A QUESTION

A voice said,

It had been a long time since the last residents of the Murder House had moved out, and since then, they had become trapped by routines.

His was this: He would wake up, usually in the morning, but sometimes in the evening, for sleep was as unnecessary to him as food was, but he still enjoyed both. He slept in the office, which the last family (oh, it had been some fifteen-odd years ago) had blessed with a pull-out couch. Sometimes, when she decided to make an appearance, he would give Nora the bed and he'd sleep in the accompanying chair, but by the time he woke up she had disappeared back into the limbo of nothingness that was where they all belonged, and the bed was empty once more.

He frequently kept himself intact, rather than becoming yet another one of the whispers that echoed within the near-silent corridors. He barely ever ran into the other ghosts. Moira would pass by with an affectionate look, occasionally. She never spoke to him. Nobody did; not even Nora, on the rare occasion that she decided to make herself known to him. He would simply give up the bed and nod his goodnight. It seemed to him that the only voices he ever heard were those of himself and of Kurt Cobain.

After he woke, he would shower, and then he would find the stereo (he carried it around with him like it was attached to his hand, and, subsequently, it would be left in a different location each nightfall). Tate thought it was marvel that it still functioned properly. He didn't have many record options to choose from, but he played them day and night, anyway, and he never got sick of the same old music (and nobody ever complained, so he figured they didn't mind), and the house seemed to supply an endless supply of batteries for when the stereo ran out of juice.

He would wander about the house day and night, always on the lookout, as if he would notice something that had simply gone over his head the last century. He knew everything about the house; every crevice where bills or papers had once been stored; every air-conditioning vent and the duct that it led to; every stain that was on the floor, what it was, who had created it, and whether the intention was innocent or dark. He knew where each and every one of the ghosts had taken their final breaths, but he also knew the perfect spots for hide and seek in which only the smallest of children could fit. Like it or not, this was his home.

It was her home, too (he thought about that more than he wished to).

And yes, sometimes (frequently) he would accidentally (but not really) pass by the large windows that overlooked the yard and see the woman and the man and their child (who had been killed by his child before ever even living, he reminded himself on a daily basis) looking sublimely happy - which, he knew for a fact, every single other ghost found appalling, because they were smiling and having fun whilst in such a ghastly situation.

The other ghosts also found the picturesque scene ruined by the glaring teenager seated by some trees by the far side of the gazebo, a mix of anger, envy, and regret etched into her every pore, glaring at the happy family as if they were putting her through some sort of physical pain. Which they were, but honestly, the Harmons had stopped caring for their daughter's well-being (or feelings, for that matter) about three decades ago, give or take. That part of the story appalled him. They didn't even notice her, anymore. He hadn't seen them speak to her in years, and, in fact, he tended to muse, they probably didn't even think about her much anymore. Oh, how he wished he could be so fortunate, to be able not to have her intrude on each and every thought he possessed.

And he would smirk at her, and she would usually notice, because she was her and how could she not, and Tate knew that. And whenever he needed consolation, whenever the pit of isolation he existed in felt endless, he would remind himself of this: their relationship wasn't nonexistant. There was something there, and, sure, it was entirely compromised of twitching lips and shielded eyes, but she wasn't opposed to it, not at all, and that, he knew, was better than nothing. Much, much, better than nothing, and suddenly he didn't feel just as lonely anymore.

The Harmons slept and lived in the gazebo. That's why he never ventured outside. Their forgotten daughter had a room to herself - one of dark walls and miscellaneous items belonging to no one scattered about and a feeling of doom when you stepped inside, as if you were about to meet your fate, a room with too many memories to remember. Tate didn't much know about anyone else, or where they lived. He didn't much care about anyone else, either.

And at the end of every day while she unavoidably drank herself into a stupor, he'd sit in the bathtub for a while, and if you were to ask him what he was doing he would most certainly reply with, "Reflecting." But he wasn't. Sitting in that bathtub, the feel of second hand water as it poured onto her, and then onto him. Her damp hair in his face making it hard to see straight - or were those the tears? Not being able to tell if what he was doing was worthwhile. His uncontrollably trembling hand as it made its way to her pale neck, which was still, which was cold, which was without a pulse, which was - oh fuck, I am the devil - dead.

He sat in the tub to relive, and it tore every fibre of his being apart.

Then he would clean up the broken bottles in the kitchen while she slept, because how could he help himself, how could he tear himself away from the shards? He couldn't. They were hers.

She had fallen into the monotonous ritual of routine, as well. Hers was this:

She would get up in the morning with a bitch of a headache and stagger about for a bit before she remembered where she was (where she'd been for what seemed like eons, and, soon enough, would be) and who she was (or who she'd become, who she was meant to be, although she was really the same person she had been all those years ago). And then she'd go outside to look across the street and over to the next house and such, and nobody would see her because she didn't want them to, and even though there was no point in inspecting the neighborhood each and every morning, she did so anyway.

She made an effort not to notice the sound of the splashing shower in the mornings, because, she had to admit to herself, it could be anyone in that shower. But then she would have to pretend to ignore the static of the stereo turning on, and then the shuffle between albums that could be heard across the entire yard, because that could only be one person. But she sometimes let herself pray - to God, to an Angel, to the Devil (who was most certainly him) - that he would pick what she was in the mood for, that day. Once in a while, he did, and that, for her, was a good day.

And then she would watch from afar the happy family, the one she had decidedly left and the one that no longer missed her. The asshole who never apologized for cheating on his wife. The woman who really ought to have stayed in that psych ward because she was a mental piece of shit (albeit a rape victim, though over time, the memory of this fact had become somewhat hazy, simply because Violet didn't want to think about that and its implications). And the baby that would never grow to have coherent thoughts, the baby that would never grow to speak or walk, the baby that would only ever see the colors red, white and black. What a happy fucking family.

Just like how the people on the street couldn't see her when she peered at them over the fence, she made sure her family couldn't see her. She'd made sure of that for over twenty five years. She didn't even have to think about it anymore, it just came naturally that she shouldn't be visible to them. She wasn't one of them anymore. She wasn't a Harmon.

And yes, she saw the looks that the others gave her, because they saw her, and apparently (or so Moira had told her, at some point in time, which was no longer something she could gage properly) her foul attitude just simply put a damper on everything else, and wasn't that just too bad, because there wasn't anything anybody could do about it.

Except.

Except, that among the oh-so-many disapproving glances cast her way through open doors, stained glass, or plain windows (windows that, if she blocked out their surroundings, could be windows in a different house in a different time, in Boston, maybe, and not where and when she was) there was one that tended to stray from the norm - the norm being looks of disappointment directed towards her. But sometimes - daily, usually, if she was able to catch him, which is why she usually focused on the slit of glass by the side door out of the corner of her eye - she'd catch a smirk. And it's not like the smirk held some significant, life-altering message in it (but it did, it told her he was proud of her and her hatred, and what else did she want from him?), and it was gone before she could even process it, sometimes. And then she would think, fucking idiot, but she couldn't help the slight upward turn of her lips in response, even though he was gone now and she knew he couldn't see.

And when the sun eventually was resigned to setting, she would raid the liquor cabinets (which tended to stock themselves up, which baffled her for quite some time until Moira explained to her that it was just one of those things that the house does, and not to fret, for it had been going on for quite some time now, since before even Moira was done living). And she also tended to smash the bottles on the island in the kitchen and leave the pieces there, but somebody would usually clean it up by morning, and although it probably should have been the maid, she knew it was him. How could she not know? It was always him, wasn't it?

But, as all patterns occurring on different axis are, their courses were set to collide. And collide they did.

Since the ability of time management no longer came naturally to him, since he no longer knew what an hour felt like as opposed to a day, his routine was running a bit late today, and he tried to pull off a quick escape to the stairway. As the final chords of All Apologies rang in Tate's ears, their resonance making him queasy, he abandoned the stereo in a cabinet by the front door atop boxes containing games, checkers and backgammon and, ironically enough, Clue. His retreat to the bathtub on the second floor wasn't a long one, and so he started it off with ease, glancing to his left through the windowed doors into a sitting room and - oh god, since when is she there?

One of the neighbors had gotten a puppy today. It was brown and tacky and yelped loudly and Baby (she had never learned its name, incidentally) was immediately infatuated with it, and so the three Harmons had decided to spend the day on the opposite side of the house to the gazebo, an unusual occurence. Baby spent the day making faces at the yapping dog and Violet had, around noon-ish, taken to glowering from the back porch, under the shade of rotting wood and overgrown vines. And when she finally retired to yet another night of intoxication and anger, she opted to venture in through the double doors in the back of the sitting room, which she had been leaning against since the young afternoon. She dragged her feet, not caring if she was heard by the other ghosts, and finally, halfway across the room, picked her sorry gaze up to the next pair of glass double doors, looking to the kitchen and staircase, between which the liquor cabinet was located. That was definitely not the sight she met.

Without a thought, on anyone's part, a shout reached through the door, stinging like a bullet but leaving no wound, piercing the night as if it hadn't been a hundred and three years since they'd last heard each others' voices.

"Tate!"

"Violet," was the immediate reply, and his voice, scarcely a whisper, sounded as foreign to himself as hers seemed familiar. He repeated louder, voice cracking a bit, but in a welcoming tone all the same: "Violet."

What else was there to say?

"I ... ah ..." Why had she called his name? She was glad she had done it, but she could have waited a minute to gather her thoughts. Now she jut looked like a bumbling idiot. "I wanted to say ..." What? She felt more foolish than she could ever remember, and she felt her cheeks begin to pinken, but she pushed the embarrassed blush down. "I actually don't know what I wanted to say at all, but I figure now that I've got you - uh," Stupid, stupid, stupid. "I mean, now that you're here ... I guess I should apologize, huh?"

She was the most beautiful bumbling idiot he had ever seen, he realized with a smirk, but seeing as how he couldn't even get his voice to work out of shock, he wasn't about to point that out. She was apologizing, no less. But for what? For making him fall for her? For killing herself? For ignoring him for over a century? For tempting him more than necessary with those daily smirks? For haunting his dreams every night, for invading his thoughts every waking moment? Somehow, he couldn't imagine her being sorry for all that. He certainly didn't have a problem with much of it, anyway. He was about to voice his question, however tactless, when she elaborated, eliminating the need.

"For the broken - I mean, I know you ... well I assumed you were the - the one to clean up the bottles every, uh, night, right?"

Stupid, stupid, stupid, and for about the thirtieth time in the last two minutes Violet wished she could off herself again. He gave her the strangest look, and she knew it was because that was the last thing he was expecting. It was the last thing she expected to tumble out of her mouth, too, but it was out there now. He didn't seem to be responsive, and she waited for a while for his reply that seemed not to be coming. If their terms had been less ambiguous at the time, she may have made a joke about checking his pulse. As it was, she stayed still. She finally, after what felt like another century of silence, decided that the interaction had played itself out, and was over with now. It was with an unmistakable twinge of disappointment in her voice when she stated: "Well, I'd better get going, places to go, people to see ..." Stupid.

"NO!" He said too quickly. Stupid. "I mean," his voice hoarse, after the longest time of hibernation, "I, uh ... no problem. The bottles, I mean. I - I don't mind. At all. It's fine, really." He was babbling now, but he couldn't stop himself, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. "In fact, fun. What else am I gonna do? I like the broken bottles. Entertaining. Smash more, next time, even. Go ahead, smash all the bottles you can find. Keep on smashing." Stupid.

The strangest feeling came over her, as if someone was inflating a balloon in her diaphragm, the pressure building, mounting, until in was too much to contain, and it escaped through her mouth.

It was somewhere on the spectrum between a laugh and a snort, but it shocked the both of them, all the same. A look of horror passed between the two, as they stared, shocked, at each other. That noise - the sound of a laugh, filtering through both their brains (he was hardly afraid to admit it was repeating itself in his head) echoed, but not really, in the yellowy room.

In years to come, he didn't know what made him do it. Even before he said it, he knew that nothing good could come out of it. He knew that, most likely, a lot of bad would come out of it. And it would absolutely, definitely, one-hundred-percent ruin whatever was occurring between them (oh, how flexible absolutes can be, sometimes). But whatever made him say it (and he thought it was the laugh), it was courageous and bold and rash and everything that he was not. And it was powerful.

"You know, I'm still in love with you."

Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn't that, yet it somehow didn't surprise her, although it should have. He'd always been one to just throw things out there like that (on a chalkboard or during a fight, or something of the kind), so she couldn't honestly say that it was that much of a shock. And her response, even though it was still a bit sloppy, was the only one that came naturally.

"I think that, maybe, I might, probably, most definitely ... love you too."

She had never been the best orator. It was always his forté.

Silence.

"Well, don't go throwing any parades, or anything."

This time, it was his laugh that filled the void between them, which suddenly seemed much too large, and it was lower than she remembered, and louder, too, but that's what you get for a hundred years of solitude. So she crossed the space between them, the distance growing shorter with every step and she was right in front of him, and her head, of its own will, rested itself pon his chest, where she could pretend to hear a heartbeat that matched hers. She felt safer against his sweater than she had for the longest time, which compelled her to murmur against him, "Tate."

"Violet," was his answer, and she felt the vibrations of her name through his chest.

"You're an idiot."

"Trust me, I know."

And that night, there was no need for the liquor cabinet to be refilled, no shards of multicolored glass on the floor and on tabletops, and the bathroom door (third on the left) stayed decidedly shut, with no visitors. And, most noticeably, the pull-out couch in the office remained a couch for the first night in decades, and Tate slept in a bed which was once his, and then hers, and was now determinedly theirs.

Look me in the stars,

And tell me truly, men of earth,

If all the soul-and-body scars

Were not too much to pay for birth.

A/N my first time writing AHS, let alone violet/tate. thoughts? reviews? i'm on this robert frost kick, and this is my fourth oneshot in a row inspired by one of his poems, and this is by far his best one. and my second favorite pairing ever, but it really wouldn't work with arya/gendry. anyway, please leave your thoughts, cause i'm pretty wary about this one. thanks so much. ~bills