Hey all! After reading The Whitechapel Fiend, I absolutely needed more Tessa, so I decided to write this little Wessa hurt/comfort fic. It is about Tessa reflecting on her relationship with Nate. I hope you all can enjoy it!
Can you still love someone whose pieces are missing?
Even after twenty years, I still keep his picture in the drawer by my bedside. My children still do not know about him- well, of course they know that their uncle had a role in the great clockwork war, but they don't know the truth about him- how when we were small he danced with me around our home in New York, laughing, twirling me around and around until I was doubled over and the ribbons on my skirts had come loose. That was before I knew that I was. That was before I knew what he was.
Tonight, my sky-coloured nightgown hugs my body a little too tightly and I hear Will's steady breathing next to me. I cannot sleep, so I flip myself over and snuggle up next to my husband's warmth to protect myself from the bitter cold that I cannot stop from coming through the window. I close my eyes, hoping that the dreams will come, but all that comes to me are images of him, going back and forth like a flip book between him twirling me in the air, him smiling at me as he disgusts me by eating a box of chocolates in front of my face, him bowing down to my would-be abuser, him lying bleeding on my ground and his dying request, please, Tessie, promise me you'll always wear it. Your clockwork angel.
His pieces were missing. Sleep evades me, still, after twenty years.
Giving up on trying to find oblivion, I flip over to my nightstand, reaching for the matches that sit atop it to light a candle. I carefully move my tattered old copy of A Tale of Two Cities onto my lap as to not set fire to it, and because I plan to move my eyes across its pages until sleep finds me, and light three candles that stand beside my bedside. I try to read, but I cannot. All I can imagine is not the face of the beautiful Sydney Carton, but your cruel scowl as you tried to take me at the masquerade ball on that night you died. It is one of those nights. One of those nights, I suppose, that I am forced to devote to you. Sighing and putting down Dickens, I quietly open the drawer of the bedside table and pull out the photograph.
My fingers trace over his face. Golden blond locks and smiling blue eyes stare back at me in black and white, a stillframe of him laughing in the parlor of our old home. I remember the day that it was taken. He took me out and we went window shopping. I was ten. You were thirteen. I had a tantrum because I wanted a lacey yellow dress that I had seen in the shop windows, but we could not afford it, so you would not let me have it. He took me for ice cream to cheer me up, and, the dress forgotton, I laughed and laughed as you played with me with my face covered in vanilla.
Did he ever exist? Or were there always pieces missing?
His laughing eyes, now, contrast my crying gray ones. Hugging his picture, I curl up against the pillow of my large bed, Will still curled up next to me. I weep silently because I miss my brother, I miss him so much. He wasn't much, he wasn't even my brother, in the end, but he was still family and despite his horrific behavior toward me and those I care about, I still loved him. I still love him. A large pair of hands suddenly grasps mine as I clasp them across my chest, and I bring my tear streaked face up to meet midnight blue.
Will. My darling Will.
"Tessa," he asks me, his voice filled with worry. "What's wrong?" I do not answer, instead pulling one hand away from him to wipe my tears while still letting him firmly keep hold on the other one. I study my husband. He looks much different than the wild boy that I first fell in love with, lines of age and laughter creasing his face and his ink black curls graying around the scalp and forehead. None of this matters to me. He is still my Will, and I am still his heart. He says again, "Tess?"
I curl up into his arms, laying Nate's photograph across the pillow on which I should be dreaming. Will's hands moved through my long hair, and I gave in to his touch, burying my face in his chest and allowing myself to choke out a sob that had been welling up. His arms tightened around me, and in my hair his lips formed the words, "Nate again?" I simply nodded.
"I know, dear heart," Will said quietly. "I could not imagine… if it were Cecily. I know." He did not press me to say more. He did not patronize, but rather, he just ran his thumb in circles along the back of the blue nightgown that I wore, comforting touches along my back. He held me tighter. "I love you, Tess."
Will reached around me and took Nate's picture from the pillow. Then, gently laying my head where it should be, beside him, he placed it on his own nightstand. "Tess, I love you so much."
I managed to get out an I love you too, Will, before I felt his body wrap around mine and, now safe in my husband's arms, sleep came.
Can you still love someone whose pieces are missing?
Yes, I can, but I cannot forget what he did, nor can I forgive such torture.