Disclaimer: I do not own Yugioh, nor do I claim rights to any of the affiliated characters.
Warnings/Notes: This story is meant to follow the world established in the beautiful, immersive, whirlwind experience that is "Glass" by Bellamy Taft. Please support the amazing original author and story, you won't be disappointed!
"You're a slave to that clock." She said, placing crust on her pot pie with careful fingers.
"I prefer 'humble servant.'" Pegasus replied, soft click of the door splitting his words too sharply. She glanced up, but never high enough to meet his eyes. Soft clicking was the only interference on this island and sometimes, despite hating it before all this, she ached for static.
It was months before she asked for a TV or a radio - anything to create outside sound even if it could only be that. She didn't need channels or stations, just noise. She was so tired of listening to the drip of the faucet to mask the sound of her sobs.
They echoed inside her every time he spoke.
"I don't mind it really," he laid a new pair of silk pajamas over the arm of a chair, "If I didn't do it, who would?"
"I'm sorry," She said softly, "That was rude of me."
"Now, now, you're allowed your observations. It's true I spend a lot of time running after the lot of you." He met her eyes, "Most days it's worth my while."
"The others can't be all bad."
"Of course they're not, just not all good either."
He mentioned bringing her a couch before he left. She cut him a piece of pot pie and wrapped it on one of four plates, glass, white.
"It'll save cooking one meal at least."
"That's very thoughtful, thank you."
He bowed but didn't take the plate.
She shivered as the door clicked closed and showered until the food was cold trying to wash away the weight of his stare.
He offered meaningless charity as a sign of accepting her apology and spit her thanks out with blood on his teeth.
The water muffled everything but the echo of his voice in her head.
She would finally drift to sleep and he would return in the morning, like clockwork, demanding apologies that weren't hers to give and waving them away like nothing.
I have the power but don't let it worry you. Behave and I'll make things easier.
They never talked if not in circles.
Even in her dreams, she wondered why she bothered to speak at all.
"You baked cookies before 10:00 AM?" He asked, amused.
She looked up from the tray and smiled, fishing a hair clip from the apron pocket and using it to pin back her too-long bangs.
"I remember you saying you liked these and I've never tried them before." She plucked one up, still warm and soft enough to crumble a bit, "I'm making you my guinea pig."
The lines at the corners of his good eye eased away, shoulders slumping forward a bit as he let himself relax.
"Thoughtful as ever." He said lightly.
She broke off a piece of one and toasted before they took a bite. The soft mass was tasteless on her tongue but he 'mm'ed like his wasn't. She couldn't tell if it was depression numbing the world around her, or his false, blanketing sense of politeness covering up her failure.
He's happy: don't question it.
Happy bought you the white noise of a television and books to slip into when this cell is too much to bear, happy bought you updates on the others, however brief. Happy will get you out.
He doesn't care if it's real.
He built his life on illusions.
She remembered his birthday like she remembered the last words her grandmother uttered, 83 and on her deathbed. Sometimes in the waning hours of the morning the numbers flashed through her mind like it wasn't made up already.
They were too even and round for him, October was too good a month for him, how had he stolen so much from her without lifting a finger?
October 8th haunted her like grandmother's puzzle, unfinished in the basement. Like many requests to work on it because she wanted to have it framed, that fell on deaf, eight year old ears that only wanted to splash through puddles and chase fireflies.
It was the day she realized all the progress he spun was an elaborate lie, "thoughtfulness" wasn't getting her anywhere and living angry was better than living numb.
It was also the day that slapped her with the only words she could ever be proud of speaking to him - choose not to then - and told her she was a fool for thinking they would make any difference.
The more Pegasus talked about the upcoming American holiday, the harder it was to swallow.
A week before the date, which she still didn't know by number, something familiar buzzed in the pit of her stomach. The numbness that crept in after his birthday subsided, and she told herself that this anger would not be silent, it would not be inadequate, it would not fester.
He dressed her up like a doll and she bit her tongue.
He dangled her loved ones in front of her and she kept biding her time, pushing down the relief of seeing their faces with anger on behalf of those she was still missing.
His expression was neutral but his laughter echoed through the room.
Be thankful.
If I didn't do it, who would?
Be thankful.
She was sorry she couldn't ruin more than his dinner but knew, even if he didn't concede it, that she had.
When he pushed away from the table there was blood on his teeth, old and rusted.
It was not his.
It was her own.
She remembered his voice long after she'd forgotten grandmother's.
She slept with both hands balled to fists under her pillow so she wouldn't feel his diary pages fluttering over her fingertips.
Somehow the only words she remembered were "my darling Cecelia..." and they said more than the rest of the entries combined. When they auctioned her portrait, she realized the anger that got her through all these years didn't hold true.
He was in mourning and they couldn't see.
Some wannabe horror novelist would hang a stranger in his living room like it wasn't an insult to Pegasus or their struggle as survivors.
And she went home with empty pockets to dream of him what would be the last time.
His smile gleamed like glass, and for once in eight, long years, it was not stained red.