Disclaimer: I own nothing!
What has happened so far: Conor had defeated Bonvilain in a very dramatic battle, his family has found out who he is and asked him lots of questions about where he has been over the last few years. Conor lied to them, thinking that they couldn't handle the truth.
Warning: This chapter is Wensleydale with a bit of Gorgonzola thrown in and one hell of a lot of Cheddar. In other words it is pure cheese: creepily, sickeningly, tastily cheesy. Enjoy!
Song suggestion: Crosses by Jose Gonzalez
Chapter 3: Nightmares
Third Person POV
Nothing in Conor's room had changed. Everything was exactly how he'd left it. Even the pens on the desk were still scattered across the surface.
Conor lay in his big double bed unable to get back to sleep. He'd just woken up, shaking and in a cold sweat; the nightmare lingered in his mind, anytime he closed his eyes it would return.
The model planes hanging from the ceiling loomed over him ominously, playing tricks with his eyes and casting shadows.
Conor sat up, rubbing his eyes tiredly; he hadn't had a good night's sleep in over three years and now the nightmares just wouldn't go away. He lit the candle on his bedside table and swung his legs over the side of the bed, kicking off the covers and grabbing the shirt he'd left on the floor to shrug on.
--
Isabella walked through the walls of the Broekhart home unable to sleep after having her own nightmare. Her feet unwittingly took her to Conor's room. Assuming he would be asleep and unable to help her curiosity, she opened the door and stepped inside.
Conor was indeed awake and she had just walked in the moment he was putting his shirt on. He had changed a lot since she last saw him, his shoulders had broadened, he'd grown and he was so much more muscular too. Conor had always had his mother's features but he'd inherited his father's stature and height. He'd lost weight too, or maybe it was the healthy bulk from before had turned into wiry muscle and then the bulk not replaced. Either way he looked thinner than before, stronger and even more toned but skinnier.
His attitude had changed as well; he was different, more reserved, commanding almost. He was fiercer than before too, rougher, rugged; something that both scared and intrigued Isabella greatly. Gone was the gangly, long-limed, caring youth and in his place was a flinty, composed and respected looking man.
Conor's scarred back was in full view to Isabella from her position by the door whilst the tattoo on his arm stayed out of her line of sight. Her eyes followed the lines of all the scars, forever marring his skin. The 'x' burnt on by the ropes of his parachute. The long vertical and diagonal lines from the multiple lashings and beatings he'd received whilst in prison although Isabella wasn't to know these things.
Isabella let out a small gasp in awe; though ruined, he was beautiful.
Conor heard this gasp and stood quickly, spinning to face her. They stood watching each other for a long moment, both of them only in night clothes. She smiled timidly at him and he smiled back tightly.
Isabella had changed much in Conor's eyes as well. He had always found her pretty but now she was downright beautiful. She was compelling and confident and would make such a good leader to the islands. "Isabella?" He asked, surprised to see her there but wondering how long she'd been standing there and how much she could have seen. That gasp – she'd seen his scars, she was going to work out that he was lying and he was going to have to tell the truth before he was ready.
Set on damage control, Conor crossed the room to meet her quickly but stopped a few feet away at her expression. Her gaze was disconcerting, it was a mixture of sadness and happiness and awe with confusion. "Isabella?" He asked again whilst closing the short distance between them, panic laced his voice.
Without speaking or breaking their gaze, she placed a hand in the middle of his chest (higher than she remembered); she let it hang there for a moment before slowly sliding it up to cup the side of his neck. He let out a gusty breath at her touch, his eyes closing of their own accord then furrowed his brows in confusion. Isabella used this hand to pull herself, pushing her body against his warm one and placing a kiss to the other side of his neck to her hand. She placed two more kisses on his jaw, another on his cheek and a final one just in front of his ear. She had to stand on tip toes to do so.
He followed her after she pulled away, leaning down to give her all of the kisses back and then some more too. Conor kissed her temple and then the bridge of her nose. Their foreheads rested together and their eyes opened, seeking conformation from the other. Finding his, Conor lowered his lips till they were a mere centimeter above hers; their noses were touching.
They kissed for the first time.
Conor felt something akin to the sensation of flying. But this was different, because his feet were planted firmly on the ground and he had the girl he had been waiting for, for the entirety of his life, kissing him back. Her hands that were around his neck moved to grip his hair and his eyes rolled back into his head a little.
The kiss became more heated as tongues met. Conor took this as the time to pull back, sensing that things would go too far if they carried on. His worry nagged at the back of his mind through the lethargic, joyous haze that the kiss had induced. She hadn't said anything about it yet and that made him both anxious and hopeful.
He cupped her cheek with his warm, rough palm and she leant into it. "Are you okay?" he asked gently and stroked the skin under her tired eyes with the pad of his thumb.
"Bad dream." Isabella answered with a very unladylike yawn stifled against his chest.
"Want to talk about it?"
"No." She rested the side of her face over where his heart was, both hearing and feeling the slightly faster rhythm than usual from their kiss. "I still can't believe you're here." The statement was enough to nearly make Conor's eyes water. "I keep thinking you're going to disappear any minute."
He took her face in between his hands gently. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise." He whispered in a voice just as low as hers then granted her a single chaste kiss. "You look tired." He accused as she yawned again and stroked the skin below her eyes with her thumbs.
"So do you." She countered. He didn't deny it.
"We should go back to bed."
"Yes. We should." Neither of them moved.
"Do you not want to be alone either?" Asked Conor with a light smile.
Isabella bit her lip. "What shall we do?"
Conor hesitated. "What would you say to spending the night with me?" He asked carefully.
Isabella waited for a second then nodded whilst repressing her girlish urge to squeal excitedly at the fact that they would be sharing a bed. You are queen. You are queen! The time for young trivialities is over!
He offered his hand to her, she took it and together they walked to the bed. Conor blew out the lighted candle and they climbed in on their respective sides to meet in the middle in what felt like a surprisingly natural gesture.
Isabella lay with her back to Conor and he shaped his body around her delicate, warmer one. Something was bothering her. It had been bothering her for the past few hours since he'd said it. Conor could feel the tension in her shoulders but decided not to push it – thinking that she just felt awkward from their situation.
After a moment, she sighed. "I'm here for you Conor." She said softly. "You do know that don't you?"
Instead of answering aloud, he brushed her hair back and placed a gentle kiss against the back of her neck.
"Your parents may have believed you but I don't." Heart rate suddenly pounding in his ears, Conor stiffened, his eyes widening and blinking unnecessarily. The panic was back swelling in his chest as his brain scrambled round for excuses or ways to discourage her or something to just make her stop. "I'm not going to push you." She said oblivious to his distress. "I know you'll tell us when you're ready but I know something really bad must have happened for it to come to this and I saw your back. Conor…"
Conor fretted, his suspicions confirmed.
"If you need someone to talk to…or if you…" She ran out of words to say and refused to turn round to look at him out of fear.
Guilt tugged at Conor, ripping at his flesh with painful tenacious fingers. Evidently his 'grand' plan of lying did not work as well as he thought. The possibility that his parents could have seen through his deceit was even worse. He hadn't seen them in so long and all he'd told them was lies! Irritation bubbled up inside of him, irritation at himself for being stupid enough to make up some cock-and-bull story and a small irrational irritation at them.
It would be impossible for them to understand once he told them the truth. They would give him their sympathy and their concern and their goddamn pity; they would act understanding but they wouldn't be really, they couldn't be. They wouldn't know what it felt like to have everything taken away from you and them some and then a complimentary kick in the gut just for the fun of it. They wouldn't know what it felt like to have absolutely nothing other than a silly childish dream of flight.
They did not know his hardships. Even Isabella who had lost her father still had Conor's parents to lean on when she needed them. Conor had had to do it himself, pull himself up at the tender age of fourteen without even any bootstraps to cling onto. And now at seventeen he was so much older than he should have been.
Conor sighed, letting all his frustration go. It was hard for him but he whispered a 'thank you' into the back of her neck. The words were off-sounding and without meaning but they were sadly necessary.
Isabella fell asleep soon after without another word spoken.
Conor lay awake for a long while. That little resentment rekindled in the back of his mind but his self-hatred surged.
Getting to sleep was uncomfortable and restless but afterwards it was positively blissful; deep, soothing and dreamless, rivaled only by sleep from before everything had started.
--
Declan woke up the next morning stiff from his awkward position on the sofa. He had had the most peculiar dream and it saddened him somewhat because that's all it was – a dream.
It all seemed strangely vivid and real but he knew better, it wasn't the first time he had dreamt of Conor.
The glider perched innocently on the back of the other sofa. The cogs in Declan's sleep befuddled brain slowly began to grind together. "Oh!" he gasped and leapt up off the sofa, careful not to wake Sean or Catherine in the process.
He sprinted up the stairs to Conor's room but paused short. What if he was wrong though? What if it all was just a dream? Declan carried on slower, preparing himself for the disappointment in case Conor wasn't actually there but also dying to run and see his returned son.
The door stood ajar when he arrived, with a trembling hand he pushed it fully open.
Both Conor and Isabella were lying in the bed though you could hardly tell it was Conor, his face was buried so far into Isabella's hair.
They both lay peacefully sleeping. Declan surged with joy. His son had returned! He repressed the urge to move or make any noise that would wake the couple, he just stood there, grinning like a fool.
After a minute he felt a hand on his shoulder. Catherine was standing next to him, holding baby Sean – now awake – in her arms. Declan wrapped an arm around his wife's waist and took the boy into his other arm. Sean squealed in delight and threw his arms around his father's neck, clutching with little cubby fingers to Declan's jacket that he still hadn't removed from the night before.
"They're sweet together aren't they." Said Catherine referring to Conor and Isabella asleep and oblivious in bed.
"When do you think it will happen?" Asked Declan.
Catherine wrapped her arm around Declan's back in turn and started to lead him away. "I think it already has."
