Pursuing the Idea of You Chapter Three, a skins fanfic

I should be revising for my midterms, but I couldn't not get this up for all of you. So, without further ado, I give you the second half of the previous chapter! Alas, no. This isn't—and will not be—a mini-Doccubus cross-over, though I certainly am not averse to the idea. It was just a rather sly case of, er, coincidentally similar names, among other things.

Tell me how you think about this one! Again, I'm sorry for the length, but I really had no control over my fingers. And yet, somehow, I don't think you'll be complaining at all. *wink*

'No,' Emily said flatly, throwing the folder across the table brusquely. 'No, no, no. It's pathetic. Have you read through this, Reeve?' she asked sharply, narrowing her eyes at the man to her left. He shrank back in his chair and scratched his chin, faltering under the withering look she sent his way.

'I did, Miss Fitch. I thought it was rather good, you know, the abrupt change in theme for the January issue. All about change, right? A New Year, and all that?' he mopped his brow with a kerchief quickly, his breathing ragged and uneven. 'I thought it was good,' he reiterated quietly, glancing away from her.

'You thought,' she mused, tapping her fingertips against the armrest. 'So, I suppose you could easily find a way to think of an easy way out of this? Right before the board inspection this November? You make it sound so delightfully easy, Reeve. Thinking.' He stiffened; the other members at the table remained silent, for fear that her wrath would turn on them if they made so much as a sound.

An intern slipped quietly into the room, bearing a tray of coffee; she tensed, the silence permeating the air frightened her, and her fingers shook as she set down mugs in front of her superiors. Emily bit her lip and smirked, 'Someone get me McClair.'

Trembling fingers whipped out their phones, typing hastily into keypads. The sound of half a dozen BlackBerries pinging alerts and emails brought back unpleasant memories of that afternoon tryst with Cook. 'Not all of you all at once,' she snapped. 'How the hell are you all going to reach him at the same time?' They lowered their phones sheepishly as Reeve waved his hand to get her attention.

'I've got Mister McClair on line two, what shall I say?' he asked hesitantly. Emily turned to him slowly, her eyes alight with mischief.

'Tell him to set a lunch date at two at—Margaret, what's the hotel nearest again, the St. Regis one?' she asked offhandedly, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand.

'The Lanesborough, Miss Fitch,' she said tentatively. 'Shall I send for George to take you to Hyde Park at one-thirty?'

'Mm, tell McClair to set an appointment for two at two at the Lanesborough; tell him I have a prospective offer even he can't decline,' she pushed back her seat and made to get up.

The rest happened much too quickly.

The intern behind her yelped as the back of the swivel-chair collided with her tray; she lurched forward in an attempt to gain her balance, the tray tipping precariously in her grasp. Reeve scrambled to his feet and gave a great cry, but it was much too late—the tray flew out of the intern's hands, spilling the steaming contents of all four remaining mugs onto the person nearest her: Emily.

Emily screamed as the liquid scalded her, the rim of a mug slamming roughly against her cheek and effectively dousing her with searing hot coffee. Another landed across her lap, seeping quickly into her cashmere while the last two rolled underneath the table, but not before spilling down her stockings and into her heels. If it had been anybody else, the situation would have been nothing short of comical, but the look on Emily's face suggested that humor was the farthest thing from her mind. Reeve and the editors around the meeting table gaped at her in unabashed horror, unsure what to do or who to comfort—their increasingly red-faced editor-in-chief, or the pixie-haired intern who was desperately trying to keep her tears at bay. The silence thickened, the seconds dragging on painfully.

'Margaret,' she said calmly, breaking their agitated reverie. She trembled as she spoke. 'Tell me. You were there when I had this sent for, weren't you? What am I wearing?'

'Tissue Silk Caftan from the Classic Collection Line, by Donna Karan, New York,' Margaret whispered. 'And, Mill—Slate Elaphe pumps—from Jimmy Choos' Cruise Fourteen, Spring Luxury Seasonal Collection. They were a matched set, sent from Bond Street through your personal shopper three weeks ago.'

'And, how much did it all amount to, Margaret?' Emily stood up slowly, her face flaming red. Her cashmere was drenched, right down to the knee-length top she had on. Her cheek was inflamed from the coffee, and her pumps were stained a horrible brown.

'Twenty-four hundred quid,' Margaret closed her eyes, the figure slipping softly from her lips. The editors lowered their gazes, dreading the inevitable.

Emily strode across the room, slinging a blazer across her shoulders as she headed for the double glass doors at the far-end of the room. 'Deduct it from her salary, then. Take it from her fucking thirteenth month if you have to.' The intern trembled as she brought a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

'And, what was your name again?' Emily turned to glance at her. She sniffled, little patches of red blossoming on her cheeks.

'I'm so sorry, Miss Fitch,' she choked back a sob. 'I'm so sorry, please—this is the only thing I have, please—my mother's in intensive care, and my sister just got laid off—'

'Your name,' Emily cut in impatiently. 'I asked for your name.'

'Jane,' she whispered softly, rubbing at her eyes. 'It's Jane, Miss Fitch.'

'Jane,' Emily rolled the name off her tongue for a while, glancing out the window as if in thought. 'Jane. Well, then, Jane,' she glanced back at her and smiled tightly. 'You're fired. Get out of my fucking office, and if I see your face here again—I'll drag you to the courthouse myself.'

'Miss Fitch,' he stood up briskly, reaching out to take her hand as she approached his table. He stopped short at the sight of her; disgruntled, disheveled, and frankly disagreeable. 'I take it you've had a particularly stressful day?' he asked lightly, attempting to ease her mood.

'It isn't funny, Freddie,' she hissed, sweeping her hair back before sitting down rather stiffly in front of him. 'I've fired fifteen bitches in three months, and I've laid off another one today. Don't sour my mood.'

'Wouldn't dream of it,' he smirked. He waved a waiter over and flicked the menu card back and forth absently, 'I'll have a bottle—Merlot, or Chardonnay; whichever, really—if you would please. And,' his gaze flickered over to Emily, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. 'A plate of buttered crumpets.'

'Trying to be funny, are you?' Emily narrowed her eyes at him as the waiter swept away with their orders. Freddie brushed her off cheerily.

'What happened to the little girl who believed buttered crumpets were the solution to everything?' he raised a brow playfully. 'Including, if I recall correctly,' he scratched his chin, mock-thoughtfully. 'World hunger? Ever the advocate, weren't you, Ems? Come on, for old time's sake.'

Emily rolled her eyes, 'All this from the same boy who chased after women's hair accessories for most of his grammar school years—tell me, Freds, did you keep all my bows in a doily box? Or did you put them in your sister's dresser for safe keeping?' She laughed at the way the tips of his ears flushed a bright red. 'You know, for the longest time, I was thoroughly convinced you were gay. You and James.'

He snorted, 'How does it feel to be proven wrong every once in a while? Wait,' he wrinkled his nose. 'No. I don't need details of your vibrant sex life with Cook.' Their waiter came back with a cart laden with wine glasses and an ice-cold bottle of Chablis; Emily glanced curiously at the cloth napkin that obscured the platter of pastries beneath it. Freddie followed her gaze and smirked, 'Smells like your childhood, doesn't it, Em?'

'Something like that,' she said softly, pulling off the napkin and reaching for a crumpet. 'I used to have these all the time with Katie,' she trailed off, her eyes glazed over. 'We'd go for picnics, up at Brandon Hill—the park there, you remember?'

'How could I not?' he laughed. 'Everyone knew it was your haunt—Little Emily Fitch, the infamous minx; too young for school and too old for imaginary friends,' he continued merrily, pouring them both a generous amount of wine, heedless of the way Emily stiffened briefly in her seat.

'What, and Little Frederic McClair wasn't a child-arsonist with homoerotic tendencies?' she bit back. He shrugged, wiping his mouth with the edge of a napkin delicately.

'So,' he gestured towards her with a crumpet. 'To what do I owe the honor of this impromptu visit?' he asked wryly.

Emily laced her fingers under her chin, 'You're currently the company's largest stockholder. Three percent more entitles you to a share, and an honorary position on the Board of Trustees.' She didn't look too pleased at the prospect and settled back in her seat. 'You profit when we do—but now, I think you've realized we're running a bit short.' Freddie fetched his glasses from the chain that hung round his neck and peered at her over them.

'Are you propositioning me, then?' he asked dubiously. 'I can't promise a take-over, Em. You're not exactly a market asset at the moment.'

'Nothing like that,' Emily snapped. She shoved a manila folder across the table towards him, 'We can help each other. The company isn't for sale, and frankly, I have no intentions of relinquishing that status anytime soon. I need a stable market, you need a decent profit share; we can tie up loose ends.' He rifled through the paperwork, his frown deepening.

'Stockholm?' he asked incredulously. He pinched a corner of the itinerary between finger and thumb and held it out gingerly. 'What are you planning to do with my base at Stockholm?'

'Marketing,' she said simply, unfazed by his growing indignation. 'I was sort of hoping you'd sponsor me?' she asked coyly.

'In three months?' he cried, exasperated. 'You can't just expect me to pull out teams on short-notice to make room for you; I just dispatched them last week! You could've told me this earlier!' Several heads tuned to glance in his direction, startled by his outburst. 'Why're you in such a bloody hurry to leave the country?' he whispered furiously.

'We ran surveys and polls on a carefully controlled population through our cross-marketing division head. Believe me, it has untapped potential, resources and market-wise. Stockholm and,' she bit into a crumpet thoughtfully. 'Manila.'

'Manila,' he enunciated slowly. He whipped off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. 'You'll jump bases over the course of—how long did you say you'd take?'

'Three months,' she smiled thinly.

'D'you realize how much trouble you'll be making for me? And the various financial repercussions of your brilliant plan? You ask much. If you were anyone less, Fitch, I would have thrown you out by the scruff of your neck by now.'

'Humor me, Freddie. For old times sake,' she echoed back at him, skimming a finger around the rim of her wine glass delicately. 'Who knows? I might even make it worth your while,' she smirked at the blush that stained his cheeks.

'Don't, Emily,' he muttered quietly. 'It was a one-off; I swore I would never betray Cook like that again. It was a mistake.'

'Didn't seem like it,' Emily laughed, leaning forward in her seat to clink her glass against his. 'I thought you rather enjoyed it. I know I did. Not exactly hankering after a repeat, but it certainly jogs the memory on certain lonely nights—keeps the imagination fresh.' She raised a brow, 'Keeps things—interesting.'

'You're a filthy, ambitious bitch,' Freddie growled, the tips of his ears a deep, flaming red. 'You keep mum about it, you hear? Cook can't—You swore you'd never—'

'Relax,' she yawned, running a hand lazily through her curls. 'What he doesn't know won't hurt him.' Freddie shifted nervously in his seat, smoothing his lapel self-consciously. 'Look, just give me a chance. I'll secure Stockholm by mid-September, and Manila by the third week of November. From there, Mexico and Brasilia will be easy pickings. But, everyone's got to start small. Trust me on this.'

'There are countless openings at the business districts at this time of year—they subsist solely on international trade in some places. Let me see if I can get to them within the day; it'll be past working hours now,' he grumbled, swiping his fingers across the print-stained screen of his tablet in resignation.

'True, but the fact they've been under Spain for nearly three hundred years would most likely—But—I didn't notice if there were, I suppose. They all look the same to me—What photos? Oh, those? They're not pulled by camels—Horses, you twat. Horses—Hold on,' Emily frowned, mid-speech. She paused and glanced down at the wireless phone, ringing incessantly for all it was worth. 'Can I call you back, James? I've got Katie on the other line.' Static crackled through the ear piece and Katie's familiar whining filled the air. 'Normally, I'd reproach you on the astronomical costs you're banking up by opting to talk via phone card as opposed to consumer-friendly chat apps like Viber, but then I figured—hey. It's your money. And who am I—a wretched, illogical half-wit—to lecture you on the finer points of intellectual-consumerism?'

'That's nice, Ems. You done being a pretentious wanker, now? 'Cause, as much as I've fucking missed you, I am really not in the mood for fucking around right now.'

'Shit, sorry—it's just, this is the fourth bloody seminar I've had to listen to in three days about Delivering Quality Customer Service, and Seizing The Sought-After Collective Asset. I think I'm beginning to talk like the sodding, overenthusiastic speakers I've been shelved with, day in and day out.'

'That sounds like a load of crap you've been dealt,' Katie remarked dryly, coiling the phone cord round and round her pinky. 'Look at the bright side: you'll be coming home in two weeks.'

'Not exactly looking forward to it,' Emily groaned. She sank back into her cushions and stared dolefully up at the ceiling. 'I have to set up press-cons the day after I get back.' She took a thin cigar between her teeth and lit up lazily, 'Manila, by the way, is dreadfully fucking stifling. The humidity's crimping my curls, and the toilets are nearly filthy on principle. But, their little hand-rolled cigarettes are a guilty pleasure, and their food is pretty exquisite; they've got these little rice—'

'Listen, Ems. There's something I have to—'

'—And you pour this little sauce over it, yeah? And your teeth, they like, just sink into it. But, you know, the weirdest thing about the Penn is that's at a premier location, right? But, the parking's—'

'—I can't put it off much longer, so if you could take the time to—'

'—In contrast, though, their toilet seats are freezing—'

'—Look, I didn't go through all the fucking trouble of finding a land-line to hear your gripe about how your fucking face towels aren't warm enough, or how insensitively cold their toilet seats are on your arse,' Katie cut in impatiently. Emily exhaled a mouthful of smoke noisily, drawing out a breath through her nose.

'Then pray tell, why the fuck would you bother to call at four in the morning?' she ground her teeth together. 'Christ, Katie. I've got a conference to attend tomorrow at seven—'

'It's about Jamie,' Katie nearly whispered, her voice breaking, suffused with the soft noise of crackling static. Emily sat bolt upright, the cigar dangling loosely from her lips.

'What's wrong?' she demanded, her tone sharp and accusatory. 'What have you done?' Katie struggled for words, mumbling incoherently into the mouthpiece at brief, breathy intervals. Emily wrenched the stick from her mouth and stubbed it out violently against the window sill, her skin suddenly clammy with cold sweat. 'Goddamn it, Katie,' she cried, gripping the phone tighter. 'What have you done to my princess?'

'Nothing!' Katie yelped, winded. She was breathing nervously through her mouth, her accent muffled and masked by short, spastic gasps, 'Ever since you left last July, she's been different. She doesn't go out as often, and she doesn't speak to anyone anymore. She holes herself up in her room for hours, and—' she coughed; a thick, scratchy hack, once or twice. '—I think she took it hard, your leaving her. I don't exactly have the liberty to see to her everyday, I'm on schedule: I'll have got a new line up on rack by January and—'

'Clothes are more important than your own flesh and blood then?' Emily snapped heatedly. 'She needs someone to talk to her, see if she's doing okay. You know what's she like when she starts acting up at school, you're fucking lucky she hasn't tried anything lately!'

'That's my point!' the fear in Katie's voice startled her, and she found herself clutching the phone a bit tighter for comfort. 'She's different, Ems. She won't look at me anymore, she just keeps to herself. It's like she's stuck in her own little world—I'm fucking concerned, alright? It isn't like her. I'm taking her to a specialist this weekend, try to nip the bud at the—'

'You're taking her to see a psychiatrist?' Emily cried, horrified. 'She's not fucking mad! She's just lonely! Did you even bother to think about the effect it might have on her? You can't just chuck her in the mad house because you can't deal with the occasional spastic bout of the blues!'

'What would you know? I'm her fucking mother, I know her,' Katie snapped angrily. 'You know what she's like. You try living with an ADHD head case, everyday for the next six years, see how you like it! She's talking to herself, d'you have any idea how terrified I've been? Her doctors are concerned; they're calling her out on it, talking about it being some sort of symptom of manic depression, and considering dad's medical history, it's not a far-off possibility. Either that or autism, they can't rule anything out yet, not without tests. I can't afford to take her to therapy, the press would latch on immediately! And, goddamn it—you're just as bad, you filthy hypocrite. You haven't even spoken to her once since you left; what, they didn't have an internet connection at the hotels you were staying at for six sodding months?'

'It wasn't like that,' Emily flinched at the accusation in her voice, guilt welling up inside her. 'I just couldn't find the time to try and—'

'Save your breath,' Katie scoffed. 'Look, I have to go. This thing's primed for twenty minutes, and this sentence officially makes eighteen. I'll call you back tonight. I have a premier to get to in three hours, I need to send for her.'

'What, you aren't picking her up yourself?' Emily asked uncomfortably, the neglect they doled out in seemingly equal measure towards her niece stifling her.

'If I had to, then I'd have to fire Harris,' Katie muttered flippantly, glancing at the phone-jack impatiently. 'Look, I have to go, yeah? I'll get her to talk to you before she goes to bed.'

'Katie, don't. She isn't different, I know she isn't. Don't do this to her. Wait for me to get back, at least. Let me see if I can do anything about it,' she pleaded quickly, eager to appease her twin's increasing temper. 'For me,' she said insistently, nearly breathless in terrified anticipation.

'I'll get her to talk to you later,' Katie repeated, infuriatingly calmly.

'I'm her four-thirty,' Emily smiled through gritted teeth, her half-arsed attempt at charming the secretary by the reception desk failing miserably. He looked her over skeptically, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

'She has a scheduled appointment at five, with a certain—' he glanced down at his list impatiently, '—Doctor Foster. I can't let you take her out now,' he squinted distrustfully at her over his pince-nez. 'I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave, or I'm calling Miss Fitch.'

'I am Miss Fitch!' she protested hotly. 'Emily, Emily Fitch, that is,' she amended hastily. 'I'm her aunt, and legal guardian. Look,' she said, clasping her hands together in supplication underneath the desk. 'I'll be honest with you, Richard—'

'Grant,' he mumbled irritably, flicking his pen cap closed.

'Grant,' she acquiesced. His haughty demeanor sparked something sinister within her, and all thoughts of maintaining civil, and amiable decorum fled from her in a breath. 'I flew in from a thirteen hour flight last night at two-twenty, and I haven't gotten any sleep since then because I've had to manually set up what could possibly be the biggest event in whatever's left of my painfully short career as a publishing editor. I haven't seen my niece in nearly six months, and I've grown extremely irate at her mother's insinuations that I am to blame for her irrational impulsiveness—which, by the way, is merely an unpleasant side-effect of her ADHD: a fact everyone just happens to look over—and now you're telling me I can't see her?'

She drew herself up defiantly, cocking her head back in hostile arrogance, 'I could have you fired, Grant. Have you replaced with someone infinitely more competent, more customer-friendly and, possibly, better looking. I earn in an hour what you make in three months, you cocky, little bastard,' she hissed. She slammed her hands down on the counter-top and leaned forward threateningly. 'Go on, try me. While you're under this sorry excuse for an institution's pay, I also have you under my thumb; recall that this—' she gestured absently at the establishment with her free hand, '—Is one of eighteen companies under my family's group of companies. You forget who you're addressing.'

He stiffened abruptly, 'My apologies, Miss Emily. I was merely fulfilling my job under Miss Katherine's orders—she distinctly gave instructions not to let you interfere with her daughter's Plan of Treatment directly. All concerns will have to be addressed to her or the physician-in-charge, I'm afraid.'

'And addressed they shall be,' she murmured. 'But, first—release Jamie's custody to me for the remainder of the afternoon. It is my legal right as her guardian to see to her welfare, regardless of your employer's details of duty. I think the Constitution holds greater power over you than some model's payroll, yeah?'

He glared at her silently for a beat, then lowered his head submissively to speak to a microphone taped to his desk. He pressed the headset closer to his ear and frowned at the response crackling through to him. 'She's in Room Four-Three, led by Miss Lewis. She isn't expecting you, though,' he warned; the bittersweet sympathy lacing his tone frightened her.

She nodded jerkily, 'Right, thanks. I'll see myself to her, then.' She walked through the corridors uneasily, glancing inside the half-closed play rooms. Voices wafted towards her from a room farther down the hall, and she made it for it with deliberate slowness, silently cursing herself for being so wary towards her niece.

She stuck her head through the crack in the door and peered in gawkily. 'Er—hi,' she greeted the room at large, feeling decidedly more awkward by the minute. There were approximately fifteen other people in the room, four of whom were supervisors. She caught a glimpse of Jamie's curly pony-tail bobbing away from her periphery and frowned, bemused. 'I just, uh, came here for Jamie?'

'Miss Fitch?' she turned around hastily, nearly tripping over her own feet in surprise. She found herself trapped in a painfully compromising position with the authority figure before her, their proximity disconcerting in its abruptness. Emily backed up carefully, feeling the door jamb graze her back uncomfortably.

'Doctor Lewis?' she ventured hesitantly, cracking a smile. 'I think we've met before. You were the presiding physician when Katie took Jamie to my office for a check-up. I'm Emily,' she offered her hand.

'Please, call me Lauren,' she smiled warmly, shaking Emily's proffered hand with ill-disguised enthusiasm. 'Before I let you in there, though, do you mind if I—er—brief you? On the current goings-on?' Emily swallowed thickly and nodded, shuffling towards the open office door Lauren indicated.

'I'll be completely honest with you, doc,' Emily laughed nervously. 'You're scaring the living crap out of me.' She watched, discomfited, as Jamie's head physician bustled around the mini-bar in the far corner of the wall, seemingly occupied with pouring them both a generous glass of bourbon.

'There's nothing to be frightened of, Emily,' Lauren chuckled, setting a glass on the coffee table before her. She brushed a lock of blonde hair from her face and tucked it behind an ear quietly, glancing out the curtained window. Emily swallowed a mouthful of alcohol, wincing as the liquid seared a burning path down her throat.

'So,' she gasped, eyes watering involuntarily. 'Give it to me straight. What's wrong with my Jamie?' Lauren looked at her oddly, eyes bright and glazed over at the same time.

'Nothing's wrong with her at all,' she murmured, brows drawing together. 'She's a child displaying all the typical signs of separation anxiety—not to be confused with child depression. It's a normal psychological part of growing up, I have absolutely no idea why your sister adamantly refuses to believe that Jamie has no severe psychological issues that need to be treated with utmost urgency. I think she's a signature short of sanctioning cranial electrotherapy on her next visit,' she frowned at her over the rim of her glass, tilting her head back to down a mouthful.

'Electrotherapy?' Emily squeaked. 'Like, the kind where they chain you to those strappy hospital beds and attach wires on your head to shock you? Like what they did to John Nash, in A Beautiful Mind?'

'I think you might be confusing psychotherapy with BDSM,' Lauren laughed, clearing her throat awkwardly at the look of genuine horror on Emily's face. 'I was kidding, Emily,' she said seriously. 'No one's going to hook Jamie up to an electrocurrent any time soon.'

'Oh. Oh, good,' Emily breathed, settling back on the sofa. 'So, why are we here, exactly? What did you want to talk about?'

'While she isn't—thankfully—a candidate for schizophrenia, I just want to give you a little heads up before you go in there,' Lauren collected their empty glasses and cradled them to her chest. 'She's still not sociable—not by a long shot. The most you can probably get out of her is a monosyllabic response, every now and then. She prefers to play by herself, and remains arbitrarily indifferent to her surroundings. Also, don't be frightened—but, lately, she talks to herself. As a child-psychologist, I'm telling you now that this is perfectly normal. Fantasy worlds usually fade after the age of nine, as the child begins to assimilate certain societal roles—'

'Hold on,' Emily interrupted. 'Have you—observed her ? While she's playing alone?'

'Yes, of course,' Lauren looked at her strangely, like she'd just politely inquired if water was still wet. 'All for science, of course. No breach of privacy whatsoever, your sister signed a waiver—'

Emily waved her off impatiently, 'I mean, have you heard her play?' Lauren nodded, nonplussed. 'What does she say? What does she talk about? Who does she talk to?' Emily asked curiously.

'She's extremely fond of reading, did you know? I think it'd be safe to assume her favorite author right now is Carolyn Keene, if her recent preferences are anything to go by,' Lauren smirked. 'I think you can put two and two together.'

'Nancy?' Emily asked, surprised. 'She likes to pretend she's Nancy Drew?' Lauren raised a brow in acknowledgment. 'Does she go around the room sleuthing or something?'

'Something like that,' Lauren laughed, getting to her feet and dropping the glasses into a tiny sink by the corner. ' When you finally see her, don't be too surprised, or too disheartened, for that matter. She's still most likely sore at you for leaving her so unceremoniously, but she'll warm up eventually. I've a feeling that once she lets go of her hostility towards you, she'll go right back to being the Jamie you know and love.'

Emily stood up and made for the door, clasping Lauren's hands in hers briefly, 'Thank you, Doctor Lewis. For what it's worth, I'm really grateful you haven't given up on her.'

'The pleasure's all mine,' Lauren beamed, holding the door open for her. 'She's a lovely girl.' Emily stepped out into the corridor and made to go back the way she came. 'Oh, and Emily?' Lauren called, smiling when she swiveled around to glance back at her.

'Sometimes, there's a pattern. If you look closely enough, you'll be able to see it for yourself,' Emily gaped at her, her forehead crumpled in confusion.

'What d'you mean?' Emily cried after her, frustrated at the door she'd begun to close softly. 'Wait, I'm talking to y—'

'They don't call it cycles for nothing,' Lauren winked at her, peering from the crack between the edge and the door jamb before closing the door fully. Emily sighed and padded over to the adjacent room, peeking in hesitantly. She yelped in surprise and jumped backward as the door was wrenched open bodily; a tiny figure stood, feet planted wide apart, behind it.

'Emsy!' Jamie cried, rushing forward and throwing herself into Emily's arms. Emily staggered back in surprise before returning the embrace tightly, burrowing her face in her niece's warm brown hair.

'Hi, Jay,' Emily cooed softly, kissing her all over. 'I missed you so much.' Jamie grabbed great fistfuls of Emily's coat and sobbed into her neck, nodding against her spastically. 'I missed you lots and lots and lots.'

'I missed you, too,' Jamie whimpered, rubbing her eyes with the cuffs of her jumpers alternately. 'I missed you lots and lots and lots.' She buried her face against Emily's neck and took great shuddering breaths, Emily rubbing up and down her back to soothe her.

'I've got you for myself the entire afternoon,' Emily whispered conspiratorially, pressing their foreheads together and kissing the tip of her nose. 'That way I can make things up to you quicker. How 'bout some ice cream?'

Jamie nodded frantically, linking her arms behind Emily's neck as Emily stooped to pick her up. They walked in silence back to the parking lot, Emily shifting every now and then to find better purchase on Jamie in her arms. She unlocked the door one-handed and crouched down to help her in. 'Up you get, princess,' she smiled, pulling down the seat belt and strapping her in comfortably.

She reached over the center console for Jamie's hand as they sped down the freeway, tracing little circles on her knuckles with her thumb. 'How've you been, Jay? You've grown a lot since I last saw you, and your hair's a lot longer than last time,' she said. Jamie stared at her lap in silence, humming an indistinct tune softly to herself.

'You missed my birthday,' she lisped softly, without preamble. 'And you didn't call to greet me. I waited for you to, but you didn't.'

Emily gripped the steering wheel tighter, 'I wanted to, sweetie. I just—I just couldn't—'

'Me and mum, we ate at Lansing's on my birthday, but I got clusterly and knocked over her—'

'Clumsy,' Emily corrected gently, leaning over to brush a lock of hair back from Jamie's mouth and push it up her forehead.

'But I got clumsy and knocked over her wine glass, and she got mad, and we left Lansing's right after, and she pulled me inside the car, and she called me funny names,' Jamie bit her thumb again and resumed humming tonelessly to herself. Emily idled the car at the red light and glanced at her worriedly, fighting down an upsurge of violent emotions alternating nearly schizophrenically between hatred for her sister and concern for her niece.

'What did she call you, Jay? Come on,' she twined their fingers together encouragingly. 'We tell each other everything. What did mummy do?' she asked softly, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. Jamie frowned, like she had difficulty remembering.

'Lots of words from shows on the telly you've told me aren't nice to say to other people,' she said. Emily flinched at the casualness of it all, at the lack of upheaving emotion on Jamie's part, like she had arbitrarily disconnected herself from the incident and was merely narrating the course of events as a casual observer.

The green light blinked and Emily revved the car forward, steering carefully onto the outer lane and slowing down marginally. She squeezed Jamie's little hand in hers, 'Did—did she hit you, Jay?'

Jamie looked at her strangely; she chewed at her bottom lip, 'Mummy says I'm not supposed to tell anyone. She says I'm not supposed to tell you, or—' she looked down at her lap again, fear flickering in her eyes. 'Don't tell her I told you.'

Emily bit her lip, 'I won't, princess. I wouldn't dream of it.'

'Mummy says I'm a bad girl,' she explained, as if that made everything alright—a mechanical response. 'Mummy said you wouldn't call because I'd been a bad girl, and that you were punishing me for it.' Emily opened her mouth to protest heatedly, but Jamie cut her off. 'But, I heard you on the phone with mummy that night, and I know you were talking about work; money and books, and adult stuff. Mummy always tries to say something really naughty about you—she says you wouldn't like me at all if you weren't my aunty, and that you're just being nice to me because you have to, because you're sisters. But, I don't believe her. You love me, don't you, Emsy? You tell me that, all the time.' Jamie turned to look at her, and it was the way she asked—her eyes doubtful, and hollow, and frightened, and confused, and lost, and miserable, and tired, and so resigned: seeking assurance amidst a failing faith—that did her in.

A tear traced down her cheek and she swerved the car onto the emergency lay-over to compose herself. She unbuckled herself swiftly and shifted in her seat to face Jamie, holding out her arms. Jamie pulled off the seat belt and scrambled over the console to her, making little noises of contentment as Emily pulled her into her lap and held her tight. Her little arms couldn't go all the way back and they stopped somewhere short of Emily's spine, her fingers gripping her closer, tighter—and in that moment, she was made all too aware of just how young Jamie was; a child in a world that did not want her, did not need her, to be one.

She cried softly against Jamie's hair, swaying her gently in her arms. 'I love you, Jay. Your mum's being mean, and she's telling fibs—but you don't believe that, do you? I love you,' she sniffled, leaning back and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

'I know,' Jamie said quietly, watching her curiously. 'Don't cry, Emsy,' she pushed her palms against Emily's cheeks and rubbed the tear-tracks away.

'I'm sorry,' Emily whimpered, her voice breaking at the simple touch. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' she leaned her face into Jamie's palm, tears slipping from her eyes involuntarily.

'Me too,' Jamie buried her face against Emily's chest. 'Me too.'

'You have nothing to apologize for, Jay,' Emily said vehemently, angling back and gripping the tops of Jamie's arms to look at her properly. 'D'you understand? You've done nothing wrong. You have nothing to apologize for.'

She touched her forehead to Jamie's comfortingly, the tips of their noses brushing. 'Nothing to apologize for.'

'Come in,' Emily muttered distractedly, barely glancing up from her paperwork. The glass door swung open softly, and a faint floral scent wafted across the room. 'Cookie?' she said, incredulously. He grinned at her sheepishly, raking a hand through his hair.

'Hi, Red,' he smiled, striding over to her. 'These are for you,' he said, unnecessarily, thrusting a half-wilted bouquet of lilies at her. 'They were fresh,' he frowned down at them, looking disappointed. 'But, I got held up for two hours in traffic, and I couldn't get them any—'

'Oh, Cookie, they're lovely. Thank you,' she took them gratefully. She made her way over to him and cradled his face in her hands. 'Why're you here?' she kissed him softly, brushing her fingers over his cheeks.

'I have sources,' he raised a brow mischievously. 'And a little birdie let slip that you had a pretty bad meeting with the Board earlier this morning. Thought I'd cheer you up.'

'You're lovely,' she sighed, leaning in to kiss him again. 'Thank you. Things have just been so,' she gestured wildly, at a loss for words.

'Crappy,' he smiled sympathetically. He wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her tighter to him.

'Crappy,' she agreed, breathless. 'They're pressuring me to raise the poll stats, like I have control on the direct market, two weeks in. They might pull out support, James.' She pressed her palms to her eyes, feeling tears well up. 'I'll have nothing left.'

'You'll have me,' he said softly, tilting her chin up with a finger and kissing her nose delicately. 'I'd love you anyway.' She threw her arms around his neck and held him wordlessly.

'Thank you,' she said helplessly, burying her face in the crook of his neck. 'Dad was there,' she said quietly.

Cook held her closer, protectively. 'What did he say?' he asked. 'What happened?'

'Nothing,' she said miserably. 'That's the point. He could've defended me in front of all those self-righteous cunts, but he kept his mouth shut all throughout the affair. I've never been so humiliated in my entire life. It was like he'd publicly declared, 'This isn't my daughter anymore. I have nothing more to do with her.''

'What a bastard,' Cook sighed tiredly. He took her hands in his and lifted them to his lips tenderly. 'Tell me what I can do to make this okay. I can't stand seeing you like this.'

'This is enough,' she smiled weakly, pressing her forehead against his. A sharp, harsh beep blared from the intercom on her desk. She glanced at it irritably before clicking it, 'What is it?' The door to her office opened a crack, and Margaret's pixie-cut bob poked into the room sheepishly.

'Sorry to bother you, Miss Fitch, but it's sort of an emergency—I've got St. Thomas on line four, and they sound pretty livid,' she fiddled with her headset's mouthpiece nervously. 'They're looking for you.'

'St. Thomas?' Emily asked, confused. 'Jamie's school?' Her senses shot to life almost immediately, and she nearly stumbled over the corner of her desk chair in her haste to pick up the phone. 'What did they say? What's happened to her? Was there an accident? Is she okay?' she spluttered. Cook drew nearer to her and rubbed her back soothingly; Margaret shook her head apologetically.

'They didn't tell me anything. I asked them if I could connect them to Miss Katherine instead, but they said they'd already gotten in touch with her.'

'And?' Emily asked impatiently. 'What did Katie say?'

'Miss Katherine told them to call you instead, said she didn't have the time to deal with it,' Margaret looked almost sad.

'Is that all she said?' Emily raised a brow. 'Don't fuck about with me, Meg. I know my sister. Spit it out.' Margaret glanced everywhere but at her, looking at Cook briefly for wordless support.

'She said to let you deal with 'this crap,' said she couldn't be bothered to handle any more,' she mumbled eventually. Emily exhaled slowly through her teeth, nodded at her briefly in dismissal, and picked up the receiver.

Emily strode down the empty hallway, feeling trepidation seep in with every step. She'd trembled through the entire car ride, knuckles white with worry. She spotted Jamie sitting alone on a blue plastic monoblock, outside an office she'd quickly realized was the Director's.

Jamie heard her footsteps and raised her head guiltily. Emily paused to take her in—her shoulders, heavy with an intangible weight; her little legs swinging dolefully beneath the seat; her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy from crying. 'Oh, Jay,' she whispered, crouching down in front of her and taking her hands gently. 'What happened?' she asked carefully.

'It wasn't my fault,' Jamie cried earnestly, her voice raspy and hoarse from overuse. She sniffled into her jumper and seemed to shrink further into herself, her legs coming up from beneath her as she pulled them in. 'They wouldn't stop,' she sobbed, her tears rendering her nearly incoherent, her lisp becoming more pronounced. 'They wouldn't stop being mean to me, and they were calling me things like, 'abnormal,' and they wouldn't let me,' she hiccuped, and took a great heaving breath. 'They wouldn't let me play with them anymore, and I just—I just got so angry, and I couldn't help it, and I—' she collapsed against Emily's outstretched arms and cried into her shoulder, fingers scrabbling against her back desperately. 'I'm sorry, Emsy. I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—I won't do it again, please, I promise. Please, don't be mad, too,' she buried her face in Emily's cardigan and shuddered with every breath, her whimpers echoing off the corridor's narrow walls.

'Oh, Jay,' Emily closed her eyes and held her tighter. 'Didn't we talk about this before?' she pulled back and rubbed her brow briskly. 'What did I say before, about trying harder to control your temper? You know we don't want things like this happening again, sweetie. You promised you'd try harder. For me,' Emily tipped her head back, exasperated.

'I did!' Jamie said tearfully, clinging onto her tighter. 'I did try, Emsy. I tried my best for you, and for mum, and for—'

'Miss Fitch?' David Blood opened the door to his office suddenly and leaned against the jamb. He regarded them coldly, his eyes hard and calculating. 'If you would, please,' he gestured for her to enter and shuffled back inside wordlessly.

'Wait out here for me, alright, Jay? Can you do that for me?' Emily murmured, kissing the top of her head briskly. Jamie's eyes watered as she made her way over to Blood's office—as she shut the door, she caught a fleeting glimpse of a little figure taking off down the hall. She sighed resignedly.

'She's a victim!' she cried indignantly, outraged at Blood's nearly clinical indifference. 'That was bullying, what they were doing to her—that was bullying! If anything, I can file a case against these children. It was hardly her fault! It was a defense mechanism! Ask any psychologist, they'll tell you as much! Asperger's isn't something you can keep a lid on, for Christ's sake—'

'There is no doubt in my mind about the precautions you've taken. I applaud you for making it this far without any serious repercussions as of late; not counting this one, obviously. The fact remains that Jamie Fitch is—by societal and psychological standards—unstable. Ask any psychologist, they'll tell you as much,' David took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, holding up a hand to silence Emily's outburst. 'I think it best, Miss Fitch, that you consider taking her to an institution that would be better suited to her needs—in terms of modalities, and services—until such a time when she can be deemed wholly independent.'

'Are you telling me to put her in a fucking institute for Special fucking Needs?' Emily shouted angrily, shoving her chair back. 'She isn't mentally incapacitated! She's top of her fucking class; she's just got issues, and mood swings—'

'Mood swings that destroyed half that classroom's learning material, nearly five hundred quid's worth of property damage, all in one go,' Blood narrowed his eyes in her direction. 'This isn't the first time this has happened, I take it? I've reviewed her file carefully as well. And, there's no need to take that tone with me, Miss Fitch. We can be perfectly civil about—'

'I'll start being civil with you when you stop treating her like a raging fucking lunatic! If this is about money, Christ, we can pay—'

'She poses a threat to the staff and the students, Miss Fitch. This school isn't equipped with the services required to accommodate children with her disorder! Several parents have phoned in today, all worried sick about their children's safety within—'

'You talk about her like she's out for fucking blood!' Emily was nearly in tears. 'Like she's a threat to everyone's safety. She's the sweetest girl in the world, my Jamie. You don't know her. You don't know her like I do. How dare you? How can you even—?' she got to her feet, muttering in frustration.

'She can come back to us, of course, once she's all sorted out,' Blood called out after her, even as she made her way to the door and flung it open before her.

'You're having a fucking laugh, are you?' she snarled over her shoulder. 'I'll bring her back here when she's twenty-two and the princess of my fucking corporate empire, just so she can rub it in your cunting arse-face!' She slammed the door shut soundly behind her and began the arduous task of picking out the trail her niece might've taken in her hasty flight.

Jamie was nowhere in sight; she felt guilt claw up her throat, weighing down her steps. She picked her way past half-open classrooms and briefly considered checking the cafeteria before dismissing the thought completely. Emily traced a circuit round the grounds, stopping short of the chain-link fence separating her from the playground. There were voices, then, wafting across the field towards her—hushed and comforting voices, interspersed with quiet sobbing.

The rusty gate was left ajar, and she pushed it open without much difficulty. It swung creakily on its hinges, and she flinched as it scraped carelessly over the packed dirt. She ran a hand cautiously against the brick-wall beside her, following it slowly, steadily. The edge of the building veered away sharply to the left then, and she stood there mutely, wondering how best to proceed. Jamie's soft little voice carried over to her, and she peered out from behind the wall to chance a glance. She breathed a sigh of relief at the sight: Jamie was talking to someone, wiping her nose clumsily with a coat sleeve before breaking into another fit of sobbing. She pushed herself slowly on the swing, the tips of her sneakers barely scuffing the ground. Emily watched, bemused, as the stranger settled into the seat beside her. Jamie reached across the space between them to take their hand and released a shaky, pent-up breath. A sharp, cold wind blasted through the air and she fumbled at her skirt as a precaution. Jamie's companion tilted their head back to keep the hair from drifting across their face before sneezing soundly, earning a tiny laugh from Jamie. All of a sudden, Emily's phone sprang to life, its incessant ringing inappropriately loud: she muttered a long string of curses under her breath and rooted around her bag to silence the offending object.

'Emsy?' Jamie called out guiltily. Emily's head snapped up mechanically to look at her, opening her mouth to offer comfort, reassurance—she caught the eyes of the stranger beside her instead. Her mouth fell open, her eyes widening in disbelief as she took in the specter before her; They stared back at her, equally stunned, but far more composed.

As far as she could tell, seventeen years had changed absolutely nothing.

Emily stumbled backward and leaned heavily against the brick-wall behind her as she tried to catch her breath. She closed her eyes, ignoring Jamie's increasingly fearful cries in the background—white noise amidst the sound of her own frantic heartbeat.

She was imagining things, she decided. Yes, that was it. That, or the stress of the past few months had finally turned her mad. She shook her head and swallowed thickly; she was being pathetically irrational, and Emily Fitch—Emily fucking Fitch—was anything but.

Emily composed herself resolutely and hastily drafted a quick apology in her head to the stranger she'd most likely frightened off with her dramatic theatrics. She turned around and made for the pair—

—Before colliding almost painfully with someone before her. 'Emily?' she closed her eyes at the sound and felt tears prick behind her lids reflexively. She'd know that voice anywhere—how could she not? She'd spent nearly all of her childhood years committing it to memory, associating it with a face she'd sworn never to forget, no matter how painful the thought of it had become—it brought memories of a life seemingly light-years away, brimming unbidden to the surface.

She had gone mad, she decided desperately. Her subconscious had crafted a frustrated fantasy and made it tangible for the sheer pleasure of watching her squirm. Her knees trembled and would've given way beneath her, but there were arms around her now, holding her up, and they felt solid. Familiar. Comforting.

'Emily,' it called again, more softly—it was hesitant, and confused, and incredulous all at once, and it sent an irrational thrill coursing through her. It was the selfsame voice that had lulled her to sleep every night nearly half a decade ago, she remembered that.

She remembered everything.

She was far too afraid to open her eyes, to shatter the image in her head, to be brought back to earth unpleasantly hard if she was mistaken—it would be far too cruel to raise her hopes, and have them dashed completely all the same—but there were gentle fingers tilting her chin up now, and there was nowhere to hide.

Her eyes flickered open, and a tear escaped down her cheek. Naomi smiled down at her, gripping her elbows gently.

'Hi,' Naomi said shyly, flicking her head back to keep the hair from falling in her eyes. Emily's initial confused disbelief faded, resentment welling up inside her like poison before giving way almost immediately to fury—she hated that she still felt so small in her arms, hated that her cobalt-gray eyes were better now than they ever were in her memory, hated that Naomi still felt like home even after everything, everything.

But, she buried her face in her shoulder anyway.

And wept for all she was worth.

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