those terms, though. We shouldn’t. I don’t want to manifest that world. I want…” What she most wanted was for all of this to have never happened in the first place. She couldn’t quite visualize the steps between where she was and where the life she still desperately craved lay ahead of her: happy, vibrant, stable, and pledged to Deirdre. It was painfully ironic. Her whole life she hadn’t even dared to imagine that she could have anything so long lasting as to imagine stability. Having something good for a time, a year at most, was as promising as her reality got. And now that she could almost taste that new, better life, her foundations were in shambles. “...I want…” Morgan hesitated. Deirdre promised I’m safe. She promised she won’t leave. She promised, she promised… “I want this to stop hurting. I want us to be together without it being scary or hurting. I want to be able to hear you tell me something without having to question it. I want ‘us’ to mean something again.”

At Deirdre’s question, and the volley of insecure backpedals and qualifications that followed it, Morgan sat up in her lap. She looked long into Deirdre’s eyes, frowning with heartache at the swelling around one of them. These eyes knew her, understood her, pleaded with her. Even loved her. Morgan brushed back her hair, greasy and tangled. It was as though her grief had torn itself out of her heart and onto her skin. And somehow in the middle of that anguish, she’d had enough sense to try something more for herself. Her poor banshee was so strong. Even if her heart was stronger than she realized, it wasn’t used to carrying so much love or bearing the cost of it. Morgan’s lips trembled as she smiled sadly, then she reached up and cupped her face as gently as she could. “I love you. And I need some time. But you can have this--” She kissed Deirdre, tender, chaste and lingering. She parted, meaning to leave it at that, but the touch had only been a ghost of contact and that faint cotton tingle that was as close to softness as she would ever feel only made her body ache for what it had missed for so long. Morgan met Deirdre’s eyes. If she gave anything more, the promises for tomorrow would mean nothing. Her heart would be sunken too deep and it would be so much harder to pull back if they fell apart too quickly. She didn’t even know what she would supplement Deirdre’s place in her life with. The only thing clear was her want, however terrifying, however unwise. Please help me, her eyes said. Please. “A-and...and now you can kiss me back. Just once.” She whispered.

“It’s not a fae support group...it’s a murder support group...in which we’re all fae.” But the more Deirdre talked about it, the more ridiculous it sounded. it sounded stupid when Sundew took her, it sounded stupid while she was there, and it probably would have sounded stupid to her mother. Did that make it good or bad? As she listened to the hopeful turn in Morgan’s voice, trying not to shiver under her feather-touch, she thought it might have been good. It might have been okay. But she closed her eyes, and there was everything else, everyone else. The idea of a fae that felt bad about killing a human was ludicrous. As a child, every sentence she uttered ended with a glance at her mother. She waited for the hum of approval, the hiss of disapproval; the direction she needed to steer herself. Morgan thought it was good, and Deirdre did too, but when left on her own, would she still look for her mother’s eyes? “They meet often...I can—I suppose I’ll join them.” She lowered her head, Morgan’s pride was not as intoxicating an incentive as her mother’s, but it was gentler. Embarrassingly so. It was the warmth it blossomed, the stirrings of tender thought—her self-worth did not conflate, but it fluttered. Like wings in her chest, waiting for the right breeze to carry them off.

“I don’t want to either. But it’s—maybe it’s something we need a plan for too? To make it less—“ scary? It would always be scary. Terrible? The terribleness of it would not lessen with carefully considered steps. “—I don’t know,” she confessed. “I just thought I was being considerate, by offering. I can barely think about it. I don’t want to.” It occurred to her then that it would’ve been better to discuss a plan for staying together rather than parting. It was better to think about on all accounts, and more important. Those were steps she’d much rather lay out in her head, but they didn’t have easy answers—the solution was subject to the strange, volatile factor of time. “I’m sorry…” she said quietly in a moment, shifting closer to Morgan. “...that I ruined that. But I want us too, I want you to trust me again too, and I’ll work for it—I will.” She bit back a promise, though she would have offered them all out if she thought it would help. What good was a power like that, if she couldn’t even use it to properly explain to the woman she loved just how devoted she was? She was tired of saying she could promise things, if Morgan suddenly turned into such a creature that would bind Deirdre to her; she could do it. She wanted to just do it. But time—terrible, slow and inconsiderate—stood between her. She’d have to wait, for however long it would take. Each second, each hour, day or year—she would wait. “I am yours,” she sighed, “always.”

And she realized her mistake then, in asking for a kiss. Even when she could give them freely—a privilege she would remember to cherish—they were never enough. Too short. Too soft. Too hard, this time. Not right, that time. They were her favorite inadequacy; time after time she could try to get them perfect. Not enough love. Too much. She should hold Morgan tighter. She should kiss her longer. She never felt horrible for falling short, it was just a matter of trying again and again—some were good, some were great, some so instinctual she forgot them (those too, had their merits, she could kiss Morgan again, carrying the value of two kisses). But they were all strung together by a common thread; that she wanted more. Morgan parted from her and Deirdre chased her for the centimetres between—too soft, too short, not enough, come back. But this one could not be fixed with another, or another after that one. And Deirdre blinked, trying to reign her longing to no avail. She wasn’t so sure if she was looking at her desires in Morgan’s eyes, or Morgan’s own staring back at her. But she was such a terrible fool to think she could look at her, drink her in, and want just one kiss. The furrow of her brow alone demanded twenty. And her eyes—big, beautiful, blue—she wouldn’t even start to count how many they’d get in their name. Just once, Morgan urged her, and altogether, Deirdre crumbled. She pushed herself up, meeting Morgan’s eyes. She leaned in slowly, plagued by quivering breath. She held herself those missing centimetres away from Morgan, thinking there was something to savour in the lingering. But as she brushed her lips against Morgan’s, gentle even to her senses, she couldn’t kiss her. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled there, voice heavy with longing. “I can’t kiss you. Not just once. I can’t do that. Not in...any way that won’t be worse for us.” She pulled back, meeting Morgan’s gaze. “I want you, Morgan. Not just once.” She dropped her head, ashamed by her own dramatics—by the ferocity of her love and affection, and all that it wanted. Her mind was still reaching for Morgan, her body trembled with the need to; it had been so long since she had to stop herself from offering affection, she’d forgotten what agony it was. She lifted her head. “I can’t help you,” she said, “I can’t not want you enough to just—“ She swallowed. “I’m sorry. Not just once. I can’t do it once.” Deirdre brought her fingers to her lips, the feeling of Morgan there was already gone, and they burned to be renewed. She’d have to live with it for now, she’d have to wait.

Morgan had nodded encouragingly at Deirdre as she leaned in. She was terrified of what this would do to her, but she ached worse for one more taste of their intimacy. Her hands had slid up Deirdre’s shoulders in expectation. She’d closed her eyes and—nothing.

Morgan’s wide eyes flashed with hurt and confusion. “But—” Her voice cracked in her throat. She cut herself off, lips quivering, and listened. By the time Deirdre finished, Morgan’s body was just as tense with longing as her banshee’s, and her whole mouth trembled. Her hand went out automatically for Deirdre’s, ready to tear it away, to pull her right back in and show her what she’d really meant by once (so long as they didn’t fully part, it was only one kiss, right?) and soothe both of their hurts. But she stopped herself halfway, unsure now. “Worse how? Would it hurt…? Did it hurt before?” Had her kindness been cruel without her realizing? “I was gentle so you’d know I really meant it. So it would be just for you. I was scared, but I wanted to, and I wanted you to have it. And I thought that would be it and I’d be content, but as soon as I felt you, I wanted—” More. So much more. Enough to fill herself up and be sick on. One kiss had seemed like a balanced compromise, but maybe it wasn’t after all. Morgan shuddered and took Deirdre’s bandaged hands, looking earnestly into her terrible, pained expression. “I want you too…” She whispered.

“This is stupid,” she whimpered. “This is so stupid and unfair.” Physical affection had come so easy for them before. It was automatic sometimes, at others, as fluid and nuanced as language, composing poems on each other’s bodies of how much they loved and craved and cherished one another’s presence. “How do we fix this? How do we get to the part where it’s better? If you can’t...if even this isn’t good, we need to figure out something soon, right? We need...a plan, a-a rule, I don’t know. Something to hold onto.” She searched Deirdre’s eyes, finding her own pent up longing reflected back at her. She finally forced her lips to hold their place. “Aren’t you tired of hurting? Can you tell me what you need, what you think will help?”

“No, no! No, it didn’t hurt. That’s not it.” In her eagerness to dissuade Morgan’s worries, Deirdre wrapped her back up in her arms, in the same state that sparked the desire for more in the first place. “It was a good kiss, a really good kiss. That’s the problem…” She sighed, looking into Morgan’s eyes—big, blue, beautiful—and realized the number they would garner was indefinite. How did she ever think just one kiss would be fine? “Would you be okay with that? Would just one kiss be enough? Could you tell me you wouldn’t want more? If you can, I’ll do it. But if you can’t….then we’ve played this game before, Morgan. I don’t want to pretend like I don’t want you as badly as I do, I don’t want to pretend like I can give you just one kiss and move on with the rest of the day.” She pulled Morgan closer, sidestepping a kiss by pressing her lips to her cheek—the same way she’d skirted the definition of a kiss before. “You set a boundary for a reason; you want to feel safe, right? And you don’t right now, you said you don’t. I’ll still be here tomorrow, and the day after that, and the one after that too and so on….and we don’t have to do this now. We can wait until you feel safe again, and it’s okay.” Deirdre smiled, gentle, though she pulsed with the pain of separating herself from Morgan. It was like she’d been peeled off, and half her skin was still stuck to Morgan—and she needed it back, she wanted it back, but she couldn’t take it. She knew the feeling well; the electricity that coursed through her body and the mind that throbbed with longing. She could work herself into a fever just thinking about it; those days, it had been so terrible...but it had been different. She felt strong justification in keeping her hands and lips to herself, now, she had no self-righteous idea to steady herself on. “It was selfish of me to ask, I’m sorry.” She breathed out, heady with the things she could not do. “I want you, Morgan, and I could have you right now that’s not the issue...but would it be okay for you? I don’t—kissing you just once is better than not kissing you at all, but I’m trying to do this right. For both of us.” Of all the things to feel nostalgic of, this was not one she imagined would ever flutter back across her body. “I am so tired, my love. Of hurting...of hurting people…all of it. But what I want is you, what I’ve always wanted is you. But I’ll be here tomorrow, and after that, and all of tonight too….and I want you, and one kiss isn’t enough for me and I’d only want you more. And I don’t know what to do, I don’t. But I can wait. I’ll wait for you.”

Morgan latched on tight to Deirdre as she was brought in and did not let go. “How could you do this? We can’t even kiss without hurting, how could you do this...?” She burrowed her face into the crook of her neck, pressing her lips earnestly to the patch of bare skin there. She trembled, trying to chase after the piece of her that had made this choice too. They were already hurt and agonizing and overthinking—wasn’t it silly not to get something out of it? Or was that just her imbalanced need, clawing for what it knew best? Was it the distance Deirdre had put between them playing cruelly with her body?

Whatever the reason, Deirdre was right. Especially because Morgan didn’t know the reason. How could she stop herself from making old mistakes? And yet how could she pull herself up long enough to do better if she didn’t take what she needed now? Morgan hung on tighter, nodding. At last she said, “Before, when we weren’t having sex for a month and two weeks, it was because you wouldn’t tell me how you felt. It was clear. I didn’t have to guess with myself whether it was time or not. If you told me and you wanted me, we could have that again. But I don’t know what the rule is now. I don’t know what to look for or wait for. I just know I want you right now and I’m so tired even more than I’m scared. I just want something good to hold onto.”

Morgan whimpered as she fought to steady her voice. She risked pulling back enough to see Deirdre’s face, so fraught and soft and horrifyingly hers. Morgan couldn’t figure out where the shift in her expression was, but she knew at once that this so familiar Deirdre wanted to be hers and all Morgan needed was to pick her up and say yes. Her heart would be impaled on another empty silence or dropped down a safety hatch that let her out of all her pain, all with one yes. It was that simple and that hard. “I can’t wait for you to not hurt me, it can’t be an absence. We need to make something, but—” But what the hell was that supposed to be? What did these other versions of themselves look like? “Is it when you’ve found a therapist? That could take ages. Is it when you’ve been to group for a few weeks? When I’ve balanced myself with something besides just you? Because I don’t even know where to start with that!I know...I’m the one who’s scared, but I don’t know when it’ll be better. I don’t know when it’s fine again and I don’t want to rush anything, I just want to feel something besides hurt for a minute, maybe five. Is that bad? Do we really just...have  to keep waiting, and hold each other because it’s the only thing we have left? Hope it doesn’t take too long?” As soon as the words left her, Morgan felt a sinking wave of realization: they very well might have to do just that.

“I’m sorry...I’m sorry…” If she once stopped to consider the repercussions of her actions, she wouldn’t have done anything. Amanda would be alive and Athena less heartbroken, yes, but Deirdre could’ve asked Morgan what good revenge looked like. Or...could she have? Maybe Athena was too young for Morgan too, maybe she didn’t see it like Deirdre did. The banshee shook her head, it wasn’t what she wanted to think about now, and it didn’t matter. Amanda was dead. She’d ruined the safety and trust she built with Morgan. “I’m sorry….” she mumbled. It wasn’t worth it, the things that she’d done. None of it was. “I can hold you tighter? Really tight. I can do that.” And she moved to try, except her arms locked at her sides and her throat seared. She tried to lunge out of the strange body lock, but her arms wouldn’t budge even as the rest of her body flailed. “Oh,” she slumped. “No I can’t do that….because that would be hurting myself….” But what was some muscle pain? Who cared if her body was already sore? She could do that much for Morgan, she always had, no matter the pain. She sighed and held Morgan at an appropriate level, enough that Morgan could feel it, but not so tight that Deirdre’s aching body would protest. “A week,” she mumbled, “seven days exactly. I’ll ask you how you’re feeling; if you feel safe now. If the answer is yes then...then it’s fine, we can have each other just like we want to. And if it’s not, then we’ll wait another week. And after another seven days, I’ll ask again. And if it’s still not, then we’ll take another week and so on until you feel safe, my love.” She looked at her, hoping the tenderness and sincerity was readable over the remorse that played in her eyes. “It can’t be a day….because there’ll just be more of this. But a week sounds good, I think. How does that feel to you? We don’t have to use anything else, just time.” A week felt both too long and laughably short, but even if it wasn’t by this week that Morgan felt comfortable kissing her again, then it might be by the next, or the one after that. And Deirdre found herself looking forward to the day. “I don’t know...whatever you need to feel to know it’s okay. If that’s being safe...or if that’s trusting me again...whatever it is, I can ask you in a week.” She searched Morgan for any hint that it was a good idea, or, at least, that her having stopped from kissing her was a good one too. It hadn’t felt right when she’d done it, but she was no stranger to the desperation that could trick Morgan’s mind. All she wanted to do was honour the boundaries Morgan was setting for herself; that wasn’t so bad, was it? “It didn’t last long…” she sighed, “the no-sex thing...we weren’t supposed to kiss either. But then we were, but it was supposed to be one or two...and then it wasn’t. And then it was everything else just shy of sex. But it was important to you, and if this is anything like that, then we should keep waiting. And I’ll be here. I’ll wait for you—for us. And I’ll try for it.”

“A week…until we check in and ask,” Morgan repeated slowly, her eyes locked onto Deirdre’s as if to ask, are you sure? It was fair. She would be the one to determine an answer, which was both a relief and terrifying. She could say fuck it right now and take Deirdre’s mouth with hers. They were both taut with wanting, they could take the relief for a few seconds, maybe a minute—until that made their bodies more glaringly aware of what else was missing.

Morgan’s features fell as she remembered the old no-sex boundary, and considered that even if Deirdre’s body wasn’t one walking wound, sex right now was just a fast track to a panic attack. It wasn’t just bodies fucking anymore, it never could be again. And the way she needed Deirdre in bed, the way she gave herself best, with her body in complete submission… Morgan felt like it would be another month at best until she could bear that again. “I remember,” she mumbled. “That one Saturday visit, I kissed you goodbye on your cheek and went into my car and cried all the way home. But then a few nights later you came to see me...and you were just so happy, like I’d never seen you before. I couldn’t bring you down from that when I could be a part of it instead. And I already wanted you so badly. I think it only took one kiss for me to sign off on a hundred. And the rest came after I was staying with you, I think. It was just so hard to be next to you, to lay with you without touching you. It hurt. I felt like I was giving in and maybe deluding myself into some terrible half-life with you. But it hurt so much worse, keeping everything back. That’s how I made those decisions.” Was hurt the only way to measure her life, even the things that were ostensibly good? Was she so curse fucked that even dead, she couldn’t touch anything without suffering having its way with it?

“I’m so tired of everything hurting,” Morgan whined, a child’s complaint. “I just want it to stop, just for a little…” But what was that quote her mother had liked? If you’re going through hell, keep walking? Morgan clenched her jaw and sank back down against Deirdre’s chest. This was really not a time she wanted Ruth Beck to be right. “Fine. You’re right. In a week we’ll check.” she said faintly. When her heart calmed and the ache had numbed her out, she would be grateful for the decision. Maybe. Hopefully. Morgan reached behind her for one of the blankets draped over the couch. “You need some rest,” she mumbled. Deirdre needed a lot of things, like a shower, and the rest of her bandages changed, but Morgan wasn’t about to walk another intimacy minefield tonight.  “Can we just stay here?” Can you just hold me? “Can that be okay…?”

“I don’t want you to make decisions out of hurt, Morgan.” But then what was this? What had she left Morgan to do now? Deirdre frowned; she knew that it wouldn’t be so bad to kiss Morgan. She knew that she was going to stay, and that she’d be here to build their foundation again, but Morgan didn’t. And was it wrong instead, to wield that longing and use it selfishly to fill the hole in her own chest? She wanted to take Morgan’s pain away; soothe her, hold her, love her. Was it wrong then, to give in if it was for those things? But it wasn’t her decision to make, she couldn’t pick what was best for Morgan. That had been her problem before, she thought silence would be better; she thought going off on her own and taking the weight of revenge would all be best. This was Morgan’s choice, and Deirdre wouldn’t take that away. “Back then, the only thing I considered was that I was happy, and that I wanted to be happy with you. I don’t think I even understood why you set those boundaries in the first place. But I’ve grown so much since then, and I know now.” And that made it worse, almost. She knew she didn’t want to kiss Morgan because kissing was fun, she knew she didn’t want sex with her because sex felt good—she loved her, and it was irrefutable now. “I love you,” she mumbled against her skin, staving off the searing desire to kiss her girlfriend. These were the kisses she didn’t even think about before, the ones that came by instinct, that marked her sentences and breaths—the ones she forgot about, and promptly chased with another.

Deirdre leaned up and pulled the blanket down with Morgan; wrapping one around them, and herself around the other. “I’d rather stay here anyway,” she smiled, “and can I hold you? Is that okay?” Though she asked, she already had been, and wasn’t sure she could even take not doing it. “Don’t say no to that one,” she mumbled, closing her eyes. “If it’s true, don’t say no, not just yet. Let’s have this...for a little while...for as long as we can…”

Morgan heard Deirdre’s brave, tender smile in her voice and peeled her face back just to see it. A fresh wave of desire shook her. Deirdre looked so sure, so perfect, even with her body ravaged; her affection for Morgan seemed to shine out of every scar and bandage. Morgan’s eyes burned, finally out of tears but no less anguished. She strained up to bring their faces close and pressed her lips to her girlfriend’s cheek. “No,” she whispered. “I need this too. Please hold me. I’ve missed it so much. I’ve missed you loving me. I’ve missed you.” Her voice tightened, so Morgan left it at that, keeping her face pressed to Deirdre’s as her girlfriend settled the blanket around them. When the seconds seemed to stretch and her awareness of how close she was to the corner of Deirdre’s mouth made the space between them feel like pins and needles, Morgan gave a small affectionate nuzzle that granted permission for more of the same, and settled back against Deirdre’s chest. With her mental fatigue and heightened nerves, she wasn’t able to let her head find the old spot where it fit. She shifted and shifted again, and at last surrendered to the idea that near enough was good enough. She could feel Deirdre’s arms for however long she stayed conscious, she could hear her breath coming out of her wounded body, and as ever, she heard her heartbeat. Slow. So slow you’d think it had stopped and gone away, but perfectly in time, always coming back.