A/N: Hey guys! So . . . been a while . . . heh. Yeah. A year. Well, I've been doing lots of stuff that isn't this and that's literally my only excuse. But I want to get back into this! It's fun and I actually really enjoy it! So anyway . . . warnings - I have some kind of reading problem, clearly, because I miss chunks of text or writing that I could've sworn I wrote earlier. So, if you spot a gap, lemme know! I strive to improve my literacy skills. Second warning - rated T for language. May change later. I honestly have no idea. I also cannot guarentee regular updates. I suck at scheduling but I will try my best to get on here more than I used to! :) Also, for fellow Adventure Time Fans I am in the process of writing a sequel to Fionna's Mistake! As always, R+R is appreciated and pretty much always available for PMing and replying to reviews and stuff. Also - I'm looking for a beta! If you want to aid me in my search for a sympathetic and endlessly patient *for the slowest writer in the world* editor, let me know, as I'm still figuring out how to get hold of one. Anyway, enough waffling, this is worse than Joseph Fink at the beginning to WTNV.
Summer, I.
When she was little, she was told she would be rescued from financial trouble in every possible circumstance if she could stay 'in the family way.' At first she had little idea what her parents were trying to tell her, though she rarely understood them for the majority of her childhood. When she was a little older, her close friend had admitted that it was a euphuism often used to describe pregnancy.
As her friend would soon come to raise and strongly regret, it had been a terrible idea to tell her; she spent a large portion of her early teen years worrying when her parents would find a suitor to marry and impregnate her. This, as an overall goal in life, horrified her. Why should she have to concentrate her efforts in life on finding a man and starting a family; why couldn't she work, or earn money for herself? What if she didn't want to fall in love and have to look perfect to secure an investment in her future – what if she wanted to live on her own, and throw her own parties? Hang out with her own friends? Look how she wanted to and not impress anyone?
However, her parents made pretty clear that they wanted all of this for her too; on the morning of her fifteenth birthday, she finally told her mother that she didn't want to get pregnant. Her mother frowned and told her that neither did she, though naturally her wit was shot down by Fiona's upset. She had locked herself in the bathroom and refused to leave all day until her parents listened to her. After she had told them, her mother calmly explained that they did not wish for her to only aspire to motherhood and capabilities as a housewife, and that in fact, 'the family way' was not a euphuism for pregnancy, but was instead intended to conceal something else. Her mother also made her a promise; that she would come to know 'the family way' and why she would be looked after for staying in it on her eighteenth birthday.
However, her mother never got the chance to tell her – neither did her father. And on her eighteenth birthday she woke up alone, waiting for parents who would never hold her or hug her or kiss her again, because one idiotic and upset man drank too much and drove home. One man. One man behind bars. One man who was found guilty but didn't bring her parents back. One man to change her life so completely and utterly.
A few weeks after her birthday, whilst sitting on the beach and not minding where the ocean lapped gently at her ankles and dampened the edges of her trousers, she wondered what she was going to do. Her parents house had been repossessed, and she had taken to staying in different hotels around the city, trying not to sleep in the same one twice or for longer than a fortnight. She had a job at a coffee shop which hadn't been hard to wrangle – the competition was non-existent and the supply of customers small. She also had a meagre inheritance which she hadn't really been able to bring herself to look at. She didn't want to see where her parent's savings had gotten them nor where her uncles gambling debts had left them.
She often thought of her uncle; he was supposedly her last remaining relative left alive as her parents had eloped, choosing to abandon their own families than forfeit their love for each other; this had all seemed quite romantic to Fiona once, but now only seemed impractical. Where was supportive, rich extended family when you needed them?
She laughed herself on the beach as she thought of these imaginary wealthy family members, earning her odd and entertained looks from the man walking his dog and lady jogging respectively.
One of the first things she had done when her parents had died was to look for her uncle, and soon found that she was all alone in the world. Her uncle too had died, knocked over and sent flying a few years ago when he walked into he path of a bus.
How tragic, she mused, that he should be left to die alone and forgotten, when her mother often recounted tales of her younger brother wanting to succeed in whatever he tried, and that he was fearless in the face of death so long as his name was remembered. How tragic, she mused, that not even I could grieve for you. Nor can I now. Or ever.
All this, she pondered, and more, as her left foot was pulled slightly in the retreating currents of the sea. She took this as a sign to move, and, upon realisation that the sun had just dipped behind the horizon and it was beginning to get a little chillier despite the time of year, stood up, wiping her hands on her shirt and shaking out her feet to disperse the water droplets, and began to head home.
She currently 'lived' very close to shoreline (which she considered to be one of the very few perks of her latest hotel), and thought it would not that long, however, by the time she got back to her room, it was dark outside.
She shut the door behind her and flopped onto her bed, recalling how she had the early-morning shift the next day. She turned over onto her back and groaned. The buckle of her bag pushed into her side, jabbing her ribs. She made a noise of complaint, sat up, disentangled herself from her bags and then lay down again.
She lay as if she was waiting. For what, she had very little idea; it was a just a feeling of something coming. Someone coming. Something happening. It unsettled her. Not just mentally but physically; she couldn't keep still. She found herself fidgeting and twitching, unable to relax.
So when someone knocked on her door, she reasoned that the only possible explanation for leaping off her bed in such excitement and throwing open her door with such bravado was the after-effect of her inability to keep still; not fear. Because Fiona knew deep down that she was fearless. Almost. Nine out of ten things didn't get under her skin, and she had been advised as a child to "be the scariest thing in the room." Her father's advice had worked wonders for the prevention for bullying but not so much when it came to making friends.
She realised that her point was this; so what if the stranger had made her a little jumpy? She was alone and expected to stay alone for a quite a bit longer.
She smiled as she opened the door.
The stranger was a tall, blonde boy who looked towards her like even opening his eyes required a grievous amount of effort.
"Hello." She breathed, forcing her voice to produce something stronger than a whisper, but it still came out all wrong; too thin and reedy, too weak and shaky.
"Are you Fiona Carson?" His voice matched his distinctly bored gaze; like she was boring, like this was boring, like he didn't see much point in being here, in being anywhere, in existing.
"It depends. Who are you? How did you even get up here? What do you want?"
He frowned; this made him look even lazier, frustrated by the prospect of making any kind of effort.
"Could you just co-operate for me?"
"No," she said incredulously, "Who are you? Died the front desk let you up here? Do I know you?"
He groaned again. "Do we have to do this?"
Fiona took a step back, confused. "Sorry you're asking for my identity and you're going about it all the wrong ways. Do you speak to every like that?"
More creases appeared along his forehead. "Like what?"
"Like that!" She pointed at the crease in his forehead but he didn't even blink at her protruding digit poking him between the eyes. "Like I'm being annoying!"
"You are being annoying." The boy declares, his voice even and unchanging; Fiona suddenly pondered the possibility that this was a regular occurrence. Did he do this a lot? What was he? Like, some kind of kidnapper for a slave ring? Was he going to kidnap her like in that one film with Liam Neeson?
"Listen, who are you? Why are you here? Why do you care?" She looks down at her feet for a moment.
"Because no one ever told you."
Her snapped back up. "What?"
"No one ever told you and I'm doing you a favour."
"What?" She found herself on repeat, unable to think of anything else to say.
"I'm doing you a favour. I didn't have to come here and tell you."
She spoke through gritted teeth, undecided on why or out of what; anger, perhaps? Upset? She convinced herself it was out of habit.
"Tell me what?"
They stare at each other for a minute. His eyes are so very green, she realise; like grass, like fields and tree's and plants. If he turns out to be serial killer and does kill her, she realises that the last sight she'll ever see will be a pair of beautiful, hateful eyes.
Eventually the steely glint in his eyes fades and she can see his whole body relax – all of it – the tight shoulders and back and clenched fists stuffed into his pockets, all of it – it just fades away.
"You are Fiona Carson and no one ever told you how to stay in the family way. But I can. And I will. And then you are going to do exactly what you are told, or you are going to have to learn to run very, very fast. Because you cannot outrun us, and you cannot run from us. We will always find you, Fiona. And we will always catch you."
There is fire at the pit of her stomach. It is burning and the ache in her head and legs has returned. She understood now. She understood.
Her body wasn't waiting for the knock. Of course it wasn't. But it was expecting it. Her body was telling her to run. Her whole body was screaming for her to get the hell out of there. And now she knows; it's too late.
It's far too late.
Well, to run anyway – and without really thinking, she draws back her fist, right behind her until her elbow knocks the doorframe, and sends it flying forward into the face of the tall, blonde man. There is a searing pain in her knuckles but the loud exclamation of "Jesus Christ!" does not come from her, and she relishes the feeling of the man's blood on her hands.
However, as she watches him double over and stagger slightly sideways, it occurs to her that he's taking this very badly – much worse than if he were used to . . . this sort of thing. Fighting. Violence.
Which makes her realise that apart from the creepy and slightly too personal last message, this man hasn't hurt her, only sworn that he's trying to help her and exuded an air of arrogance and impoliteness.
Which leads her to make probably the dumbest decision she's ever made. She takes two steps back into the hotel room, grabs her mobile, and rushes forward, checking that the man hasn't left or crept away. She finds him still there, leaning against the wall for support. His fingers are stained crusty and red. She sighs and looks down at her phone. She backtracks into the hotel room again and leaves ice and the first aid kit from the bathroom on the counter.
She bites her lip, thinking, before cursing, hitting speed dial and dialling 999. She doesn't hit the call button but leaves it and holds it in one hand whilst she uses the other to grab the shoulder of the tall man and lead him inside. She shuts the front door behind her and runs into the bathroom, locking the door.
She looks around and curses again. 'Fuck,' she thinks. 'No, crap, this can't be happening.'
She wonders what she'll do now, and the fact that she hadn't really thought this through become glaringly obvious. 'Why didn't I realise that five minutes ago?!' she thinks to herself. She's locked herself in the bathroom. Not the weird-mad-psychopathic-stranger, oh no, she locked herself in here. And left her hotel room at the mercy of the guy.
She rubs the bridge of her nose with her thumb and finger. Maybe she can just get out again. Find some kind of weapon. Maybe if she knocks him out and is there when he wakes? No, too elaborate. And weird. And violent. And how would she get out there?
Take her chances with speed dial? She feels the draft from under the bathroom door waft towards her cold feet and feel the cool texture of the tiles with the tips of her fingers. Maybe.
And then she hears a large bang and that she's better taking chances. She opens the door a crack, ands he can't see anyone. She closes the door again, grabs her mobile and stands up. She throws open the door and races across the living room, only to find him not kidnapping anyone or stealing any one her stuff, but passed out on her living room floor, bleeding all over her carpet.
'Fuck. What have I done? Shit. Shit. Shit. What if he's dead? What if he's- Oh god. No.' She forces herself to breathe. And to talk out loud; in her head just makes it weirder.
"Are you – Are you dead?" She feels silly asking, but hearing voice, even if its her own, comforts her slightly as she watch the blotches of red blossom outwards likes flowers on her carpet.
"No," He speaks slowly, and precisely, and then stops after a minute, sounding gravely and bruised – she briefly wonders if you can bruise your vocal chords – before stopping herself to listen to him. "No, I am not dead."
"Oh, uh – uh, yeah, okay then." She continues, stumbling onward through conversation. So, if you're – if you're not dead-"
"Which I'm not!" He pipes up.
"Then would you mind not – not bleeding all over my carpet?" She ends it like a question and not a demand and loathes herself for it. Just grit your teeth and bear it, Fiona, she tells herself. Bear it.
"I wouldn't mind. A little difficult right now, though." He says, and she can hear the sarcasm n his voice.
"This is what's going to happen." She says, having a change of heart. "You're going to get up off my floor and sit at the table which I can actually remove blood off of, and then you're going to stop whining and tell me everything."
He doesn't move for a moment and she is a little worried, but then it clears as he begins to cave.
"Fine," he says, pushing himself up onto his elbows, "Fine. But it doesn't mean you'll like it or enjoy it."
"Enjoy what?"
"The truth." He says, ignoring her offered hand, standing up, straightening out and teetering over to her dinner table.
Fiona made herself a mug of tea one-handed, her hardback copy of 'Peter Pan' held in the other hand, resting on her hip. She brought it with her because it was the heaviest thing she owns and is the only available weapon. She sat across from the tall blonde stranger and, unblinking, raised her mug to her lips and drank. She watched him over the brim of her mug and observed his mannerisms; he kept tucking strands of hair behind his ear – it was a little to short to stay behind his ear but too long to allow him clear vision. He held his left hand to his eye and his right to his nose; she figured he was probably right-handed and he seemed to be applying more pressure to his nose than he was to his eye; besides, his eye seem a little bruised, whilst his nose was still streaming blood.
What else could she suppose about this man; his bitten nails – an addictive habit, often used as an outlet for nervous energy? Something in his life was clearly stressing him out. Maybe his family? He was young and there was no ring on his finger; he wasn't married. Maybe his work? If it involved being beaten up by feisty young women, then, yes, maybe it was his job that was stressing him out.
The stranger stopped making small noises of pain and made eye contact with her.
"So," he began, seemingly awkward in having to instigate the conversation. In another life, Fiona fantasized, he could be her older brother, trying to educate her about boyfriends and crap – or how they were going to survive after mum and dad died. She had to stop herself from smiling and looking crazy (despite the frightening nature of the stranger), because quite frankly, the idea of having any kind of company, blood-relation or not appealed to her. "So," He said again, having noted the small silence that she failed to fill.
"I want the truth."
"Yeah, I know." He said, removing the hand that was nursing his eye and using it to rub the back of his head – which, she realised, was another subconscious coping outlet for stress, before scolding herself for not concentrating. Even in the most dire and serious situation she couldn't trust herself to keep still and focus. "It's just – where do you even want me to start? There's so much to say and most of it's irrelevant. Without it though . . . what I'm saying has no context."
"Okay, well . . ." she pauses, before sipping her tea again. "Firstly, tell me exactly why you came to see me. It seems you turned up at my door with no real sense of purpose, or you did – but then you forgot or something."
He looks at her for a minute, frowning, as if still trying to work out what colour her eyes were, before speaking. "So . . . my boss sent me here, and I was jumpy because I haven't really ever had to do this before."
She furrowed her brow. "What's 'this'?"
"This," he gestured to himself and then her, "is a Summoning."
"And what's a summoning?" She took another sip of tea. It seemed slimy and less comforting now. The hotel room seemed freezing despite the summery backdrop outside the windows. She mask her shivered by stretching and yawning.
The stranger watched her, as if considering her movements. "A summoning is basically a modern kind of 'a call to arms.' Are you familiar with this phrase?"
"Uh, I guess, yeah, but you still haven't really explained what it is. Who's your boss?" She did not allow him time to explain the summoning. He failed to do so the first time, so she would move on.
"I can't say." He look down.
"Yes, you can." She raised her hand and slammed the copy of Peter Pan down on the table. The stranger winced at the noise. "And you will. But first; who are you?"
The stranger refused to look up. His mouth moved a fractional amount but he stayed silent. "Who are you?" she said, raising her voice. She prayed the hotel staff wouldn't come running or, worse; charge her extra for the noise.
His head snapped up. "My name is Penn."
"What," she smirked, "Like the magician?"
He remained motionless, his face unmoving.
"Fine then. Sorry – I'll stay on track. Who's your boss?"
"My boss is a five-hundred-year-old vampire."
She paused, unsure of what he wanted her to do here; he didn't laugh at her joke – should she not laugh at his? His voice was deadly serious and a calm air surrounds them. She feels like if he were lying then she wouldn't feel this tranquil. But then, if all this were true, then his earlier would also prove correct.
And vampires were purely fictional. Because everyone knew that. Because it was a given fact. Because there was no proof.
Because vampires are just one of those things that disappear when you outgrow Santa and the tooth fairy and the Easter bunny. They disappear and you start developing new fears. Grown up fears. Taxes and fraud and wages and unemployment. Rapists and serial killers and paedophiles.
Fiona suddenly felt very, very light, and very, very scared. Because if vampires were real, even just theoretically speaking, then whose to say what would and wouldn't anymore? Where would the line for reality be drawn? Would the monsters that she'd locked in the darkest depths of her mind start advancing from under her bed again?
Then she snapped out of it and forced herself to look at the stranger. Until she could find a legitimate excuse for why this stranger was wrong, she'd play along. She wasn't finished asking questions just yet.
"A 500-year-old vampire. Okay, okay. I still don't understand. What would any of this have to do with me?" She says, shaking her head. The stranger smirks and she realises how very white his teeth are.
"You have come into the family way."
She begins to feel dizzy, remembering how it was that statement that originally earned him a bloody nose. How could he know? How could he possibly know what her mother had promised her whole life?
"I'm not pregnant." She said, trying to spit the words out as if they seemed abnormal, but suddenly her head felt disconnected from the rest of her body and tongue felt heavy.
"I know you're not. And you know that I know that. Because you know that's not what it means."
Though her first reaction was to simply exclaim 'what?' very loudly, she tried to focus, though she just felt more and more disorientated. The stranger picked up his mug and sipped his tea. She forced her tongue to move though it felt like lead.
"What does it mean then?"
"It means you come of age, and you finally accept your destiny. You finally learn who you are and what you have to do."
She tried to say something else but she couldn't form words. Her tongue stopped moving and she could feel the ground rolling beneath her like the ocean. The ground around her began to ripple and she felt herself falling. The stranger caught her and as she looked into his eyes she realised something.
She had not made the stranger tea. No, that was not his mug, that – that was her tea. So what had she been drinking this whole time? She tried to look up but she couldn't see past him. She could only see the very white smile of the stranger and his evergreen eyes. So very bright and alive. He pushed her backwards into the support of the chair and stood before lifting her.
She tried to scream but found herself unable to; her entire body felt slack. She suddenly realised that she shouldn't have let him in . She shouldn't have even opened the door. She should've warned security not let anyone see her; after all, there shouldn't have been anyone to see her under any circumstances anyway.
But she realises it wouldn't have made a difference. He would've always been able to get to her now. She doesn't understand how she knows this; it's just a feeling. The same feeling right before he knocked on the door. Like she should be moving – but she wasn't sure which way she should be going - towards or away from?
Now she sees she should've done many things differently but there is nothing she can do now; that's always the problem with the present – you have all the knowledge of previous mistakes and regrets from the past, but you're still unable to spot the wrong choices you make immediately, and you can't tell the future.
However, much to the burning feeling in the pit of her stomach which she interprets as dismay, all this philosophy is useless to helping her escape the arms of the blonde stranger whisper name she never found out.
And as she loses consciousness she can feel three things; the light, almost alien-feeling of the stranger carrying her, the sensation of her eyes rolling back into her skull and wet prickle of tears, needling their way down her cheeks.
Thanks for reading so far! xx :) For those curious, the title is taken from a lyric from the song 'Stars (Hold On)' By 'YoungBlood Hawkes' - ya know, the one from the Netflix advert.
If you can put up with me and my lethargically slow writing, then *hint, hint* the review button is right down here!