Jammies and Bobbi Jo were both beta's to me. The latter helped me with my frequent raping of the comma button. So now it should look better to y'all. ^^
Disclaimer: If I owned Miley or Emily or anything else Disney related, do you think I'd be on the internet?
Warnings: Femslash. Abuse. I hope to continue this into a multi-chapter story, and I hope you enjoy reading it. :)
You see her sitting in your lap and she's sobbing and smiling the tiniest bit and you can't help but think of how wrong it looks, how wrong she looks, and yet how beautiful it is, how beautiful she is. Like broken butterfly wings or shattered sea glass, distorted and skewed from its first image but still retaining its original beauty.
You know that he was the one that made her like this, dependent and broken, and you wonder why you haven't broken him yet. That he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder as well as diabetes was one thing. That he didn't take his meds was quite another. And it had become worse when he was aware of his conditions, though you don't know why. A memory flashes in your mind's eye – her, smiling, radiant as the noonday ocean sun – and you remember that he makes her happy, and that's why he still breathes.
It confuses you, for a moment, how such a person can make and break her all in the same day. But then you remember the saying – what was it now? – that every rose has its thorn. You can only hope that she has more happier moments with him than hurtful ones, though you know better. And then you mentally slap yourself because hope isn't the only thing you can give her; you can give safety and comfort and security, but really you're terrified she'll leave and get hurt, over and over again.
She shifts in your embrace and unconsciously you hold her tighter. It's not the first time you've found her like this, and a soft voice inside breaks your heart just a little bit more with the reminder that it probably won't be the last, either.
You marvel briefly at how strong she is. She was able to keep from letting anything out the entire time waiting, the long car ride home, until finally she walked into your room, crawled onto a bed that's as much hers as it is yours, and broke down in your arms. And you know it's sick that you know, that you've kept track, that you're aware each time that this happens, he hurts her worse than each time before.
She'll show you later, and she'll hiss when you gently press an ice pack yet again to a bruise that never seems to fade on her ribcage from where he kicks her while she's down. She'll wince in pain when you clean the fresh scratches on her biceps from where he grabbed her too hard. And you'll pick up the pieces with her all over again, because you care too much not to do so.
Honestly, you've never threatened, or actually hurt Oliver more than a few slaps when you were younger, but each time she comes to you like this you again question why you haven't done something to help protect her. Each time you suggest it, she begs you not to, tells you that doing so will only make it worse, and you don't want that, so you go along with her wishes for now. You avoid telling your dad anything when he wakes you up with arms still draped around her. Eventually his questions stopped, but the lingering, worried looks he casts her way haven't.
You feel her shuddering breath on the fabric covering your shoulder, the dry sobs of her spent lips. You know that when she pulls away her eyes will be red and puffy beyond belief, and you can hear her trying to say something right now, but she can't quite get the words around it properly. You debate asking questions – you know she wants to talk, and on one hand they give her something to formulate an answer on, a focus per say, but on the other hand you don't want to make her talk before she's really ready. The former argument wins over in your head.
"How bad was it?" She takes a moment and when she sighs you pull her closer, a hand brushing soothingly through her blonde locks.
"Bad." The vague half-answer isn't nearly satisfactory but it doesn't surprise you, and you're simply too glad she's able to talk at all.
"Did you two fight again?"
An unintelligible response is murmured and followed by a slight nod, and you hum in your next exhale, partly to calm her, partly to let out your anger at something you are unable to lash out on.
"What was it about?"
A broken cry emits from her throat and the waterworks begin again. Whatever it was, she doesn't want to talk about it, and that makes it worse because the desire to know more only grows. You whisper soft, reassuring phrases in her ear while praying to whatever gods that exists that you can help, somehow, in some way. To make it better. For her.
"Shh, Lil, it's alright. It's gonna be okay. I'm here," your voice seems to be running of its own accord as a hand detaches itself from her head to rub along her back, over her shoulders, something you know she loves. "I'm here for you… you can tell me anything and it'll be okay, okay? You know that, right?"
"I know." Her voice is so small, so faint, so unlike the outgoing skater girl you know her to be, and you would give anything if you could just see a smile light up her face again. "It's just… I… I mean, I'm…" she sighs before caving. "I don't know."
"Scared?" you supply for her. You know it's difficult for her to form coherent sentences when she's this distraught. Her nod is felt against your chest as you close your eyes and rest your head atop her own. A comfortable silence settles momentarily before you dare to continue. "Of what… him?"
"Yes." An admission. A sadness. Barely more than a whisper across your skin. So much is laced within that one word.
"Why?" The question is a hard one for her, you know, but you need her reasons. She begins to answer but chokes up; you decide to rephrase, for her sake. "What more can he do to you that he hasn't already?"
The words alone spike painful memories for the both of you, you know. The night he first forced himself on her. The verbal insults spoken under his breath every day. The first time he hit her. Fulfilled threats of pain. The mind games he so loves to play. You briefly wonder how long she'll be able to stand before she breaks completely.
It takes you a moment to realize she's saying something into your shirt, and longer to make out the repetition of the phrase, "Don't… don't want him to… don't want him to… don't want him to…"
"Don't want him to do what, sweetheart?" You draw back from her and tilt her face to look into her eyes. "What can he do if you leave him?"
It's your ritualistic question. One that has never truly been answered. And you never force her to. A small part of you won't admit it, but you're scared of what she'll say.
Her tear-filled blue eyes glance down, away from your own. She knows, has a definite answer, but doesn't want to tell you. It feels like she's trying to protect you, as absurd as you think that is.
"Tell me, Lil. What can he do if you leave him?" you repeat. It's the first time you're pushing for an answer from her. She looks at you, into your eyes, her own wide and fearful beyond belief, not to mention red and nearly bloodshot as well. She wants to run from the question, but you want, no need, to know why she chooses to stay with him. You push your forehead to hers, eliminating any distance between the two of you. "You can tell me anything. Tell me. What can he do?"
She releases a long, slow sigh through her nose and looks downwards, almost shutting her eyes again, but not quite closed all the way. You hope she doesn't dodge the question and almost miss the feeling of her breath on your lips. Your ears can't hear her words, and your lips ask the age-old clarification, "Huh?"
"He can hurt you."
She mistakes your silence for fear, or something else you leave unnamed, and begins to apologize as she moves to leave. "I'm sorry, Miley. I shouldn't have said that. This is bad. He's not gonna forgive me for this. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so, sor-"
You cut off her reponse as well as her escape by once again pulling her into your hold; she resists at first, squirming in confusion, attempting to leave, but soon gives and melts, relaxing back into the comfort of your arms.
She hyperventilates. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry sorry sorry, Miley. I shouldn't have told you that. I didn't tell you that, okay? He can't find out about that. You can't tell –"
"Shh, Lilly, shh, it's okay sweetie," you press a brief kiss to the top of her head, out of kindness, only. She's once again shaking as a silent waterfall trickles it's way down her face. You force your throat to keep your voice collectively calm. "I'm not gonna tell him, okay? Look at me, Lil – he doesn't know. He won't know. You're okay. Everything's gonna be fine."
You rock back and forth, gently, slowly, as if she were a child, an infant even, and the motion has the effect you want it to; you can feel her body become less tense, her heartbeat slow its' frantic rhythm, her breathing gradually drop to a regular rate. After awhile you look down and see the languid, sleepy look in her eyes, even half-covered by her sun-bleached hair. It grieves you a little that you have to keep her awake longer, and put her through a little more discomfort to make sure she heals properly before she can fade into unconsciousness.
Moving unhurriedly, you shift until you're both lying down, and give a quick squeeze before separating yourself, retreating off the edge of the bed. Before her eyes expand and adrenaline can surge through her veins in panic, you hastily explain your departure. "I'm just going to get the cleaning stuff. Stay still, okay? Be back soon."
It doesn't take that long to locate all the things you figure you'll need, and you bother to pick up the tube of IcyHot in the hall closet, thankful that Jackson didn't use up the last of the biofreeze product. It all takes less than five minutes and you return to find her almost slumbering. She greets you with a faint, "Hey," as you close the door once again and set the supllies along the end of the bed. You smile a little bit at her, your reassuring 'sorry-I-woke-you-up-again' smile, and she smiles back, as much as she can manage, at least, and maybe your smile grows a little bigger in return, maybe not, you're not quite sure.
"Can you lie on your back?" The question is necessary; he once hurt her so bad that she couldn't, and you won't cause her any more pain than she's gone through tonight. As she nods once more and begins to do so, you grasp the edge of her shirt, lifting and pulling the material gently over her head before she sinks back into the mattress. You place one of two ice packs behind her head where you saw dark marks along her hairline earlier, the other to the old kicking bruise on her torso. She sighs in what you can only assume is relief after the brief action. You know that once she's numbing under the warm chill of the biofreeze, she'll be out like a light. Your mind begins to wander over what she's told you, and you barely notice her deepened breathing until it's almost too late. You press a few painkillers in one of her hands, a bottle of water in the other and she downs them without even opening her eyes, she trusts you that much.
"This is gonna sting," you warn, as always. You start on the open wounds, most scabbed over already. The hydrogen peroxide fizzes and bubbles over the marks you predicted on her arms, an old cut that still resides on her chest, and an odd scrape that seems out of place above her hipbone. She whimpers as you touch the last one; it's still relatively raw, and you recoil immediately, the words, "I'm sorry," on your lips before your hand reaches back down to tentatively finish its' job. Some antibiotic and a bandage is applied to each one until just a few of the sick, mottled patterns of yellow, black, and purple are her only visible injuries.
As you seat yourself beside her, you mentally go over her visage as her hand covers you own; you rotate your wrist to hold hers, palm-to-palm. You come to terms with just how tired she looks, just how wiped out she must be- she looks more than ready to sleep, and you imagine she probably has been for days now, if not weeks. You hear her mutter something as you remove the ice packs, and you know that she's thanking you. You don't even bother putting everything away, instead leaving it on one of the many dressers in your room, and clamber in next to the barely conscious girl. She sighs happily when you pull her closer to your body, and starts to half-whisper, half-sigh into your skin, reminiscent of earlier.
"Miley…"
You wait. Her chest heaves with a sad, tired breath.
"I wanted…" her voice drifts and you can't hear what she utters for a second. "…tell you-"
"Sleep, Lilly. You can tell me in the morning."
"But…" her single word evolves into a groan when you wrap your arms tighter.
"Morning. No arguing. Sleep."
"'kay then," as easily as that, she gives in. She doesn't fall asleep immediately, though, and you ponder how many times fate has found you in this position, holding your topless best friend after she's suffered through a night like tonight, and how many more it will happen until something drastic changes.
You try, you really do, to fall asleep with her, but your mind is too wired and again begins to drift as once more you go over what you've been told.
Oliver was threatening to hurt you, or had implied he would do so to Lilly, if she didn't stay where she was and continue to be treated like an object in his little world. So she stayed. You think it's stupid, that she should just leave, but then you look at it from her perspective. If you were with Jake or some different dumbass again, and they threatened to hurt her, you would probably do everything you could to make sure that never ever happened, even taking physical abuse.
Her reasoning for her actions makes logical sense, but that doesn't make it any less wrong, at least to you. You need to convince her that you're perfectly safe, so that she can be confident enough to leave him. He'd certainly made it clear enough that he was not going to change for her. Having a boyfriend shouldn't be a priority for her right now, you think. Her own personal health should be above that, at least. Why she can't see that is completely beyond you.
But you don't pressure her to make the decisions you think she should make. It's her life after all, and she has to be the one to decide what she wants to do with it.
Oliver could hurt you. That one thought replays over and over in your head. You doubt it, but with his recent erratic behavior, and the turn his relationship has taken with Lilly, the possibility that he would is greater than it was before, you figure. Before, back when everything seemed so simple.
That he could hold this one threat – or a promise, even – over her with such certainty was simply below human to you. That she believed he would do it and continued to stay with him out of fear that she was so convinced he would… that caused a sudden weight to appear over your heart.
She pressed closer in her sleep, and all thoughts except those of her left your mind. You didn't think of Oliver, you didn't think of blood or bruises or bandages as you ran a hand habitually through her hair, more for your own comfort than her own at the moment.
You didn't think of anything but her.
And as she adjusts in the safety you offer with your bed, your limbs, your arms, you realize that you couldn't think of anything but her.
You know, my last fic got over 200 hits in the first two days it was online, and only got two reviews in the same amount of time. That made me kinda sad. I would love if you dropped me even a single line, like 'I hated it!' or 'I loved it!'. Just so that I know people actually did read it. To my followers that do leave me reviews on my fics, thank you guys so much, it means a lot to me. Anonymous is enabled. :)
My Twitter username is Zaskina, and if you send me a reply tweet telling me you reviewed, I would be more than happy to respond via Twitter to you. :)