A/N: Okay, I know it has been a little while since the last update, but I hope what follows will satisfy some curiosities. This chapter officially makes the story M. Please R and R!
He knew it was not in him to be like Charlie, yet as my birth approached, an irrational unease grew in my father. Richard feared Charlie's curse was hidden somewhere in his own blood, even if was not in his own essence to be a natural born killer. He saw the cold and selfish beauty of Evelyn, saw the reflection of his own mother in this elegant woman with her perfectly coiffed bob of fiery hair and practiced pallor. He hoped his own gentle and patient demeanor would balance out with his wife's flighty inclinations, that she would educate their child on straight-backed piano playing and instill a perfect French accent and he could teach their little girl the stairs, the climb, the progression of life.
Within moments of my birth, my father knew. With no doubt, he knew. I emerged silent and beady eyed, and Richard felt the same fear he recalled when Charlie was born just as quiet. Still born or a monster in the guise of an infant? A cruel, unmentionable part of Richard hoped I had no life, blessed with being dead over being a beast, but the midwife exclaimed with salutes and handed me to my father following the appropriate measurements and blood sampling, a little girl in a bundle of pale pink blankets, an inquisitive face and sharp little eyes. Evelyn collapsed and passed out on the hospital bed, promptly hemorrhaging dangerously while the doctor and nurses rushed around to quickly contain the bleeding. Richard watched the flow of blood and felt me soundless and motionless in his arms, loved but feared.
Within a fortnight, the family returned to the manor together, tiny India swallowed up by her car seat in the back and Evelyn passed out on the passenger side. Somehow Richard felt his infant daughter was far more sentient than his unmindful wife, who, over the past couple weeks, seemed to show a stubborn apathy toward her newfound motherhood. She refused to nurse India, barely acknowledged the existence of the newborn in her plastic cradle next to the hospital bed. The doctors explained to Richard that it was a bout of baby blues, but that my father should inform him if her behavior lasted longer than two weeks or worsened. Richard contemplated the repercussions of post-partum depression on the state of his family as they pulled into the winding gravel driveway. Mrs. McGarrick and the rest of the staff and close family were waiting to greet them with flowers and congratulations, eager to fawn over the newest addition to the Stoker aristocracy. As he took in their beaming faces, he worried his wife might not recover all her mental faculties as the weeks wore on – deeper down, he knew they would not.
Evelyn quickly retired to her private rooms, claiming a migraine and exhaustion from all the commotion, yet the small and comfortable celebration wore on into the early evening, all the relatives and staff cooing over the beautiful baby India, whose eyes were deceptively dark but still blue, the combination of her father's almost black eyes and the piercing blue of her mother's. Many of them believed she would be a very agreeable baby, so tame and inquisitive, no fuss or colic. Mrs. McGarrick reminisced about the days when Richard was just an infant, how wonderful and happy a baby he was, how easy all three of the Stoker boys had been as babies, yet a moment of unease followed this statement as each recalled the one stain on the Stoker name.
Richard left the group and walked into the dining area, surveyed the numerous elegantly wrapped presents for his new daughter. He began to read the tags on each, running his fingers along the silk ribbons and intricate bows. There was a simple white shoebox on the edge of the table, placed in such a way to appear inconspicuous amongst the rest, and once Richard's eyes passed over the tag, the calligraphy was unmistakable in a hand he would never forget.
'INDIA.'
How could he know? How did he find out? My father eyes the group in the living room, watches the mass croon over his beautiful baby girl and then there is Mrs. McGarrick gazing back at him, sees his hands on the plain white shoebox with the goldenrod silk ribbon, and a small part of him feels betrayed yet understands Charlie should know about his family, know about the existence of his niece even if Richard would never allow the two to meet. But, why should Charlie be interested in India at all when he has failed to show any interest in any of the other affairs of the family, including his marriage to Evelyn or Aunt Gin's recent divorce? Why and what should he send to his delicate baby niece?
In the following months, little me grew more aware, sometimes to the extent that it seemed abnormal for an infant to be so self-conscious, be able to look and see and appear to understand. At a certain point I crawled into one of my father's office closets while he was busy proofreading designs for a library renovation. In there I discovered the white shoebox, drawn to the vibrancy of the goldenrod ribbon, and my tiny fingers tugged and tangled with the ties until they fell away. I flipped the cover off and dug through the white tissue paper until my eyes lit on my first pair of Muffy's saddle shoes. I cannot remember the feelings that came upon me then as a little underdeveloped tot, but my father and Mrs. McGarrick retold the story many times in much the same way. My father recalled finding me in his closet holding the teeny pair of saddle shoes in my chubby baby fingers, eyes bright and surprised by the existence of them. He tried to take them from me and put them back in the box, but I would have none of it and flared up into a violent tantrum. He had never heard me scream or cry, though my mother had regaled a few instances about some of her own private unsuccessful and angry encounters with me. When he returned the pair of shoes to my hands, I instantly quieted and resumed inspecting the spotless white and black leather, the ruddy rubber soles. As he slid the shoes onto my feet, he was surprised by how well they fit, as if that was to be the exact moment I was supposed to find them and put them on, as if it was predetermined. The thought alone made him uneasy and he wanted to get rid of the shoes, throw them away, never speak to Charlie again, but he knew if he took them from me, I would cry until they were returned. He knew without attempting, and it killed him to know.
On his yearly visit to the Crawford Institute, Charlie was lounging on a hunter green chesterfield looking smug, expecting Richard and a new string of reservations towards his younger brother. The fears never stopped coming where Charlie was concerned; each year, just as Richard was beginning to wrap his head around one anxiety about his brother, another would spring anew.
"Don't they suit her well?" Charlie remarked, gazing somewhere far off as if he could imagine little India tottering around the room in her well-fitted saddle loafers, not knowing they were tailored just for her.
And each year, the same simple white shoebox with the goldenrod ribbon would appear amongst my birthday presents, and each year, I believed they were given to me by my father, and I was always amazed that he knew me so well. I believed he knew me better than anyone, and he would have me think the same. I did feel close to my father, closer than anyone, but there was always that essential separation between us, always the knowing that he was not like me, but he could understand me. He knew no one would ever understand me better than Charlie, not even himself, my good father, my good man.
There is a strange comfort that comes with encountering your reflection when you are not standing before a mirror. I stood before the mirror weeks ago, searching my mien for some shift in character, some change in my nature, only to come to the conclusion there were no alterations, only a revealing, only a shedding of that poorly planned person suit. And now I am standing before Charlie in the same bathroom, dripping rain water and trailing muddy feet on the white porcelain. The appearance of Charlie overlies my own with no odd points, no mismatched parts. It is my reflection as it has always been, as it will always be.
"I knew you wouldn't mind," he says as he places his hands around my upper arms, runs over the length of them.
I observe him as he observes me, captivated and pleased, his touch reverent. "You didn't think to ask," I point out.
"I didn't think at all," he informs me. "I just did."
"Me too," I admit, curling my fingers around his, okay with this innocent brushing of callused skin, okay with just touching him, to be touching another human being. His palm is damp and warm on my cheek, the tips of his fingers sliding along my hairline, edging my temple. I can be sure. Living with this killer, I can be sure.
He was the center of my first fantasy. It only seems appropriate he should be present at the first real one.
His lips are laid over mine, quickly coaxing my mouth open, sliding his larger tongue inside to play with my own. The center of my chest aches just beneath my sternum, deep and throbbing like it is hard to breathe. I close my eyes and feel his hands take a hold of me, tugging at the delicate silk of my nightgown now muddy and torn and ruined like the dregs of my ties to that easily forgotten maternal forbearer. His body runs so hot it leaches into my own, blowing on an ember that has just found its light. He is guiding me towards the bathtub, and I fumble to get away to turn the faucet on, pushing the knob to scalding and holding onto the soap shelf with the front of his body pressed tight behind me, his lips running along the nape of my neck, surely making marks, and I can barely think straight as the fog in my mind resembles the rising steam.
"Charlie." It nearly gets lost as he slants his mouth over mine again. I yank the stopper to get the shower going, and we slip slide into the tub together, clothes drenched, grass and soil swirling at our feet, nearly toppling over until he gets my back against the tile under the spray, pulling our hips together.
My father never wanted me to meet this man. I should not have. I cannot change that now. It happened. I only have him. I only want him.
I can feel the extent of his hands cupped over my buttocks, locking our hips together, and I wonder if he has been with any other, has he held another woman this way, was he testing and practicing as I had done with Whip? But, the thought flies away when the tips of his fingers are brushing near a place that makes me rake my nails along the nape of his neck. I kiss him harder, wanting to consume my reflection, and he feels around until my reaction lets him know he has hit home, and his hands are so much more satisfying than my own. As he reaches both of his long arms around me, one hand running the length of my lower back, feeling each dimple and sinewy stretch of muscle, the other works me up into a melting fog, like my mind and thoughts will just drain into a pool at the pit of my belly. And, he is whispering in my ear, his hand taking mine and pressing it to the front of his trousers, now plastered to his hips, his belt settled snugly there. It is less a conscious thought than an instinctual reaction as I loosen the belt and break the bridge of his slacks. I lean my forehead into his chest, rubbing it back and forth slowly trying to wrestle back some sense of clarity amongst all this surreality, and he keeps me afloat, kissing the top of my head, his breath hotter than the scalding water.
I slide my hands around the length of him, mimicking the pace of his own fingers playing me like the ivory keys, naturally able to find the rhythm. As shower static rushes and blood drums in my ears, keeping time, his breath and mine the melody. His head falls back against the tile, his arms pulling me a little closer as I take a firmer grip, create some variety in the movements of my hands. I lift my head to look up at him, to gauge his reactions, clenching my thighs as that familiar feeling approaches both of us. His belt is clinking with the tempo of my hands, and I remember how that leather looked wrapped around Whip's neck, how every vein in his neck looked ready to burst, his Adam's apple tight underneath the belt, how with his head craned back like that he appeared caught in the throes of pleasure.
Charlie surges forward, the movement of his body causing my back to slam against the tile, my skull knocking the wall, but he keeps me steady as his mouth takes mine once more. He slips two fingers inside, softened by the heat and steam and the friction of his other hand still working at the epicenter of every nerve.
The world goes away; there are no people, no manmade noises, no inane human behaviors, just Stoker manor and Charlie and the hunt. Every muscle is tight and contracting at once and I have no voice, a scream with no voice. His teeth are creating imprints all over, like he has designs to feast on me. A particularly brutal bite at the juncture of my neck and shoulder sends me over the edge, the end of the world.
"India." The name from his lips creates the image of the word printed in his hand across that clean ecru cardstock, India ink from his Montblanc.
Like an animal quick, I steal his mouth, slide my tongue along his as I return the favor, my hands picking up speed. I nip his smooth jawline, graze my teeth along his Adam's apple, wonder what his neck would look like with the belt wrapped taut around it. He groans and slip slides his fingers along over-sensitive, finished flesh, making my hips jump and throb. He was close before my fall, and fresh warmth spills over my hands, sticky and hot and pleasing.
One broad hand clasps my chin and lifts my gaze to his face, his crazy blue eyes now hooded and satisfied. For once lacking electricity but still burning.
"India." He smiles, smiles smug as he had when my father greeted him following my first birthday, smiles as we fit together. We are sure there is no other. We are certain.