A/N: Just finished watching American Horror Story, and let me tell you it's one of the most batshit shows I've ever watched.
To be frank, Tate/Violet are a more fucked up ship than I normally go for. My other ships are a bit more, uh, healthy. But there's just something about these two that I find heartbreaking and beautiful, so here we are.
I like the open ending that the show gave to Tate and Violet, and this is my personal version of what would eventually have happened between the two of them.
I hope everyone likes, and please remember to drop a review!
Violet is the light.
That's what he had said.
Sometimes Violet likes to think that maybe she did make him better, ever so briefly, there at the end. That maybe there had been some hope for her ghost boy, however slight that hope might have been.
But the problem is that Tate is the darkness, and Violet doesn't think she'll ever be able to immerse herself into the darkness again.
Or so she thinks.
The first time she does it, it isn't for any particular reason. She hasn't had a random change of heart, she's not seeking out a friend, and she's certainly not horny (although, admittedly, she does think about sex and Tate together more than is proper).
No, Violet is just bored.
She's sitting in her bedroom (it still feels like a room that's solely hers, despite everything), on the edge of a bed that the previous tenant had left. She crosses her arms over her chest and swings her foot out back and forth. Music is blaring, but she can't seem to concentrate on it.
She sighs. Her parents are going to be so pissed.
"Tate."
He's instantly there, and she's willing to bet that's he's been waiting for her to call him for a long, long time.
"Violet." He says her name softly, his eyes wide. He looks like a puppy that's been stuck out in the rain, waiting for his owner to let him back inside. He takes a step toward her but she scoots backward on her bed in response. He stills.
Now Violet can't look at him.
"I missed you," he croaks. She knows what she'll see if she looks into his face. His eyes will be teary and he'll look stricken, miserable.
That's something that hurts. She knows she's causing his pain and she knows she's also the one that can take it away. But she can't.
"I think I've missed you too."
And then she is gone, and as she sweeps herself away into another part of the house she thinks she might have heard him scream.
He still respects their boundaries.
She appreciates this.
Violet cannot dream, but sometimes memories will resurface. They'll look so hazy that it feels as if she's dreaming. She'll get impressions of things, emotions, and situations. Ghostly mood swings, if you will.
It's why she seeks him out, half hysterical. He's in the attic, looking at an old, yellow toy truck.
She pops in front of him and then takes a deep breath. There are tears flowing down her cheeks.
He stands up quickly and moves toward her. His eyes rake over her to confirm that she's in one piece, and then he looks heatedly into her face. "Violet, did someone do something?" He is rage.
She rapidly shakes her head. Everyone in this house is already dead, but Tate can still make them feel pain. He can still make them suffer. It's one of his talents.
His shoulders relax and he reaches out a hand in order to cup her face, but she darts out of his reach.
"Can I ask you a question?"
He immediately nods.
"And you'll answer honestly? I don't want any of your bullshit, Tate."
His hand, which had been frozen in midair when he'd reached out to touch her, drops to his side. He nods again, slower this time.
Violet tries not to choke on the sob that's building up in her throat. She can't let herself cry any harder then she already is, not in front of him. Tate will flip put on someone. He can't stand to see her cry.
She's not even sure why she's feeling this way.
"Do you regret any of the things that you've done?" she asks.
"Yes," he answers immediately. He steps closer to her.
She frowns. "Besides what you did to my family."
He stiffens and for the first time since she's appeared in front of him he looks away. He takes in a deep breath and then slowly lets it out. When he turns back to face her there's nothing. No anguish, no remorse, it's devoid of all emotion.
"No," he says.
It's an honest answer. It's a real answer, even though it is terrible.
"But I am sorry, Violet, for hurting you." He takes another step closer to her and she doesn't move away, despite herself. "I would never ever hurt you on purpose. I love you." He's taken her hand.
Violet's heart no longer beats, but something still manages to squeeze inside her chest. She feels herself shudder and then she's vanishing again. This is too dangerous.
She appears in the kitchen and her mother and Moira give her looks of disappointment and disapproval.
But neither of them says anything as she lights a cigarette.
"Your dad said that you'd never forgive me."
They're playing a game of chess. Violet is winning. Tate is too busy focusing on Violet; it's pretty obvious that he doesn't give a damn about the game.
She shrugs. "He's a shit therapist." She leaves it at that.
She really hasn't forgiven him, though. He's not allowed to touch her, all they ever do is play games or listen to music, and he cannot under any circumstances seek her out.
"Hayden said so, too," he says quietly.
"Hayden is a fucking cunt." She smiles down at the board. "Checkmate."
Her room is nearly thumping with the loud music blaring from her stereo. Violet is at the front of her bed, sitting on pillows, and Tate is at the foot of it, legs crossed and leaning over a laptop.
He suddenly gestures towards the stereo. "You know," he practically shouts in order to be heard over the music, "the Foo Fighters aren't so bad."
Violet snorts and shakes her head. "You're just saying that because Grohl drummed for Nirvana."
He side of his mouth tips up into a smile and for a moment he looks so boyishly charming that Violet temporarily wonders why she's not sitting right next to him.
She smiles back.
Chad enters the room and the smile slides of Tate's face and is replaced by something feral and protective. "What do you want?" he snarls.
Chad ignores him. "Listen, sweetie," he says, addressing Violet. "I know you're in here wallowing in your teenage angst and I respect that, but for the love of God turn that racket you call music down. I can hardly hear myself think."
Violet turns the music up instead. Chad narrows his eyes at her but turns around and marches out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Violet turns the music down.
Tate glares after him. For a moment it looks as if he's tempted to follow. He closes the laptop and sets it off to the side, but he doesn't move from his spot on the bed.
"Violet?" The way he says her name is low and earnest.
"Yeah?"
"I haven't killed anyone in a really long time."
It's true, she knows this. The last attempt he made on someone was Gabriel, and that was quite some time ago.
"I know."
He stares at her and tilts his head to the side. "It's because I love you."
"I know."
This time he is the one who disappears.
Halloween comes.
Violet's parents suggest that the three of them all go out and do something together. Violet agrees, but first she'd like some time to herself.
She goes to a neighborhood park.
Tons of trick-or-treaters wonder by, all dressed up in their costumes with their candy pales by their sides. Violet can remember being a kid and loving Halloween. She sighs.
Then he is beside her on the park bench. He's found her. He always finds her.
She doesn't scoot away from, nor does she look at him.
"I'll never have kids," she says sadly.
He's watching her. When she meets his eyes she can see the emotions playing out clearly inside of them. There's sadness, regret, desire…he can be so expressive.
She looks away. "I'll never move out," she continues. "Or get a job, or get married, or get drunk. I'll always be trapped." Her lip wobbles, but she takes a deep breath and forces herself to calm down. Halloweens are always hard.
There's a tug on her hand and she looks back over at Tate again. There are tears strolling down his face.
"But you have me, Violet. I can make you happy." When she starts to shake her head in protest his grip on her hand tightens. "I can!" he exclaims. "I promise I'll be better. I'll try to be good I promise I'll try." He lets go of her hand and takes hold of her arm. His head hits her shoulder. "Please, Violet. You're all I want. Please forgive me, Violet. Please please please—"
His head has slipped down into her lap. His shoulders shake as he cries. She runs her fingers through his dirty blonde hair and she feels him relax slightly under her touch. Despite herself she starts to cry too.
She still loves him, she can't deny it. She remembers a time when he had tried to save her; she remembers when he could make bad things go away.
She remembers that because of him she died loved.
She's stretched out on her bed, staring at her wall. When she turns her head she sees him sitting right next to her, his body almost touching hers.
This is technically against her rules, but she doesn't say anything.
His eyes are pinned to her face. "Sorry. Did I scare you?"
She rolls over and drums her fingers across his knee. "No."
He smiles. "That's good." He moves to pull a deck of cards out of his pocket.
He looks so at ease, her ghost boy. He looks content, perfectly satisfied to just play War with her. That sliver of hope she has for him resurfaces.
She remembers that darkness is merely the absence of light. If Violet is the light, but is with Tate, then maybe he won't be the darkness anymore.
"You don't scare me," she says and then sits up.
The cards slide out of his hands and he visibly swallows. He angles his face towards hers, but he waits for her to kiss him.
When she does she realizes that there is no going back from this.
He pushes back against her—hard. His fingers grip at her hips and his tongue slides into her mouth with urgency. Violet moans and tangles her fingers in his hair. She had missed this.
When they finally pull apart, he doesn't stop. He places kisses on her cheeks, her hair, and her forehead. Then he settles himself against her. "Do you forgive me, Violet?" he whispers against the skin of her neck.
She doesn't answer, but curls against him, wanting to be as close to him as possible. He wraps his arms around her and holds her tightly.
She thinks that maybe she had forgiven him some time ago, or that maybe she was never truly mad at him, but at his actions.
She wonders if, because of that, willingly lying here in his arms makes her just as much of a monster as he is.