Just the Same
"Some are kissing mothers and some are scolding mothers, but it is love just the same."—Pearl S. Buck
(-&-)
"I want my mother!"
The scream was shattering, a volume only someone with years of ordering servants around could produce. It all but shook the blank room, and Natalie Kabra's fellow prisoners winced as it echoed, the desperate cry piercing the air. None of them said anything; what was there to say? All the truthful responses—"You shouldn't miss her," "She's a psychotic murder," "She doesn't love you"—would've hurt too much; all others, comforting thoughts of Isabel loving her daughter and missing her and coming to save her from this less-than-luxurious pit one day, were blatant lies.
The days of the Clue Hunt were over. The worst thing the Cahill family could do was lie to each other again.
Without any suitable words, the hostages could only turn away, one by one, back to their own business. Nellie lay down next to Phoenix, cradling her shoulder with her opposite hand; Alistair guided Ted back to his chair; Reagan muttered to herself about why her broken wrist wouldn't prevent her from stitching up Phoenix's wound, sensible enough to know that no one was paying her the slightest bit of attention. There was, of course, no response from their captors. It was like Nellie had said: they weren't taking requests anymore.
A tear made its way down Natalie's cheek. She hastily brushed it off, closing her eyes as she tried to steady her breathing. Natalie Kabra was not particularly brave; some people might have even called her overly sensitive. In an honest mood, she would not refute such a claim. That said, she was a Kabra, and Kabras did not cry. It was undignified, an unguarded display of weakness—a vulnerability that someone of her stature could not afford. More importantly, the Kabras were ugly criers. Their family had kept that a secret for years, and Natalie had no desire to make it public. Her beauty was all she had nowadays. No one needed to see her eyes that red and glassy; no one needed to see the wrinkles on her forehead and nose that always, always appeared when she was upset; no one needed to see the flush that splattered her skin in uneven blotches.
Skin is a woman's most underestimated weapon, her mother had told her once. Smooth, clean skin is very important. It makes the difference between someone seeing you as a beggar or a billionaire. A commoner or a Kabra. Above all else, Natalie, keep your skin in good condition.
She looked down at her hands. Despite all the attempts she had made to remain hygienic, they were covered with a fine layer of dust. She reached up and felt her face, her fingers lingering over each bump and pimple that she had always used her face wash to prevent.
Smooth, clean skin is very important. Her mother's voice rang in Natalie's mind, clear as a bell. She remembered the day Isabel had said that. She was seven years old; they were shopping in the makeup department at Harrod's. Mum had bought her a makeup kit of her very own, her first one. They had spent all day shopping together. It was a good day.
Natalie looked around her. To her surprise, she saw that her fellow hostages were all in various stages of sleep. Nellie was out like a light; Alistair, the most awake, was fighting to keep his eyes open, but failing. Unaware of the amber eyes watching him, he, too, succumbed to slumber in mere seconds.
Natalie felt her face again. Smooth, clean skin… It was impossible down here. As much as she hated to admit it—and she loathed it, with every fiber of her tiny being—her dirty, thoroughly pubescent skin was now a lost cause. Just like the rest of her.
The mere thought of what her mum would say made her cringe.
She didn't bother checking to make sure that everyone was asleep a second time. It didn't matter anymore; she had nothing left to lose. Her skills, her charm, her beauty… it was all gone. What difference did dignity even make at this point?
Natalie sat down and, for the first time in many years, started to cry.
(-&-)
Phoenix Wizard listened to the sobs with a growing sense of discomfort.
He couldn't stand it. He'd always hated it when people were sad—it was like a disease, contagious. It spread to everyone, and he always felt like he was the first victim. The atmosphere down here was bad enough, full of pain and desperation and everything but hope; tears only made it worse. Especially when they were Natalie Kabra's, who he doubted cried very often.
He had to do something, he couldn't just lie there listening, but what was there to do? He was pretty sure that if he tried to hug her or something, she'd choke him before she remembered that he wasn't a threat. Besides, that would involve getting up, which wasn't going to happen, if the ache in his body was any indication. He could try to say something, but… what? What was there to say? He'd been perfectly coherent when Natalie had shrieked. He knew exactly what she wanted but, like everyone else, he also knew how impossible that was. What was he supposed to say to that?
Suddenly, it hit him, an answer so simple that he should've thought of it sooner.
"I miss her, too," he blurted out.
Natalie's sobs came to an abrupt halt. A few seconds passed. Without looking at him, she asked roughly, "What are you talking about?"
"My mom," Phoenix said. "I want my mom, too."
The young Kabra turned to face him. Her cheeks were wet; her eyebrows were narrowed. Crying, Phoenix was happy to see, made her look much less pretty by conventional standards. He breathed a sigh of relief. It wouldn't be so hard to talk to her when she actually looked human.
"Lovely," she spat, her eyes frozen. "And I care… why, exactly?"
Phoenix flushed. Maybe this wouldn't be so easy after all. "I just mean… wh-what I mean to say is that, it's okay to miss your mom. And I do too—not your mom, my mom, obviously—so… I know how you feel."
Natalie laughed, but it was devoid of joy. Instead, it was sarcastic, condescending. "You have no idea, Philip—"
"Phoenix."
"—so don't pretend that you understand me in the least. Your mother is nothing like mine. She has nowhere near the brilliance, the power. Most people have no idea who your mother is. Whereas my mother—" Natalie stopped mid-rant; all the steam she had gathered vanished. She seemed to deflate before Phoenix's eyes as she remembered the truth. "My mother," she continued, in a much softer tone, "is a convicted murderer who probably loves me a lot less than your mother loves you."
"But you love her."
Tears sprung anew in Natalie's eyes. "If you've got a point, Phineas, you ought to hurry up and get to it. I'm this close to strangling you, crippled or not. I'm a Lucian, remember."
Something told Phoenix that it was an empty threat, but he didn't want to take chances. Besides, wasn't he supposed to make her stop crying? Think before you speak this time, he told himself. Think. "Okay, so it's like this. Your mom's not really nice, but she's your mom. So it's okay for you to love her, no matter what she's done. And if you love someone, then it's natural for you to miss them when you're apart from them for awhile. Especially when every day, you risk being killed or injured and never seeing that person again. In fact, that makes it even more natural—you missing her, I mean. Because you two never got to make amends, and you want to do that before you die. And also, you've looked up to your mom your whole life—at least, I assume you have, that's what I've heard and it really seems that way—so there's a part of you that really, really wants to believe that she'll come and save you, even if you know, deep down, that won't happen. You still believe, somewhere in your mind or your heart or wherever, that your mom will come to your rescue like she has before. That's part of why you love her. So, really, it makes perfect sense for you to want your mom—you want her because you love her and you think she could help you. There's nothing wrong with that. That's the same reason I want my mom. And, sure, maybe our situations are a little different, but in the end, they're really the same. The heart wants what the heart wants, after all, and I don't think that applies just to romantic love, because I think the love for a parent or a sibling is even stronger. So you shouldn't feel bad about still loving your mom, because it's not something you can control and it's a natural part of the human psyche. And I think that you'd feel a lot better if you accepted that, and it might make you stop crying a bit, although I'm sure part of why you're crying is because you miss your mom in the first place. That makes me cry, too. It really sucks. But crying about that is better than crying because you feel bad about yourself, because you shouldn't. There's nothing to feel bad about. Well, I mean, you're kinda mean, but you're also smart and really, really pretty, and you've managed to live without your parents for three years, which is really impressive because I don't think I could do that. So, really, you should feel better about yourself, and you definitely shouldn't cry about it. And if you want to cry about missing your mom, then I'll cry with you, because I want to cry about missing my mom all the time, and I could use the company."
Well. So much for that whole "thinking" plan.
Phoenix took a deep breath. Natalie was silent; her eyes were unreadable. For a few moments, Phoenix was worried that his spiel had literally bored her to death; he'd read somewhere that people's eyes didn't actually close when they died, people just pushed their eyelids down later, not exactly a job he envied—
"Phoenix?"
The Janus was startled out of his train of thought. "Yeah?"
"You really ought to learn not to talk so much. If not, it's simply a matter of which will go first: your voice, or the patience of everyone around you," Natalie informed him matter-of-factly. She yawned, stretching her arms leisurely before lying down at exactly the angle where he couldn't turn his head to look at her. "That's an important skill. We'll start working on it tomorrow."
"We?"
There was no response except for steady, gentle breathing, slightly on the loud side. Phoenix realized with a jolt that Natalie was asleep. With a shrug and a stifled yawn, he decided to follow her lead.
(-&-)
Natalie stared at the young boy, very much awake, a small smile on her lips. Her cheeks were dry and her eyes weren't quite as red anymore.
Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad. Phoenix might make a fine protégée; at the very least, that would keep her busy.
She shut her eyes and settled into real slumber. When the others woke up the next morning, they would wonder what she was grinning about.
/-\
To those who remember me: Yes, it's true. I'm back.
That's not to say that I'm any closer to updating other stories, or that I'll be posting OneShots very frequently. But I am no longer M.I.A., and I do still intend to write my crack!ships. However, I also hope to branch out a bit more from that—exhibit A being this story, which I'm actually rather proud of. What do you think? Please tell me in a REVIEW—I'd appreciate it so much!
On a less formal note, hiiiiii everybody. Oh gosh, I missed this fandom. I'm so happy to be back. :)
And to anyone who doesn't know me: Nice to meet you! I hope you like this story, and I'd love to hear what you think in, I dunno, maybe a REVIEW or something like that. ;)
Thanks so much for reading my story (and, hopefully, not hating me for my absence). Hope to hear from you!
Love,
Jo
P.S. A brief explanation on the quote: I know it seems a bit contrary to Natalie's situation; more than a bit, actually. But somehow, it just seemed to fit, and I try not to disregard my gut feelings too much. I think the quote works in this case because Natalie loves her mother no matter what: whether she kisses or she scolds. Or, y'know, whatever she does. :P
P.P.S. Before anyone asks, this may or may not become a crack!ship later. I'm tempted, but… it's just such a cute friendship. Oh gosh, I lurve it. 8)