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lyssismagical · 4 years

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happiness can be found even in the darkest of times

Febuwhump Day 13 & 14 – Unfortunate & Broken Heart

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For once, the day didn’t seem to hold any heaviness to it. The sky was bright, the cake made to immaculate perfection, the card and present nervously left in the center of the table.

“Happy Becoming a Stark Day, kid,” Tony says, uncertainty obvious in the way he holds himself, shoulders tense and eyes wary.

Three years ago, Peter would’ve hid away in his room at the reminder, scolding himself for calling it his room. He would’ve tucked himself under his blankets, locked the door, and cried, begging May and Ben to come back.

Two years ago, Peter would’ve shrugged Tony off. He would’ve rolled his eyes, refused to have any of the cake, and ignored the gift. He would’ve shouldered his backpack and stalked to school, not even accepting Happy’s offer for a ride.

Even last year, Peter would’ve squared his jaw, maybe attempted a half-smile in consideration. He wouldn’t have eaten the cake, would’ve maybe peeked at the gift when he thought Tony wasn’t looking, but would’ve ignored the idea of the day that stood before him.

But today’s different. Three years is a long time to heal.

So, instead, he offers Tony a smile, maybe a little weary and down, but a smile nonetheless, and he sits at the table across from his guardian.

“Hey, bud,” Tony murmurs, even quieter than before, but his shoulders have relaxed. “I know I’m not supposed to let you have cake for breakfast, but I figured we could go out tonight, if you want.”

Peter pauses, and even quieter than Tony, even smaller, he says, “Could we maybe just have a movie night? Just us here? If not, that’s okay, I don’t mind going out, but I just- I-”

But Tony’s face is so gentle, eyes shining. “Yeah, buddy, of course. We can watch that show you never shut up about.”

Tentatively, Peter steels himself to extend the olive branch he’d been holding close to his chest for far too long. “Do you think, maybe, we could try to make meatloaf? It was- It was the only thing May could cook and I found her recipe when I was going through her things.”

And Tony’s eyes light up with pride, smiling softly. “Course we can, buddy.”

“Can I?” Peter asks, reaching for the present. Anxiety still thrums in his veins and the remnants of grief still curl from his toes up to the pit of his stomach, and guilt still lingers in the back of his mind. But he wants to try.

Tony pushes the present and card across to Peter, still smiling so carefully like he’s scared any wrong move on his part will set Peter backwards on his course to happiness.

The card is simple, a few kind words scrawled in Tony’s messy handwriting about how much Peter means to him.

The gift makes tears spring to Peter’s eyes. A gold chain with a locket on the end of it. When he opens it, it’s the picture of Peter, Ben, and May on the beach when they went on one of their Spontaneous Sunday Stunts. They drove out to Coney Island that Sunday, not long before Everything Happened.

Peter quickly slips the gold chain around his neck, unable to tear his eyes away from the picture of Ben and May smiling at the camera, arms wrapped around Peter.

He stands suddenly, chair kicking out behind him before he can stop it, but Tony beats him to talking, voice low and apologetic.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s soon and it’s not my place, I just saw the picture when I was going through some of the stuff, and I figured-”

“Thank you,” Peter murmurs, swallowing thickly. Tears catch on his cheeks and his hands are shaking where they clutch the golden pendant, but he needed this. It’s been three years.

Peter moves around the table and allows himself to hug Tony, a few years ago, he would’ve never allowed himself to, he would’ve told himself it was betraying May and Ben to be accepting Tony’s comforts.

“Yeah, course, kiddo,” Tony says, pressing the quickest kiss to Peter’s temple.

He clears his throat, offering a proud smile. “Finish up your piece of cake and then I’ve gotta get you to school.”

Peter lets himself laugh, a small fraction of the person he once was, before everything happened, but it’s enough for now at least.

Three years ago, Peter watched Ben die in the grim alleyway (bloody hands, pained wheezes, the murmured With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility, the guilt and the grief, watching May fall to her knees when the police officers dragged Peter, shocked and blood-caked hands, into the house with The News) and there was nothing he could do to stop it from happening. And then, as though the universe wasn’t done ruining his life, when Peter went to see May the next morning, she was gone too.

Broken Heart Syndrome, the doctors told him. A rare occurrence, but somehow Parker Luck had struck again.

And suddenly, within the course of twenty-four hours, Peter was alone. Absolutely, irreversibly, indescribably alone.

Running away from the CPS wasn’t as hard as he thought, running from grief was harder than he’d thought.

He spent his days swinging through the streets of Queens as Spider-Man, he’d take naps on rooftops, hoping nobody would catch him.

Until, of course, Iron Man showed up one day and took him back to the tower, offering up one of his hundreds of guest bedrooms.

It wasn’t like Peter couldn’t accept it, he didn’t have much of a choice unless he wanted to sleep in his stupid Spider-Man onesie on various rooftops for the rest of his life, running from CPS.

And three years later, somehow, Tony’s still here. He hasn’t given up on Peter yet, he hasn’t died like Peter thinks he might if he starts to think of Tony as a real parental figure.

But Peter’s been letting his guard down. He’s been accepting the homework help, he’s been letting Tony take him out to restaurants and for ice cream, Tony’s been coming to his Academic Decathlon competitions, they have movie nights at least once a week.

Peter’s let himself get close to Tony in a way he promised he wouldn’t because he knows that whenever he gets close to somebody, they die. It’s happened four times already, and he swore he wouldn’t let it happen to Tony.

But he lets his guard down, and the bad things happen like he knew they would.

* Ned’s rambling about his new girlfriend, hands moving wildly with his emotions. Something about how he thinks she may have cheated on him already because of some snapchats MJ swears she saw during Academic Decathlon the other day.

It’s obviously important to Ned, and normally Peter would care a lot about it, but something seems off. Wrong. His spidey-sense is ringing in the back of his head.

And then they leave the school, Ned rolling his eyes dramatically as he gets to the part of his story where he’s planning on asking Betty about it, and Happy’s the one waiting for him not Tony.

Normally, Peter wouldn’t have been worried. Happy picks him up all the time.

But it’s their third anniversary of being a family and Tony said he’d pick Peter up from school so they could grab some ice cream, maybe some fast food, hang out for a bit.

He wouldn’t just miss it.

“Happy?” Peter calls out, wincing when Ned abruptly stops talking. “Sorry, man. I’ll call you later and you can tell me everything about what happens tonight.”

Ned’s shoulders don’t slump in the way Peter thought they would, there’s no disappointment or anger or any ill feelings in his eyes. He just grins and claps Peter on the shoulder.

“No worries. I gotta get going anyways. Guess we’ll cross our fingers that Betty has a reasonable explanation for those snaps,” Ned says. “Bye!”

Peter murmurs a half-hearted goodbye with a distracted smile, before turning on Happy, trying his best to push down the worry and disappointment.

“Hey, kid,” Happy says. His sunglasses slip down a little to reveal red-rimmed eyes, making Peter flinch.

“What’s going on? What happened?”

Happy sighs, opening the door for Peter to get in but the teenager doesn’t move. “Listen, kid, it’d be easier to explain when we get back home-”

“Is he okay?” Peter demands, tears already threatening to spill. Of course this happened. Of course something bad had to happen on the three years since Peter became a Stark. It was bound to happen one day, Parker Luck always ready to attack when Peter least expects it.

“He had a heart attack, Pete,” Happy says, voice soft and careful. “It happens sometimes, ever since Afghanistan his heart’s been weak.”

Peter’s knees buckle and Happy barely manages to catch him, gently maneuvering Peter into the car.

“He’s okay,” Happy reassures, easily blocking the car from the view of the prying teenagers passing. “He’s going to be just fine. He’s going to spend a couple days, maybe a week, in Medical, and then he’ll be fine.”

Peter lets out a broken sob, tears spilling over the edges. His shaking hands comes up to cover his face, hunching over himself in passenger seat.

“Pete, kiddo, he’s going to be okay, I promise,” Happy soothes, hands rubbing at Peter’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Peter cries, tugging loosely at his curls. “It’s my fault. If I had- If I had just-”

Happy’s shaking his head, hands tightening on Peter’s shoulders. “Not your fault, kid. Tony’s heart been weak for over a decade now. It just happens sometimes. There was nothing you could’ve done to prevent this.”

But if Peter had followed his gut and stayed away from Tony, away from the Starks, maybe they would’ve been okay. Peter, he’s infectious. The Parker Luck attacks anyone close to him.

That’s why Mary and Richard were dead. That’s why Ben and May died. That’s why Tony’s now in the hospital.

Because of Peter.

“C’mon, kiddo, let’s get you home.”

Happy doesn’t say much more as his hands disappear from Peter’s shoulder and he gets into the driver’s seat, starting back towards the tower. He murmurs a few more quiet reassurances, before he gives up and lets Peter curl up and cry. All he does is reach out a hand is pat Peter’s shoulder gently every once in a while.

Peter just cries and wishes the bullet had taken him instead of Ben that night over three years ago. Things would’ve been different.

Ned calls him when they get back to the tower and Peter answers it without really thinking, sinking down onto the couch as Happy disappears down to medical without him.

“I walked Betty home from school,” Ned starts without waiting for Peter to say anything. It’s not like he knows anything’s wrong, he doesn’t know Peter’s life is crumbling before his very eyes. “And I confronted her about the whole ordeal.”

Peter hums, worried if he tried to speak, his voice would crack and give it all away.

“Betty admitted she was planning on going to Brad’s this weekend,” Ned exclaims. “MJ was right, she was going to cheat on me. Can you believe it? I ended it right then and there, told her if she liked Brad so much, she should be with him and not me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah… I know I was the one to break up with her, but man, does it ever hurt? I think my heart is broken, dude. Like can you believe it? Brad, of all people?”

Ned continues rambling about his relationship problems, but Peter stops listening, mind looping the same phrase. Heart is broken.

Broken heart.

Ned and Betty were together for like three weeks, maybe. Ben and May were married for ten years, happy and in love, and prepared to spend the rest of their lives together.

Ned’s relationship problems may feel like the end of the world to him, but it isn’t a broken heart.

“I gotta go, Ned, sorry, man,” Peter blurts, cutting Ned off again. “I, uh, Tony’s, he, fuck, Ned, Tony had a heart attack and I-”

“Shit, Peter, I had no idea, I- I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I can, just let me know, yeah? I- I don’t know what to say. I’m just-”

Peter shakes his head, willing the tears not to fall. “It’s cool. I’ll call you back later. I gotta go bye.”

He hangs up, gives himself exactly two minutes to panic, to absolutely fall apart at the seams like he remembers doing when he walked into May’s room the day after Ben died and found her already long gone. He gave himself two minutes to panic before he called the police, packed up his things, changed into his Spider-Man suit, and swung into Queens.

This time, Peter doesn’t run away, he doesn’t try to hide. He pulls himself together as much as he can, and steels himself to go down to Medical.

* When Peter’s parents died, Ben and May would take turns reading Peter to sleep out of the Harry Potter Series, a collector’s edition Mary bought just a few weeks before the fateful plane ride.

She had left them with Peter at May and Ben’s before they’d left, saying it would be good entertainment while they were away.

Turns out, they’d be one of the only things Peter could keep that belonged to them.

The Harry Potter books were tucked away in the back of his closet not long later, when looking at them was enough to bring back waves and waves of grief.

After Ben and May died, Tony found them when taking everything from the apartment to the tower.

Peter was practically catatonic, refusing to leave his bed or eat the food Tony brought. And his new guardian did the only thing he knew how to do.

He read the Harry Potter books out loud, night after night after night until they’d made it to the part where Sirius died, and Peter had jerked out of bed and taken the book from Tony’s hands, drawing it to his chest as he cried.

It’s not like he didn’t know it would happen, he’d read the books six or seven times each, but hearing Tony’s rough voice depict Harry’s closest parental figure’s death so soon after Ben and May…

Now, years later, Peter tugs the box of books out from his closet where he’d hidden them a while back.

He takes them down to medical where Tony is, needles and IV’s and machinery surrounding him. His heart monitor is steadier than Peter thought it would be, but it doesn’t do much to quell his anxiety.

The spine crackles when he props open the first book of the series, tucking the rest of the box under his chair and he starts reading.

“Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much…”

* Pepper came down every once in a while, trying to convince Peter up from Tony’s bedside. She brought a few snacks, but when they went uneaten, she settled for bringing a few bottles of ice water when Peter’s voice became rough and cracking through the overuse.

Happy was in and out for the first night but he didn’t bother as much after that. They both knew Tony would be back on his feet in no time, there was no reason to cry at his bedside when he’d be just fine.

Bruce and Helen showed up occasionally, they tried to speak to him, tried to take the books from him, tried to get him to rest or eat or drink some water at the very least, but he never complied and used his sticky fingers and strength to his advantage.

The two constants, though, was the steady beeping of the heart monitor and Peter’s voice, reading and reading and reading.

After two nights of Tony resting, which apparently was perfectly normal according to Helen and Bruce, Peter’s voice finally cracked, tears overcoming him as he tries to continue to force himself through the blurring words of the page.

“‘There's nothing you can do, Harry... nothing... He's gone.’ ” Peter chokes out, voice trembling and hands shaking.

A sob escapes his throat and he can’t get his voice to keep going, book falling into his lap. Even three years later, he can’t make it through Sirius’s death. He can’t do it.

He tucks his knees up to his chest, hunching in on himself in the uncomfortable plastic chair at Tony’s bedside, tears refusing to cease, pouring down his cheeks like waterfalls. Sobs wrack his chest, shoulders shuddering, book clutched to his chest.

He cries and he cries and he cries.

And then,

“Pete?”

He turns quickly, nearly falling from his chair in his haste to see if the voice was real and not a figment of his imagination.

But it’s real. Tony’s eyes are finally open, boring into him with an intense worry and concern, hands already reaching for him, seeking to comfort the crying teenager.

Peter flinches, shying away from the outstretched hands. The book slips from his grasp and hits the floor with a thud, and he scrambles to grab it, hands trembling violently.

“Kiddo, hey, it’s okay, we’re okay,” Tony’s reassuring, voice rough from disuse, but so soft and caring it makes Peter want to fall into his arms and let him will the horrors of the world away.

But he can’t. He can’t pretend it’s okay.

“I’m sorry. I- I’m sorry,” he cries, knees buckling. He doesn’t have Happy to catch him this time, instead hitting the floor with a whine and hunching in on himself on the floor as he gasps for breath.

“Hey, hey, hey, kiddo, we’re okay. It’s alright. I know it’s scary, but it’s okay. I’m just fine, alright? But I can’t help you if you don’t let me.”

His eyes slide over the books, in particular the book that Peter’s pulled into his lap again, and his expression softens.

“Buddy, you know we skip over that book, don’t you?” Tony murmurs. He carelessly tugs off the circles on his chest, monitoring his heart rate, and the IV out of his hand, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

“No, no- You shouldn’t-” Peter tries to say, but then Tony’s kneeling on the tiled floor beside him and pulling him into a tight hug, effectively cutting off his protests.

Tony’s voice is soft and warm as they rock gently on the floor, reassuring him that everything alright.

And it works in a way that Tony’s perfected over the past three years of learning how to soothe Peter through guilt and grief and panic.

“You wanna tell me what’s up, bud? You wanna talk to me?”

Peter pulls away from Tony’s arms, knowing he must look like a wreck with tousled greasy curls and red-rimmed puffy eyes and a trembling mouth.

“I kill everyone I get close to,” Peter says, face crumpling. “Everyone I get close to dies, Tony, and I- I can’t lose you too. I can’t do it again, I can’t. My Parker Luck, it- it- Please, I- I have to leave, you have to send me away or else- or else-”

But Tony isn’t angry like Peter thought he would be. His voice stays in the same soft tone he’s adopted. “It’s not your fault, buddy. I know you think it is, I know it’s been tough for you, but it isn’t because of you. My heart’s been weak since Afghanistan, kid, long before you.”

“But- But Ben, and May, they- If I had just-”

“Kiddo, baby, you weren’t the one to pull the trigger. You weren’t the one to crash your parents’ plane. You weren’t the one to give me a heart attack. This isn’t on you, bambi. Bad things happen to good people.”

“But-”

Tony shakes his head, pulling Peter more firmly against his chest. “No buts. None of it was your fault no matter how much that little voice in your head is saying it is. It wasn’t your fault, I promise.”

Peter gives up fighting, he sinks into the hug, hiding his face away in Tony’s shirt, shaking hands curling into the hem of his shirt.

“I can’t lose you,” he says. “I can’t do it again, Tony, I can’t.”

“And I’ll try my hardest to make sure you won’t have to, okay? But you know I can’t promise you something like that.”

“I know, I just… I just can’t do it again. I can’t lose a fifth parent, Tony. I can’t do it. I don’t think- I don’t think I could do it.”

Tony curls tighter around Peter. “You won’t, baby. I’ve got you. It’s going to be okay.”

“Tony?” He curls one of his hands around the pendant that hangs around his neck, the one Tony got him.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, buddy. Now what do you say, we hop back into bed and we can pick up where you left off, yeah?”

Peter looks over to where the fifth book lies harmlessly on the floor. “Can we skip to the end?”

Tony offers a smile, picking up the fifth and the sixth with a little huff of laughter. “Yeah, kid. Of course.”

They shift up onto the bed, Peter refusing to let go of Tony’s shirt, and Tony opens to the end of book five, clearing his throat.

It’s not perfect. Nothing will ever be perfect for Peter. But it’s enough. It’s good.

“‘Instead he smiled, raised a hand in farewell, turned around, and led the way out of the station toward the sunlit street, with Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley hurrying along in his wake.’ ”

#lyss writes #febuwhump #irondad fanfiction #irondad fic #irondad #peter parker fic #don't tag as starker #harry potter reference

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mor-beck-more-problems · 4 years

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Dogfish || Morgan & Deirdre

Mostly, I want to be kind. And nobody, of course, is kind, or mean, for a simple reason.

And nobody gets out of it, having to swim through the fires to stay in this world.

-From “Dogfish” by: Mary Oliver

Continuation from “Without You.” Morgan returns home to Deirdre after taking time to digest the news she was responsible for what happened to Emma Mushrow.

@deathduty

It was several hours before Morgan returned home. By the time she did, the sun had shifted in the sky and fallen behind early evening clouds. Morgan’s running shoes were gooey with the crushed remnants of every mushroom she’d had the misfortune of passing near the woods as she had stomped and sobbed off her anger and hurt. Somehow, she knew the front door would still be open, and Deirdre would be huddled right where she left her. The glass, however, was a bit of surprise. The first sign was a wine bottle left out on the dining table, the last dregs staining the floor like blood, the green glass split in every direction, like a small explosion. Then came the great room, with its rows and rows of windows, the topmost cracked in grotesque spiderwebs of pressure, the lower one blown-out clean, coating the floor in thousands of clear, broken pieces. And the antique liquor cart, the bourbon and the tumblers and the shot glasses and the protective glass over the single bookcase, just for show, really. All broken with only the barest toothy remnants in their frames and shells. Morgan felt as though she were treading through Deirdre’s pain as she traced the cleanest path to the coffee table where she lay curled and shriveled inside herself, so stiff she seemed almost frozen. There was glass shining in her hair, stuck to the back of her shirt. She hadn’t hurt herself, but stars, she had hurt. Oh, Deirdre.

“Hey,” Morgan said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. ”Don’t move yet, there’s glass all over you, but I’m back now, Deirdre. I’m here.” She pressed a hand to one of Deirdre’s, clenched tight against her knees, and with her free arm went about sweeping away the tiny shards off her body and plucking them free of her hair. “I’m here,” she sighed.

Caught in a torrent of her mother's voice stuck in her mind and her own deprecating thoughts, Deirdre remained unchanged in position or anguish, as hurt as she was when Morgan left to when she came back. Her crying had paused only once to force herself to feel the emptiness of her home, vacant and lonely by her doing, before she resumed her crying. It was her fault. She was wrong. Terrible. Bad. Every word she could think of that hurt. Everything saying her mother told her that she should have listened to, that she was led to believe was wrong, but suddenly wasn't so sure about anymore. Morgan's hand startled her, and she sprung up, shocked and nearly offended to see her. She was so certain she would not return that she had expected it, she had told herself it was the only thing that could make her actions just. If she lost the only thing that had been good, perhaps all her wrong would undo itself. And she was sure this was right, she was sure this was the punishment she deserved. And so, she stumbled back, falling to the floor and it's glass, feeling each shard cut into her palms as she pushed herself away. Her throat burned and her head throbbed, but for all this pain, she imagined she was due it and more. She could hear her mother tell her so. And it felt right that Morgan would be mad, that she would leave. For all she had warned the woman of her evil, it was too good to imagine that she saw something else. And for certain finally, there was nothing else to see. "No!" She screamed, and the glass that had only cracked finally popped and spilled across their—hers, now—flooring. She was sure then, by some cruel twist, that this must have been an illusion. She lifted a bleeding hand up to cast it away, but the insidious magic would not dispell. "Stay away!" She was bad. Evil. Wrong. Too terrible to deserve anything but pain. Finally, she understood this. She raised her other palm to shield herself from any attacks as she try to push herself away with her feet, slipping on the shards around her.

Morgan sank stiffly to the ground, bracing herself on all fours, swallowing the sounds of pain that wormed up her throat with a wince as best she could as Deirdre screamed. She hadn’t braced herself for this particular reaction. The last time Deirdre hadn’t believed she was real they’d kissed. She’d looked at her in fear before as well, but only when she was seeing some other conjured face or the echo of a nightmare. But Morgan had made a promise to her heart to be present for Deirdre, to comfort her, help her cope and figure out amends for this, however possible. It wasn’t, ultimately, her fault. She hadn’t even meant to do the deed in the first place. “Deirdre…” Morgan said, slowly and carefully. “It’s really me. I’m here now, it’s okay.” She reached out, more tentatively this time, and settled her hand on her leg. “Can I come closer, so I can help? Maybe get us away from all the glass, babe?”

She felt another hand on her leg, and hissed at the gentleness of it. Again, Deirdre pushed herself away, bringing her palms down to the shards of glass so she could crawl away quicker. The glass dug into her, filling agony with the familiar sensation of pain, stinging and acute. She moved back until there was nowhere else to move, and then curled herself up, protecting her head, as she expected the vision to give up its scheme and attack at any moment. The last she remembered of Morgan was her anger, and then she had left. It was too strange to imagine her back, suddenly calm and caring. Had Deirdre driven her away, and had she somehow forced her to come back only when she had convinced herself that Deirdre was deserving enough of care? Had she left to fool herself? "Don't touch me!" She trembled, too afraid to look back at the vision. She was too evil, too bad, too wrong to be touched. She had stirred Morgan's anger, and had led her to run away from her, and these two facts alone were enough to keep her mind chasing its idea of punishment—and then she truly had killed a child, or a girl that was too young to be killed. It didn't matter that she wasn't herself, she had done it. "Don't help me!" Was this her divine punishment then? To be forced to live again in her empty house and push this illusionary Morgan away over and over again knowing she did not deserve her help? Was there retribution at last for all her wrongs? For not having wings, for not being fae enough, for killing, for being too apathetic, for falling in love with a human far too good for her, for not being good enough for that human, for killing Emma and Regan's father, for not being smart enough to help Regan the way she needed, for not being enough, for not listening to her mother, for not—the list seemed to go on forever. "Stop," she quieted, "you left. You left. Stop." The words, she could barely tell, seemed senseless. But they ringed with clarity inside of her. Morgan had left. And that made sense. And Deirdre did not want to be in the world where she caused that. "Please leave me," she begged the vision, still curled up in defense. If this was her punishment, she was too weak to bear it.

Morgan took the opportunity of Deirdre folding up again to come closer, right next to her poor banshee. “Oh, my love--” she sighed. This part, she should have expected, for however much good and hope Morgan pinned onto her, Deirdre expected so much more of herself. Deirdre was a woman who thought any slight might make her unworthy of affection for the rest of her days. Their second date in the woods she had dared to imagine that there was anything that would keep Morgan from wanting to be hers. And now, after this, trembling with more judgemental anguish than she’d revealed to Morgan yet-- “Oh, Deirdre, I said I was coming back,” she said softly, leaning into her, surely close enough for Deirdre to feel her breath, the hovering weight of her. “If there ever comes a time when I don’t come back to you, you can safely assume I’m dead.” She reached out, fingers hovering over Deirdre’s hair. She couldn’t mean what she said, not in a way that meant she didn’t want her all. There was too much pain and defeat for that to be true, or at least, so Morgan hoped. She didn’t know of any other way to convince Deirdre, to reach down into her misery and connect them again. Morgan caressed the hair at the top of her head, more careful and tender than she ever had before. “Hey, I’m here now. And I love you. Will you please look at me, babe?” She asked. “Will you at least let me hold you?”

Morgan's voice continued to filter through the air, ever gentle, ever steady. Would a vision last this long? Deirdre dared to drop her hands, lifting her head up to glance at Morgan. She looked just as she had before she left, except anger had been replaced with—what was that? It couldn't be care, could it? A kindness that she did not deserve. "I didn't mean to," she mumbled, "I'm sorry, I—I wasn't trying to hurt her. She wasn't supposed to be—I don't know why she died, she wasn't—I didn't want—I couldn't stop myself from—" Was it pointless to repeat herself now? It didn't ease her crime, to lessen the reminder of Morgan's anger in her memory. "Why did you come back? You shouldn't have—I mean I don't deserve the—I—" she swallowed thickly, dropped her head back into her knees as she drew them to her chest. Her skin burned with the shards of glass that embedded in her, and for the first time she noticed the carnage she wrought upon the house. Was Regan right? Was all banshees could do was break things? Hurt people? If even she lost her control, after all she'd suffered to learn, who could say she wouldn't again? "No, don't touch me. I'll hurt you, or—" or something worse, somehow.

Morgan beamed softly at Deirdre as she finally met her gaze. If there had been anything premature about her coming back, any last bitter hold outs of anger or frustration, the look in Deirdre’s red, streaming eyes would have done away with it. It had only been a few hours, but Deirdre had managed to wring a year’s worth of punishment out of her soul. Her features sagged, weary and frightened. Morgan leaned in closer, bringing their bodies only a breath apart. “I know,” she whispered. “I know you didn’t, my love. I know, sshh…” She brought an arm about Deirdre’s tense shoulders and tucked herself in, heedless of any glass that bit into her skin as she did. She pressed a kiss to her temple, so softly only Deirdre would be able to feel it. “You’re not going to hurt me, Deirdre,” she said. “And even if you did, I think I could take whatever it is you’ve got.” She danced her fingers along Deirdre’s knees, tempting them to come down, to let Deirdre show herself to her. “Hey,” she whispered, “I came back because I love you. Because I’m in this with you. Because we help each other. I just needed a little time, but I was always coming back to you. Always, Deirdre.” She pressed another kiss to her head. “I will always love you and I will always come back as long as I’m on this earth,” she murmured. “We kind of suck at staying apart anyways, don’t we?” she added, lilting her voice sweetly the way Deirdre often did when she wanted to soothe her. None of her fears could be so terrible if Morgan was speaking lightly; nothing could stay unforgiven if she was already smiling. “Let me hold you,” she asked again.

The hours between had been a blur, all she remembered was the anger, now missing from Morgan's words and actions. "I'm sorry," Deirdre tried again, sure somehow that this must still be some illusion. But at each touch, as real as the glass biting into her skin, she flinched—too weak to push herself away again. She dropped her knees, flattening her legs among the shards of glass and ruin. Why was she like this? She tried so hard to be better, and yet, she could not be. She could not even, for all her torturous training, summon the control to avoid committing this flagrant display of weakness again. How many times would this happen? "I'm sorry," she croaked again, so ashamed of herself that she could not find the courage to speak any louder—lest she be made to hear her own cursed voice. Morgan's attempts at levity were lost on the undeserving banshee, who stared at her hands again, now marred with her own blood and bits of glass. "How can you still—you were so mad." She closed her hands, feeling a sharper sting as the glass dug in. She unfurled them, watching more blood grow on the surface. "Please don't," she said, "I feel—I don't deserve that. You were so mad and—why would you want to—I don't want that." Emma couldn't be held anymore. And for all the people she'd killed, even by way of her duty, she had resigned herself in knowing she deserved to be denied the affection they could no longer receive. They were all people too, weren't they? She hadn't thought of them so consciously as people before, and her wrongdoing overwhelmed her. If this was the world she would inhabit, with its warmth and happiness, then by its rules, she was something too terrible for words. "You can leave, if you want to leave. You don't have to stay with me. Or I can—I should go. I shouldn't be here. You can have the house and the—" her voice cracked. Was it worse to imagine that Morgan would stay with her out of obligation? As if it were some job she needed to convince herself that she enjoyed? "I killed her. I did that. Please don't hold me."

“I know you are, Deirdre, I do,” Morgan repeated, threading more soft kisses into her hair. When her knees finally dropped, she moved her hands around to cup her face, still gently, and turn it to face her own. She held her gaze like that, steady and still, showing Deirdre only love and forgiveness, which was hers whether she took it or not. “I still love you, Deirdre Dolan,” she said. “And I am still yours, as long as you’ll have me. And maybe--maybe it isn’t always about deserving. Isn’t that something you tried to tell me before? The world is cruel, and the universe--doesn’t give as much of a shit as it should, so things like ‘deserve’ don’t always matter. But there are true things, whether you can accept them or not, and one of them is that I still want to be here. I promise I’m here right now because I want to be. I promise it wasn’t all your fault, not the way you keep telling yourself. And I promise I forgive you. I forgive you, Deirdre. I will forgive you this and anything you did before now.” She dropped her hands to take Deirdre’s own, cradling them gently against her chest. “Grief counts for something. Remorse counts for something. But you’ve suffered already, so much, babe. And what counts most is trying to make amends. So, I don’t want either of us going anywhere from this house. And I don’t want you hurting or punishing yourself anymore if you can help it.” She brought her fingers up to kiss carefully, mindful of the glass embedded in her soft flesh. “You made an awful choice, and we need to do something about this, to whatever extent it can be, but that doesn’t mean your heart isn’t still good. You are still you, or else it wouldn’t hurt this much.” She searched her expression, hoping that even a piece had landed in the right place and Deirdre would surrender to her, open to her, and they could be granted some relief. “Does any of that make sense?”

“But--But--” Deirdre’s argument died in the back of her throat, though she tried to force it out. It didn’t seem fair, it didn’t seem right. Morgan said she was good, and she tried to be, and then she wasn’t---how could that be forgiven? “It doesn’t.” She swallowed, she could feel Morgan touching her, soothing her, but she couldn’t allow herself to lean into any of the touches, to accept them. “It doesn’t make sense.” What did grief count for? Guilt or remorse? Emma was dead, so was Regan’s father. Neither would ever come back, and she’d ruined two families in the name of being fae--a concept that continued to elude her. She shook her head out of Morgan’s grasp; it stung to look into her expression of love and forgiveness when she felt it wasn’t due. Deirdre couldn’t make herself look at it. “What do I do? How do I make it better?” She asked, looking at Morgan only to communicate her desperation. She wanted to make it good, she wanted to be good. But she’d spoken to Emma’s family already, she’d paid for the kind of funeral her family wanted, she’d given them as much money as they would accept. The only thing left to do was confess officially for the crime, something she could not risk. “I’ll do it. Whatever it is.” She tore her eyes away again, picking the shards of glass out of her palms. “You shouldn’t forgive me either, but I’ll make it....something. I’ll do something. Anything.”

Morgan grasped Deirdre’s hands firmly. “Let me,” she said, soft but insistent. And to settle the point, she blocked Deirdre’s free hand with her arm while she worked, plucking up one piece at a time with her small fingers and plinking the pieces onto the coffee table. “We can pay for the funeral, for starters, that should be easy. And we have to go to the service, and the burial, and at least send something along for the reception. The only good thing about family funerals is where you don’t have to cook for a month, because everyone brought you a casserole to keep. And...I have some work of hers, from class. We can have it published as a tribute to her, or her potential, at least. She wanted to write, she can still get to be known for that. She can be read, and maybe while everyone is feeling kind towards her, she’ll be understood in a way she wasn’t before. And her story won’t just be that she died, but that she left something good behind. Something she made that was hers and wanted to share someday.” Morgan let out a long exhale to keep her heart from getting crowded again, to expand it further than she had yet and hold all the was left to be had of Emma and hold all the gentleness Deirdre so badly needed at once. She held the spaces open with difficulty, but she held them all the same. Morgan kissed her love’s temple and released her hand, murmuring, “You can do your other hand, I’ll work on your hair.” And as she did, combing through her scalp sometimes just to soothe rather than search, she tried to come up with an explanation for the rest of Deirdre’s distress. “Emma shouldn’t be defined by one terrible thing that happened to her, that’s why doing something for her work is going to help. She was more than that, anyone who can’t see past it is doing her a disservice. But you aren’t defined by this terrible thing either. Everything you’ve done over the past six months isn’t erased. If we were all just defined by our worst moments, there wouldn’t be hope for anybody. And you have done so much, Deirdre. You can’t give up on yourself over this. It wasn’t all your fault, and--as long as you keep trying, that hope still exists. Try even if you can’t believe in yourself completely.” She sighed again, pressing a hand over her banshee’s heart, as if she could transfer all she wanted her to have and feel through touch alone. “I still believe in you, you know,” she said quietly.

She looked at Morgan with wide eyes, betrayed that she would offer help, that she would refuse Deirdre from trying to fix this herself. She dropped her gaze, turning to her hand, watching Morgan pick the shards out. Her shame did not waver, bolstered instead by the guilt of enjoying the care Morgan offered, for missing it. "That's what I told her mother," she sighed, "that her life should matter more than the unfairness it ended with. She did invite me to the funeral. I just—" Thought it was crass, for her murderer to attend. Or perhaps it was apt punishment? She held her hands up, the one now free of glass beside the one that still had bits lodged in. Both were bleeding. "I have killed enough people to know this." She began picking the pieces out of her hand, slow, unsure if they should be picked out at all. "I—uh—I gave them money for—I could give them more if—her mother wouldn't take much more, but I could go back and talk to her." With the glass freed from her palm, she had nothing to do but drop them back into her lap. "Is that true?" She looked up, her hand raised to wrap around Morgan's before she remembered how it wasn't hers to have, dropping back into her lap. "That you still—you were so mad. I didn't mean—you left. And you were mad. And you left." She paused, "it's okay. You don't have to keep—I can do that myself. You shouldn't." But she was too weak to swat Morgan's hands out of her hair.

Morgan couldn’t help but be comforted in her heart that Deirdre had already taken some actions already to heal what she’d caused. Of course Deirdre would be so overcome with horror she would have to do something. Of course she would be so ashamed she would be afraid of doing something wrong, she would stick to the most obvious, the safest. “Of course you did,” she sighed softly. “I should’ve figured. That’s a good start. But we should go, both of us. And you don’t have to give her mother more, although maybe something anonymous, so she thinks it’s from somewhere else.” She combed her fingers through her hair, working layer by layer, kissing the top of her head now and then. She went still when Deirdre asked if her words were really true and shifted in front of her, expression soft and appealing. “Oh, Deirdre--” She reached out tentatively to touch her cheek. “I was upset, yes, but when I stepped out--it wasn’t to hurt you. I...I knew you were already hurting, and you were sorry, and I didn’t want to make it worse by doing or saying something reckless out of that anger. I promise you, I didn’t leave to hurt you, or because I hated you, or I stopped believing in you.” She brushed her fingers tenderly down the side of her face. “I’m so sorry I scared you that way. I didn’t mean to. And I do--Deirdre, I promise I do believe in you. I believe you are still a kind person with a good heart, that doesn’t change over something you did wrong like this, not when you’re already trying to make amends. I’m not giving up on you, or us, okay?”

Deirdre shivered at the thought of attending the funeral. Her acting skills had diminished considerably, and there was only so much anguish she could play away as empathy. “But it’s not enough,” she mumbled, no matter what she did. No balance she could strike with the universe. And Morgan had been so mad, and that was all she could remember. Too mad to stay. Too mad to talk. Morgan had never wanted to be apart for her, they were always trying to do the opposite and yet--- Deirdre glanced up, any resolve that was left in her to fight for herself, or for anything, was lost. Even with Morgan’s promises and her words, the spark did not light again. She was angry, and she had left because Deirdre was too frail for honesty...was that it? She dropped her gaze again. She’d believed in herself too, for all the good it did her now. Belief was not enough. Each of Morgan’s touches burned, like a vampire at a cross. Something wrong, something she was too evil for. And Morgan was apologizing to her. Deirdre couldn’t help the grimace that spread across her face, finally she raised her hand to push Morgan’s off her. “Please stop---stop doing---don’t do that. I don’t---” Was it kinder, stronger, to pretend like it didn’t sting to be cared for now? Was she worse for pushing it away? The truth sat burdensome on her tongue. This could happen again, it would happen again. Children she always loathed harming, but when she grew to over a century old, wasn’t everyone children? And the fae, this is simply what they did. What she would do. Come autumn, the call of the rings would be too strong to deny. And their hold on her mind would be too much to reject. “You can give up,” she curled into herself again, “it’s fine. It---you’ve done so much for me. But I’m not---you’d be wasting your belief in me. And I don’t want you to---You should be in a place that doesn’t make you---” Angry? Disappointed? Willing enough to leave. Deirdre could not see beyond the harm she caused and she could imagine no greater punishment than being parted from Morgan.

“Stop what? I don’t--I don’t understand--” Morgan murmured. She moved to encircle her as she folded up, hiding again from her. “Hey,” she cooed gently. “You don’t have to hide. It’s okay, we’re okay, Deirdre. I’m--” She searched for the magic words, something to make Deirdre believe in herself again, believe in them again. To find hope for herself. She couldn’t think of anything she hadn’t said already. And the kind of guilt Deirdre carried was a kind Morgan had never had to bear, couldn’t fathom the pressure it put on her, how little she could see of the truth. But how could Morgan give into those lies and prove her right? How could she do anything but keep trying for her until she had the strength to try again for herself? Morgan squeezed her arms tighter around her, fitting as much of Deirdre against her body as she could. It was so unfair, that there couldn’t be easier answers for this, so all that was left to her was the truth. “I love you so very much. And you are never a waste. And so I’m still not giving up. You can rest, and you can feel broken, if that’s what you really need. But I’m not giving up on you, Deirdre. I’m still with you.”

Deirdre shivered, “stop--” She swallowed, a piece of her begging her sense of good not to admit that she felt too undeserving for comfort---or too dangerous to be held. Morgan’s arms around her were the greatest balm, the kind she knew and wanted best. “Stop touching me. I’m not--” safe? Good? She’d made her angry, and it was so strange--too strange--to imagine that Morgan would still care to console her now. It felt too wrong. Her mother never resorted to these tricks, she never offered a warm touch after her anger. No one ever had. It didn’t feel right, but she couldn’t move to break them apart. She lacked the strength, or the resolve---perhaps the same things she lacked that led to Emma’s death in the first place. Some failure of her character. The thought of not having Morgan’s arms around her was equally as painful, and so she tensed with anguish. “But it doesn’t make sense,” she mumbled, “I--I love you too. I love you so much but it doesn’t make sense that--you were mad. You left. That made sense. This doesn’t. I just---” She groaned, equally torn between wanting to push Morgan away and wanting to relent and pull her closer. Instead she sat there, quivering. “So you can---you can stop. You don’t have to---” she didn’t know what to say. “You were mad and then you left,” Deirdre repeated, hoping if she said it more it would make sense to Morgan too. How wrong it was for her to be doing this now, and how confused it made Deirdre. Anger came with punishment, of which she was lacking. Anger came with something being taken away, not given. Anger did not come with a gentle voice and reassurances. She could not understand it, even if she thought she might accept it. “You were mad,” she said again, “you were mad. At me. And I didn’t mean to do that but I didn’t mean to kill Emma either and I did both those things and then you left and I can’t---please stop touching me. I can’t---you can’t do that. It doesn’t make sense. I need something to make sense again.” And nothing was.

Morgan’s grip around Deirdre faltered, loosening. “But we always--” she mumbled in a whisper, bewildered by the idea. “I--I’m not going to hurt you just because it makes more sense right now. I’m--” She unfurled her arms reluctantly, but kept one hand on her shoulder, squeezing with a well practiced pressure, steady but gentle. “I’m so sorry I scared you the way I did. I would’ve at least stayed in the house if I knew it was going to hurt you like this. I would’ve tried something different than leaving, Deirdre.” She couldn’t bear to take her hand off her. Deirdre was trembling so horribly, looked so shrunken and alone. It felt like a betrayal to withdraw from her, even as she asked. Her hand migrated up to her hair, working through the tangles little by little in soft touches. “I was mad, but I worked through it on my own and I let it go and I forgive you, Deirdre. I love you and I forgive you. And maybe no one’s been kind enough to you to give you that before, but it happens. I was mad and now I’m not. Now I just want you to let me close again. Let me hold you. Let me love you even when you feel like this. I’m sorry if it doesn’t make sense, but I’m not changing my mind. Maybe...we can get you washed up, and I’ll try and explain it better.” She swallowed thickly. “Deirdre, you’re trembling,” she whispered, pleading. “Do you really want me to stop--?”

“But---” Another argument died on Deirdre’s lips. “No, it--don’t be sorry. You needed to go, that’s not--don’t be sorry about that, please. If it helped then it helped and that’s not---” The issue was only in the fact Deirdre couldn’t understand it; the issue was with her, not Morgan. “It just---it just doesn’t make sense. I’m just tired of things that don’t make sense. I’ve had so many of them and I don’t---” her voice broke. She began to tremble harder, trying to find the place within herself where her control sat, but all she could remember was the glass around her--the pain that she caused. There was no safe place to crawl to now. And this Morgan---this strange, forgiving, Morgan---was not making sense. Morgan always seemed to make sense, or she had, for a long time now. And if her words were too strange, she could always count on her trust in them, in Morgan’s heart being right. But then Morgan was angry and she left, and Deirdre trust sat with those actions instead, unable to shift. “No, it---” She trembled again, faster and harder, unable to stop herself as the gentle pressure of Morgan’s hand working through her hair rippled down her body. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I can’t--” She swallowed, with what little energy she had left, she pushed Morgan back with a feeble thump. “Yes. Please, don’t.” But the absence of her was worse, or just as bad, and Deirdre continued to quiver, stuck in turmoil. “I’m sorry, I’ll just---” If she found a nice corner to hide in, for the rest of the night, perhaps the week, maybe it would be okay. Too much grief had set in, and she couldn’t bear another second of confusion. She could remember the house’s silence, ringing with the echo of Morgan’s anger, the sound of the door and the look in Emma’s eyes, begging to be saved by her---the trust that she broke. “I’m sorry.” She moved to crawl away, but remembered the glass again. And Morgan had taken such care to pick the pieces out of her bleeding palm, would she be the monster that ruined her efforts again? “I just---can I be alone, please? I can’t---you can’t---I’m sorry, but I can’t---”

“No, please--” Morgan begged quietly, folding under Deirdre’s push. “You’re hurt, let me--” Let me be here. Let me carry you like you carried me. “At least let me get you out of this room, or sweep up, or be somewhere you don’t have to see, just in case--please--” She covered her mouth, hating how desperate she sounded, how scared. But Deirdre was sinking deeper than Morgan had ever seen her go, and if she couldn’t follow her, if she couldn’t at least sit with her in it or make the dark less bitter, what was there to do? Stars, she had just needed some air to keep from lashing out. She’d just wanted to sort herself out, face this the way she thought was kindest to Deirdre. “It wasn’t even really you I was mad at,” she said between her fingers. How could she leave again when leaving had driven them here in the first place? “I can’t abandon you, you can’t think--I’m not mad anymore, it’s okay, if that’s the only reason you want me to, it’s already okay. I’m not mad, and it wasn’t even you…” But Deirdre had already shrugged off her touch, and grasping at the air for her wasn’t going to change that. And yet Morgan stayed where she sat a moment longer, eyes wet and stinging with the tears she kept back, hand still reaching for a miracle to save them from this fall.

She knew this wasn't fair to Morgan. Hearing the way her voice broke, Deirdre ached to soothe her. Her hand went out, then pulled back in as she thought better of daring to touch. "I'm sorry. I don't mean---you can---you can be as mad at me as you want, I just---" Had years of suffering under anger, years of lacking a way to understand it. And so much experience of being berated for things she could not help. Of people being angry at her for things she did not intend. Morgan had never been angry at her before, and certainly not to some extent she thought leaving was better than talking. When did Morgan ever think leaving was better than talking? Deirdre had thought she wanted to stay and then...she didn't. Her guilt was too severe to be tenderly caressed away. The touches burned her sinful flesh with their sacredness. "It was me! It was me—I did—I made you mad, and I killed that girl, and I'm the only person that's responsible for the things I do and—" They were all wrong, all of them. Each bout of honesty she tried to give Regan then, all the good she thought she was giving Morgan. Each mistake, numerous as they were, were her fault. And she couldn't help the way her body shook, or how much she was unable to push her sorrow aside. She was causing Morgan pain now too, wasn't she? With her inability to control herself. "I'm sorry," she curled into herself again, head sunk into her knees. "Nothing I do is right. I'm sorry. I know it—the fairy rings are a part of fae culture and life and I'm not even—I couldn't even be fae enough for that. Or good enough for this. Or strong enough to let you touch me and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." But if Morgan left, she would sit unmoving just as she had before. With no place to go, nothing to welcome her anymore. If Morgan was gone again, by things she couldn't help, what would she do? Deirdre wept again, trying as hard she could to control her cries to keep the rest of their—this house's—glass intact. It pained her to do so, her body aching to scream again as she closed around herself to deny its cathartic release. It wasn't fair to Morgan, she tried to remind herself. But she could not summon the strength to stop. She alone had angered Morgan. She alone had pushed her out. And if she could do it so casually, so unintentionally, when would it happen again? And if Morgan no longer felt comfortable enough to express her emotions around Deirdre, hadn't she done worse than murder? If she truly felt she couldn't be angry around her, if she thought it was some cruelty to be authentic to her. If she found her too feeble for honesty. Wasn't that worse? "I'm sorry," she croaked into her knees. She couldn't tell if Morgan was there or not, but she imagined she wasn't. Why would she be?

“But I’m not!” Morgan cried, her tears spilling over. “I’m mad at Lydia, for being there with you and not doing enough, and I’m mad at the fairy rings for--for taking you away from me. You were gone and it took you and you would’ve never done any of the things you did if it wasn’t for that. And I don’t understand magic that would do that to its own people--you’re fine just the way you are, you’re all fine, it doesn’t need to make you different, and there’s nothing anyone can do about that, I’m mad about that still, okay? And I’m mad at the world, for being so fucked, for everything being so imbalanced. Emma wouldn’t have even been out that night if her friends weren’t such assholes in the first place. And none of those things are you. I have missed you all week so I know the difference. And I know some of it was you, you may not be able to admit you weren’t in complete, perfect banshee control, but it wasn’t all you, just--just some of it. You were a piece in a much bigger mess and--good isn’t something you are or aren’t. It doesn’t work like that. It’s something you try. And it’s something you fail sometimes. It’s---it’s just choices. And no one gets all the choices right all the time, if they did, it would mean it was easy, and no one would be an asshole to anyone, and we all know that’s not true so. You just have to choose better next time, and maybe it’ll be hard and awful, but it probably won’t hurt like this, and I just--I just don’t have it in me to hold on to mad when I know who you really are and how hard you try and how sorry you are. I-I don’t have that muscle, that piece, to stay mad at you. It doesn’t exist. I can only forgive you. I don’t know how not to forgive you, seeing you suffer over her like this, your heart is so kind, of course you would suffer like this and none of it is fair to any of you. How could I be mad?…” Her voice tightened as she spoke, hiccuping as she drew clumsy breaths to balance crying and speaking at once. “And I don’t know how to leave you, not like this.” She sniffled and eased herself all the way down to the floor, curled in the little pool of clean carpet around them. “I’m sorry, if this is really something you need and I’m messing it up, but I can’t leave you like this. Don’t ask me to, Deirdre.” She sighed, brushed her fingers over the edge of shoes, barely a touch at all. Maybe she wouldn’t even feel it, and it would be okay. “Don’t ask me to, please…”

Deirdre remained still, quiet. Her head tucked into her arms which laid above her knees, pulled to her chest. Her crying had quieted to heed Morgan's words, and had stayed muffled in sniffles and choked sobs long after she had finished speaking. She noted the distress in her voice, the way sobs cut though her sentences. Her fingers twitched to reach out, though she did not move. She sat, unmoving, and waited. The house went still, the clock with its newly broken face, ticked steadily though delayed. Her mind screamed at her to comfort Morgan, but her body, sluggish, waited. There was nothing she wanted more than to make Morgan happy, there was nothing she tried harder to do—even as easily as it came to her. Caring for Morgan had never been much of a question, or a struggle. It was, strangely, the thing she knew best; uncomplicated. She loved Morgan. She would care for Morgan. Crickets chirped outside. Deirdre waited. Until finally she lifted her head, leveling an apologetic gaze on her girlfriend. The house was still, she waited until her heart matched the slow, broken ticking of the house's—their—clock. "Do you….mean that?" She asked softly, though she didn't wait for an answer before she unfurled herself and reached for Morgan. It didn't matter if she did, in the moment. Her mind thought only of comforting Morgan, and her body only wanted to close the space between them again. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, "for everything. For all of this too. I'll clean up the glass in the morning." She reached tentatively for her hand first, unsure if she would be allowed to have the rest of her, even now. Scared it might vanish if she pushed too hard after denying it. "I love you," she said, "I do. I really do. I'm sorry I'm not—I'm sorry." The last time this happened, she vowed to herself to try a little harder to make sure it never did….and then it did. She wasn't sure what she was doing wrong, but it must have been something. And as much as it stung to touch Morgan, she continued to reach for her.

At some point, Morgan’s mind gave her the reprieve of spacing out into nowhere. The shapes in the great room lost their edges, the light paled into a grey echo of itself, and even Deirdre, cocooned and closed off, become a nondescript shadow in the background. Morgan was nowhere at all until Deirdre’s voice cut through the stillness. She blinked back to life, straining against the tears that had crusted between her lashes when they dried. “What--?” She asked groggily. There was a hand reaching for hers, familiar words lilting in her ear. Morgan took the hand without question and used it to pull herself up and burrow into as much of Deirdre’s body as she would be allowed, wrapping herself up as tight and secure as she’d wanted to all day. “It’s okay,” she said, nuzzling her shoulder. “I know you do. I’m sorry too. I just want to make this better. And I definitely meant all of it, but which part did you mean?”

"...all of it," Deirdre laughed quietly. "I was asking if you meant all of it." She pulled Morgan into her, easily finding the pressure she knew worked, arms wrapped around her. "No, I—Morgan, I really don't mean—I understand why you'd be mad, at me or...whatever it is. I don't want—you should be mad when you're mad. I don't mean that I just—I don't want you to think you can't leave when you need to. I'm sorry, I didn't mean—" She raised a hand to Morgan's head, working her fingers through her soft curls, finding a place to press her lips. "I just—A-and I'm sorry about this too. About being so—The last time we were on the floor like this, I told myself I wouldn't do it again but I can't—I'm sorry." She sighed, finding words would not come easy, when her mind still reeled and her body still trembled. "Don't be sorry, Morgan. You didn't do anything. I'm just—here let me—" The hand tangled in Morgan's hair worked down to her face, thumbing away old tears and the crust they left, finding it easily within herself to summon the energy to care for Morgan. "Are you okay?"

Morgan deflated with relief in Deirdre’s arms, a last wave of tears running out from the corner of her eyes after waiting patiently the whole time she’d been spaced out. She laughed with her, reedy and tired. “Well, I...actually make an effort not to say things I don’t mean to you, so you never have to guess. As much as possible, anyway. To the point of doing stupid things like leaving for a few hours just to make sure, apparently. But I meant it, the whole schpiel. I--” She listened, as Deirdre reassured her, somehow one step ahead already. Telling her it was alright, that she didn’t hold the leaving against her, or her anger. “I could've done it better, or different. If it happens again, I’ll at least do it differently, so you won’t be scared. I just thought—I didn’t think much at all, I guess,” Morgan sighed, turning her face to kiss what she could of Deirdre with the shyest of movements, still half afraid she would find herself pushed away again. But she nodded along to the rest, pressing desperately into all of Deirdre’s soothing touches, whimpering with longing at all her small, chaste kiss. She heeded every beckon to let herself be cared for because the past week, the past hours trying to get into these very arms, Morgan had missed her too much to even give a perfunctory refusal. Stars, how she’d missed her. As Deirdre brushed at her lashes, she thought she might cry all over again just from the relief of feeling her, soft and caring and open to her. “You mean when you were having a panic attack? Yeah, because promising myself not to have another one of those always worked out super well, totally something you can control all the time,” she said wryly. It took her a moment, pressing in with all she had to realize Deirdre was still trembling. “Hey--” She lifted her head, sliding a hand down over her heart. Shit. She hadn’t realized. She’d been so caught up in being held again, loved and safe again, that she hadn’t thought to check. Morgan straightened, finding the energy to gather herself up a little more. “You gotta breathe, babe. This still feels way too close to human.” She met her eyes, pleading behind her calm. They were both so tired, so sad. It had been too much of a day already and she just wanted to make it better. “I’m feeling better, with you really here, with us being really together,” she sniffled, smiling sadly. “Just do the breathing thing with me for a little bit, please? It just...it might help, with everything else too. I’ll count for us?” She tapped a slow rhythm on her chest with her fingertip, slower than the clock, slower that the course of human life, a pattern intelligible only to their senses.

It was strange to find her mind, once bent on making her sit through the worst theories it could conjure up, now dissolved purely into the desire to care for Morgan. Though Deirdre didn't question it further. If it meant she wasn't going to be sitting in a ball, paralyzed, she would take it. And, in the simplest terms, she knew there was no way she could possibly sit still while Morgan ached, even if her own pain thrummed between her bones. "Thank you," she said, "for being so kind to me always. As honest and sincere as you can be. I do...never want you to be anything but what you are and how you feel in any moment." And yet, the pain of watching Morgan leave, lacking any understanding of her actions, burned terribly in her memory. What was she to do in the hours that followed but think of the worst? But she did not think to explain this, sheltering her pain closely to her. So much of emotion she still hadn't grasped, and seemingly couldn't. But her mind cared only for Morgan now, and she would let it have its distraction. Though her body remained stiff to any touch, she did her best to relax, or play the part of relaxing. "No, it's—" but talking about it broke what little concentration she had on trying not to quiver and heave. "It's not your fault, please. You didn't—it's not like you did anything outrageous, I'm just—" Deirdre swallowed. She didn't know. All her life was spent fearing the wrath of the few people she liked, the people she trusted and respected. These relationships were so frail, and she worked so hard to appease them. And then Morgan had left, and even if she remembered to listen to the fact she would return, she wasn't sure what to think. She still needed things explained to her, so clueless with emotion and relationships. But she could not bring any of her thoughts to words. Instead, she smiled thinly, and pressed another kiss to Morgan's cheek. Her emotions still felt wrong, more so now. She didn't deserve any amount of justification. "It's just me," she said, "I'm just—it's not your fault. I'm sorry I reacted that way." And if anything in this world was good, she would finally learn not to do it again. "I didn't promise it…" she trailed off, considering it might be a good idea to. It seemed extreme to promise away the emotions she didn't like, but solutions were so scarce. Morgan began tapping a rhythm she'd come to know well, as if this were the answer instead. Deirdre couldn't help the way betrayal flickered across her face; how dare she be helped, when the only thing keeping her together now was the desire to care for Morgan? She reached up and gripped Morgan's hand on her chest, thinking about peeling it away. She mourned, quietly, all the effort it had taken her to accept these gestures, all the care and understanding and patience Morgan had given her while she tried to figure it out. But she couldn't now, she couldn't take it anymore. It didn't feel right, or good. "Don't," she croaked, "you don't have to—" But she sounded so adamant. So sure that Deirdre should be doing this. For Morgan, just this once, she surrendered. She began taking in her breath slow, holding it, and exhaling it at the correct pace. "I love you," she said between holding and exhaling. "And I'm sorry about me. But I love you. For everything." She inhaled again.

“That was sarcasm and definitely not a suggestion,” Morgan chuckled. She kissed the end of her girlfriend’s nose, a gesture of assurance and levity, before pulling away to look at her better, her expression gentle and genuine. “Thank you for always coming back to me,” she said. “And you don’t have to be sorry. There was nothing wrong with the way you reacted, nothing you could help, nothing you should be ashamed over.” She kissed her cheek and let her lips linger there, savoring the closeness between them, so very nearly complete. But there was something being held back, something not quite surrendered. Morgan didn’t know what it was, but she felt it, somehow, in Deirdre’s body despite her dulled senses. “I should’ve made sure you understood, before I went. I know how awful it is to be left with questions you can’t ask, to think it’s all coming down on you in the worst way. And I know it doesn’t go away just because I came back, I know it hurts worse than that…” And she did. She had plenty of moments like this from her mortal life to pick from for reference, and all of the more recent ones featured Deirdre herself. “I never meant to give you that hurt,” she said, grazing her lips over Deirdre’s temple as she continued to breathe. “The last thing I ever want is for you to be hurt. I shouldn’t have assumed you would know what I was doing, especially not at a time like that.” She kissed her again. “Don’t be sorry for who you are. I love that woman with all my heart, just the way she is. I love you always, Deirdre, and I never want you to feel like you have to hide either.” She pressed her hand harder against her, steadying against the rest of her weight bundled around her girlfriend. “When you feel better, can you tell me what you’re thinking? I can feel you holding something, you know.” She grinned, encouraging, and whispered sweetly, “Zombie girlfriend superpowers.”

Deirdre paused, drawing in her breath slow. "Was it like that for you...when I would…?" She shivered at the answer, knowing it already. "I'm sorry. It's really not—I guess I'm just not used to us fighting. Not that I ever want to be used to it but—" she sighed, nuzzling into Morgan. "How do you do that? Make things better?" And perhaps she was tired, or perhaps there was some strange, magical soothing quality to Morgan, but she relaxed just enough to lean into her touch. "I didn't think you wanted to hurt me, or that you meant to, I just...thought I hurt you. Which...is something I don't want to do, also. I really am—I really do want to be good, like you think I am." Like she was trying to be. 'Good' was a strange term, no more definable as she stumbled through life. But there were the briefest moments, with Morgan, where she could feel it in her. Morgan was good, that much she knew without question. "I know we've been together for...some months now...I suppose I'm still not...used to it. I am trying, if that matters." She breathed out, laughing light against Morgan. "You sure do have a lot of superpowers," Deirdre leaned into her. "You know me so well, I should've figured. I'll tell you, as soon as I find a way to say it." And finally, she relented, shifting her body to fit against Morgan better. Lifting her arms to hold her tighter, closer.

“Until I figured it out, yeah,” Morgan whispered solemnly, remembering each silence in cruel, vivid detail. They still haunted her body, rising up in moments of panic and crisis. If she lingered on them too long, her chest would ache as if it were alive and breaking all over again. Morgan pushed the memory away in favor of cupping Deirdre’s tear stained cheek and kissing her with a chaste brush of her lips, tender as a moth’s wing. She was ashamed for passing along that hurt, for making Deirdre carry that kind of panicked suffering on top of everything else she had to bear. She had meant to never even tell her how deeply those silences had cut into her, how desperately she had cried, certain that it was all over. But how could she lie to her? How else could she explain how well she understood Deirdre’s side? The only thing to do for them now was to take shelter in the present, where the worst of the hurt had already blown through like a bad storm and they were together, fitted and wrapped up in the way they belonged. “But we’re okay. And don’t worry about that, my love,” she said softly. “You did fine. You did your best for me. And your heart already is good, you’ve just been taught not to listen to it for so long, and that makes things harder than they already are. I know it does. Sometimes I don’t remember that as well as I should because you’ve come so far already.” That recklessness of hers, so willing to embrace what she saw on the surface, to assume the best and forget the severity of the cost. Morgan kissed her again, more firmly now. “You are good, as long as you keep trying at it. Which sounds way cuter and easier than it really feels, but I still think it’s true. Good isn’t being perfect; good is working at it, even after it goes wrong.”

She shifted with Deirdre, bundling herself tighter against her, tucking their heads together, feeling the comfort of firm pressure on almost all sides. Deirdre around her was better than any weighted blanket. “Mmhm...two months, officially, as of the sixth. Closer to three, if you count when I moved in with you ‘for my protection.’” It has been all too true then, but Morgan couldn’t help but snigger at it now. Knowing how badly they had both loved each other by then, it sounded like such a skeezy ploy. “Trying always matters. You trying means everything to me, no matter what it is. And I’m okay with us being a little clumsy at whatever the hell this was if it means we keep not doing it very often. But I want to believe you’ll stay with me long enough for there to maybe be a next time, and I want a much better plan for when that happens than...what we did. But we can come up with a better way later. Right now I want us to be off the floor and somewhere more cozy, like the bath, or our bed. Not-you let me give her a full body massage, you know, and I was pretty good at it. You’re missing out on the full superpower experience until you let me try one again.”

She lifted her head, shaking her hair back and coaxing Deirdre to do the same with a press of her fingers on her chin. She wanted to look at her, blotchy and freckled and so beautiful underneath all her aches and exhaustion as she spoke her next words, “I love you, Deirdre Dolan. All of you. Even the parts you don’t like, even when we’re not on the same page, even when I get mad, I love you and I’m still yours.” She crooked her head and kissed her, slow and deep, in such a way she hoped filled in all the little gaps between her words, any lingering pieces of doubt that might have been left untouched. She tried to cover them all and hoped they could heal someday that much sooner.

Selfishly, Deirdre had thought her leaving helped Morgan in some way, or that was the safe theory she crafted to quell the spike of guilt that arose each time. Her emotions were too tumultuous for anyone to bear, and her panic was nothing she thought Morgan should see. Foolish as it was, but then again, she had been a fool for many things then---she still was now. “I’m sorry,” she said, knowing just as well that Morgan would tell her she didn’t need to apologize. She hummed into their kiss, lingering close as they parted. “Did you really think that pain was some cost to pay because of your cure?” She asked gently, a mumbled apology quickly following, chased by another gentle brush of a kiss--just that much harder, so Morgan might feel it like a shiver against her cold skin. “I do always do my best for you, Morgan. Always. You deserve nothing less, and I don’t want to give you anything less than the best I have to offer.” She just wasn’t always convinced her emotions were the best parts of her. “As far as I’ve come, I’ve come here because of you..” Her words dissolved into another kiss. “If that’s the case...then I’ll continue to work on it.” Strange as it was to continue to do something she felt she couldn’t achieve, or something she did too sloppily to call it any real effort. But for Morgan, she would do just about anything. And even the strangest acts felt right, if they were for her.

“It was for your protection,” she huffed. “I meant it! Admittedly, taking you home out of the hospital was when I realized I should tell you how I feel and---okay, so maybe it sounds like some kind of ploy now but--” she laughed, curling into Morgan. For all she tried to deny this just minutes ago, her body refused to imagine giving it up now. Once it had fallen in, she remembered there was no place she’d rather be. Warm and secure, loved and held---there was no greater comfort and nothing that eased her burden more than Morgan against her. Nothing except Morgan’s words, equally as soothing, always so patient with her. “I’m with you for as long as you’ll have me, my love. If it’ll help us, we can talk about it later. How to make this better. As I’ve said, I want you for a long time. I love you, always. “ She nuzzled her head into Morgan’s shoulder, humming with relief as she recalled how badly she missed this. “A bath sounds nice. Not to sound unbelievably sexy, but I think there’s glass in places glass shouldn’t be. And I missed you. And I really did---” she gulped. “I thought you were gone.” Even speaking of the idea caused her voice to tremble. “Oh?” Deirdre dissolved into an amused lilt, recovering from her falter. “A full body massage, was it?” She chuckled, shifting just enough to kiss Morgan’s neck, lingering there as she spoke up again, “I really mustn’t have been myself, if I let you get away with that without a reward for your good work. Say, you wouldn’t happen to know why i feel so utterly disappointed about not being married to you, would you? It’s been stuck in my head and I have absolutely no idea what that’s about.” Deirdre laughed again, easily glossing over the strange twist she felt in ehr stomach at the prospect of Morgan doing something like that for her now--or of taking advantage of her then. In the wake of her crimes, she couldn’t feel the courage to ask, or to want something so entirely selfish.

But her troubled thoughts vanished, lost under Morgan’s gaze and loving words. She let her head be lifted out of the crook of her girlfriend’s neck, lip quivering as she held back the need to cry again--happier this time. She sighed into their kiss, reaching up her hands to cup her face; to bring her in and drink in her affection. One hand turned to tangle in her hair, the other dropping to her waist, both supplicating. She let them part only when the desire to give the words back grew too strong to be committed in the non-verbal, they pleaded instead to be spoken into the world and claim the silence of their house. “I love you, Morgan Beck. You’ve given me more than I know how to say, more than I could ever thank you for. But I will thank you, and I will never stop thanking you.” She pressed in to kiss her again, urging her to follow her up as she stood, wobbling on her stiff legs. “You make me better, Morgan. I will always try for you. And I am yours, just the same. As long as you want me too.”

Morgan nodded at Deirdre’s question about her curse, mouth trembling as she remembered. “It kind of made sense, then,” she said. “My life was made for suffering. How could I get to know what it was like to be happy...to have someone love me, for free? It made sense back then, that I would lose you. That I had to make up for being happy somehow. But you kept coming back. You came back to me and it started to feel like maybe I could be...like maybe I was made for more after all.” She kissed her back, urgent with as much pent-up longing to give as she had to take. It had been too long, too long since Deirdre’s kisses had felt just right.

As they went, the weights they carried shifted and she was able to laugh softly with her, smiling into her skin as she endeavored to cover each bit of her she could reach with a kiss. “Well I wasn’t letting any version of you go back to the woods for anything, and not-you didn’t feel like a fake swimming pool ceremony after the jello didn’t work out. I don’t know why not-you thought it was the only way to demonstrate our love, but it was admittedly very sweet.” She gave Deirdre’s body a tight squeeze against her own. “But if we ever...if that was ever going to happen, I’d only want to talk about it with the real you. Sometime later, whenever that is.”

Morgan rose with Deirdre, arms still locked around her tight, lest anything so much as a breeze try to separate them now. “I do,” she said. “I want you, Deirdre.” She guided her out of the room, their bodies still pressed together at the sides, and up to the master bathroom they shared together. There was still a film of bubbles and glitter from the bath she had drawn for the other, not-quite-Deirdre, and a hodgepodge of clothes Morgan had rescued from various places around the house and yard on her ‘treasure hunt.’ It was the mess of another time, a whole pocket dimension of confusion and chaos they could clean up tomorrow. Morgan drew the water, cold, the way Deirdre liked it now, and splashed lavender oil over the water, then rose. She pushed herself onto her tiptoes to kiss Deirdre again. “May I suggest for you a time-out from apologizing and being sorry for everything? And I do mean everything.” She said gently. “Just for tonight, or just for your bath even.” Morgan started to ease off both their clothes, though she didn’t expect to do anything more than lend her assistance. “After, you can knock yourself out, we can go over things some more, whatever you want. But you’ve suffered enough right now, my love. And you should have the kindness of a little reprieve, if only because I said so.” She kissed her again, sealing the deed as surely, she hoped, as any enchanted promise. There was enough behind them to warrant hiding the safety of each other’s gentleness, she thought. There was enough still ahead of them to balance any fault that might be leveled their way. It’s enough, Morgan thought, we’ve had enough, and we should get to have each other now.

Somethings had always felt right. The first scream that didn’t prompt an hour of coughing up blood, the first kill, the telltale trickle of cold down her back that signified another fae. Her hands wrapped around the solid handle of a knife. Some things Deirdre thought were right had crackled to reveal their true face of horror. But through the chaos, only one thing had continued to feel as right as it did the first time, solidifying itself each subsequent moment with more and more validity: the feeling of Morgan around her, the soft turn of her voice, the way she curled into her---embracing their differences in body and making them fit together. For so long she had tried to fight the casual ease in which Morgan’s company suddenly filled a space, how innocently she could turn the smallest thing into a delight. From watching her turn silverware into animals to the way she’d lean up on her tiptoes to kiss her---magic wasn’t so much a sensation as it was a person, and all the things she did. When Deirdre didn’t fight it, nothing felt so effortlessly right the way Morgan did. “Aren’t you the one that told me none of us are made to suffer first?” She smiled lightly, wondering what it was about kindness that made it so hard to turn inward. Would loving Morgan as much as she did ever be enough to fill each crack and pave over each hole?

“Sometime later…” her voice drifted off with the unspoken promise as they entered their bedroom. Detaching from Morgan’s side as she readied the bath, surveying the state of the room she could only remember to immaculate, she frowned. When had glitter gotten there? When had Morgan’s clothes been in a pile over there? The bathroom was worse, evidence of some kind of bubbly, glittery hurricane having ravaged its way through there. A hurricane that Deirdre could accurately surmise was herself. “I’m s---” her sentence stuck in her mouth as Morgan kissed her, breathed away in a sigh. As expected, Morgan caught her apology coming and soothed it away--as uncannily as she did, as magically as she always could. “I’ll agree to a time-out.” Mostly, she just didn’t have the energy to argue. She kissed her again, reaching for her hand and pulling her closer to the bath. “Join me?” She asked once with her words, another with a kiss, and thrice with the pleading of her soft brown eyes. The world and its ache could be so heavy, but it was that much lighter when they were together. Deirdre learned the spell to make the bad fade off, the way she could press her body against Morgan’s to forget about anything but them---and how much, how purely, how right it was that she loved this woman. For all that she was sorry for, for all that she knew she had to apologize for, she had finally learned that her love was not one.

For all the bad there was, Morgan was just as much good. And for all Deirdre knew, Morgan was all of the good she knew. Of all the best of everything. Was it so wrong then, after their bath, holding one another in bed with their cats curled against them just as they curled against each other, to say she believed she could have a little good? “Do you think we’ll get to keep each other?” She asked, dozing off between kisses and the drone of the bedroom television. Far too tried to stop her eyes from closing, or her words from slurring off at the ends. “I want to have you, Morgan. Do you think we’ll get that? Do you still believe the world can be good? ...Can ours?”

Deirdre fell asleep before she could hear the answer.

#wickedswriting #wr deirdre #wr chatzy #wr deirdre chatzy #dogfish #wr

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