A/N - I'm so sorry about the time it's taken to upload this chapter! Work has been so crazy and I've been struck down with the flu, but finally managed to get this finished. Thank you so much for the reviews and messages :) I feel like this fandom's gone a little quiet lately - probably from the news about Sophia - but hoping lots of you are still interested in reading this (and the other two Linstead fics I had planned for afterwards!)
Hope you enjoy x
A Fairytale By Another Name
She dreams of his eyes. The burning blue intensity that he stared at her with while she held the juicebox for him to drink from. The dream though, is interrupted by Jack's cries, at which Erin jumps from the couch with a pounding heart and no real sense of what time it is. She's up the stairs and soothing him before she has chance to catch her breath and it's only when she leans against the crib to steady herself that she realises it's still light outside; still the same day in which she'd allowed Jay to think he has any chance of getting out of that basement; still the same life she's awoken to.
"Hey," she tries her best to coo, attempting to keep her voice from wavering despite her son's piercing cries and a headache she's only just become attuned to. "It's alright."
That's a lie and she knows it. Jack, it seems, knows it too - judging by the continuous scream leaving his lungs. He must be hungry, she determines, having missed his feed because she was sleeping. And now she feels like even more of a crappy mother; feels even more like Bunny, who for all this time she's tried desperately not to emulate in order to save Jack from the life she had.
She has no idea where Charlie is right now. Figures he could've been next to her on the couch, or maybe he was down in the basement or fixing something to eat in the kitchen. In her haste to get upstairs though, she's forgotten her gun. It's a toss-up between putting Jack back in the crib so she can go down and get it - risk only herself if Jay has somehow gotten out of the basement - and just keeping him pressed to her chest in a (probably) futile bid to shush him while she makes up a bottle.
Keeping him with her wins out because if she puts him down now, he'll only scream louder, and so Erin makes her way downstairs to the kitchen.
"Charlie?" She asks lowly, keeping her voice steady in case Jay can hear. No answer comes but as she passes the door to the basement, she sees the lock in place, signalling that if he is still here, so is Jay.
Jack's cries turn to whimpers as she spoons the formula into the bottle, silently curses herself for not having made some already so all she had to do was heat it up, and shushes him softly. She only realises she's shivering once the baby's finished his milk and she's paused long enough to properly catch her breath, and that's when she's reminded of the sweater she was going to get for Jay. She waits a while though, rocking Jack backwards and forwards even after he's long since drifted back to sleep - the motion more of a comfort for her by now, she figures.
Erin settles him back on the soft mattress of his crib, tucks the blanket in around him and then adds another from the little cupboard that houses his tiny items smelling like baby powder and sweet milk so he's not cold.
In her own drawers, she rakes to the bottom to find an old sweater of Charlie's he won't notice is missing, then one from near to the top for herself. She settles on a grey one for Jay - something inconspicuous that Charlie either won't recognise as his own, or won't care about when Erin makes up the story about wanting him to think he's going to get out; giving him reason not to make enough noise to alert the neighbours - and then rethinks the sweater for herself: putting the navy one back because it swamps her small frame and the last thing she needs Jay to realise is how slight she is. She can't let him think he has a chance, even if she is the one with the gun.
She checks Jack before heading back downstairs, leans against the doorframe as his tiny chest rises up and down so rhythmically that if she stayed there long enough, she might even drift off herself. Her body is so achingly tired that she figures she might drop asleep anywhere at this point, but then a noise sounds from down in the basement and her veins are all aflame again: fizzing and humming with panic. Heading down there on her own terms is one thing but descending those stairs because Jay's forced her to is something else.
Gun in her right hand and the grey sweater in the other, she unlocks the door and clicks on the light. Its usual stuttering over, Erin heads down the stairs, her boots clacking against the wood.
"What?" she snaps, aiming the gun at the man in the corner in an attempt to portray confidence. It's easier to stick to single syllables during all of this: stops her voice from wavering quite so much.
"I need the bathroom."
"You went earlier," she replies, swallowing as she takes in his red skin and blueing lips.
"You gave me a juice box."
"Hold it." She throws the sweater towards him as some sort of distraction. "Here."
Jay looks up at her then, his eyes softening just a little as he fingers the soft material with what little room for manoeuvre he has. "This his?"
His. Charlie's. "Who else's is it going to be?"
He drops it then; lets the material fall to the floor in a puddle at his feet. "I don't want it."
"It's cold down here."
"I don't want it." His voice is stronger this time. Louder. More assertive.
"You're freezing." That's the next mistake she makes: touching him to prove a point. Her bare fingertips against his bare forearm and it makes her jump - the ferocity of the jolt that flies through her at the contact. Erin hears herself gasp and stumbles backwards away from him, and yet he's staring at her like a rabbit caught in headlights; like he doesn't know himself what that just was. "Suit yourself," she all but whispers.
"Bathroom?" he queries softly, his voice dropping in infinite number of octaves from his earlier statement.
She swallows, her throat feeling like sandpaper and her tongue too clumsy in her mouth. His eyes are still rimmed with red, puffed underneath from lack of sleep, but he's staring at her with such purpose that he looks so infinitely alert. From somewhere though, Erin manages to find her voice: rough and terse in the stillness of the basement.
"Hold it."
She exits at that; prays to herself that he won't call out or clatter the pipes so that it echoes throughout the whole house - inside and out. And somehow, her prayers are answered because she makes it back up into the hallway, locks the basement door behind her and heaves out a shaking breath. The last thing Erin wants to admit is that such a small act has rattled her, and yet she knows it has. Knows too, that if she wants to keep Jay quiet, she's going to have to go back down there with food and a sweater that isn't Charlie's; going to have to go down there mentally prepared to allow his bathroom needs, to touch him when she loosens the knot in the rope; to make up some lie about his future - that he even has one.
Her stomach gurgles, reminding her she hasn't eaten in what feels like forever, even though she's felt constantly sick for the past few days, and so she collects herself enough to make it to the kitchen to rifle through the cupboards for something to make. There's a box of mac and cheese in there and she pulls it out, knocking over some cornmeal that spills all across the counter top, and curses as she surveys the mess it makes.
She follows the instructions on the box even though she's made this pasta a hundred times before, manages to pour out too much milk and then ends up with a lumpy sauce that pretty much resembles vomit in a pan. Still, Erin stirs it over the pasta and divides the contents between two bowls, takes one between her hands and leans back against the counter with its cornmeal mess while she stabs each noodle with her fork, chewing what's in her mouth and swallowing without really tasting it.
Once she's done, she sets the bowl beside the sink and takes a spoon from the drawer, holds it in between her fingers as she picks up the other dish of mac and cheese. A fork might be able to do some damage, she figures, but nobody ever got injured from being attacked with a spoon. That's when she spies the blanket draped over the back of the couch - the one that's a little threadbare and has been relegated to stand in only when her favoured blanket is in the wash. It'll do, Erin figures, for keeping the man in her basement warm enough not to catch hyperthermia in one of Chicago's coldest winters on record. Thing is, if she holds the blanket, she can't keep the gun pointed at him, but she also doesn't want to head down there and come straight back up again. So she makes a choice to drape it around her neck, takes care not to stumble over the ends of it when she descends those basement stairs for the second time in a half hour, and clicks the light on again.
"I brought you something to eat," she tells Jay dumbly, like he's not intelligent enough to work out the bowl of pasta is for him. "And uh...something to keep you warm."
He looks up at her, something flickering in his eyes that she can't discern (and probably shouldn't try to) and she sets the bowl down beside her feet, then hands over the blanket. "It's mine." Not a lie, though not exactly the whole truth either.
His hands brush hers, fingertips skirting fingertips as she makes the exchange, but she's prepared this time, stilling her body before it reacts and gives anything away.
"Thanks."
He shouldn't be thanking her. Not for any of it, and his response makes her feel insanely guilty, the one syllable thick with sincerity when all she is is a fraud.
"You going to untie me?"
"I'm not going to feed you myself." It's easier to be sharper with him. Safer.
"Okay," Jay answers cautiously, his gaze boring into her while she sets down the gun, barrel pointing towards him. Unlooping the rope isn't difficult in itself, but when she's making sure to keep skin contact to a minimum to prevent whatever it is that happens when they touch, the challenge proves significantly harder. She's close enough to him to feel his breath on her cheek; to smell the faint mix of mint and cinnamon that comes from chewing Big Red, and her heart rate ramps up unexpectedly at the overwhelming proximity. At the thought too, that she's taking a huge risk here in allowing him such a small slice of freedom - albeit only in terms of his arms.
"You think since you're untying me, I could use the bathroom?"
Erin knows she should say no, just to remind him again who it is that has the power here, but there's something inside of her telling her he doesn't need that - knows that the hierarchy was established the moment Charlie brought him into the car and she drove it here.
"Fine. Make it quick."
She passes him the bucket from earlier and turns to a side so she can see everything he's doing if she chooses to. He pees and she tries to conjure up a scenario in which they'll get out of this without incident, but it never comes.
Once he's done, he sits back down and she hands him the bowl of mac and cheese - long since having grown cold - and yet he wolfs it down like it's a gourmet meal. He's on his final mouthful when they hear the front door open, both looking up towards the stairs and then back at each other, like children sharing a guilty secret, and she supposes that probably, this might be just that.
"Erin?!" Comes the thunderous voice and she realises all at once that Jay's still untied, Jack's upstairs and could wake any minute at the sudden booming volume, Charlie's given away her name, and her heart leaps into her throat, her fingers shoving the rope into some semblance of a knot around his wrists before she's even realised what she's doing. It's clumsy and haphazard but Charlie won't notice. She just about manages to retrieve the gun from the floor before he makes it to the bottom of the stairs and surveys the blanket and nearly empty bowl, the spoon Jay was using having been kicked to a side during the rush.
"He causing trouble?" He asks.
She knows Jay's eyes are on the floor even without looking. "I was just reminding him how he needs to stay quiet," she somehow manages through the lump in her throat.
Charlie looks at Jay then, narrows his dark eyes and takes in the blanket and the bowl.
"Next time he's hungry, give him crackers," he instructs. "Don't waste the good stuff."
"My brother pay you yet?" Jay asks suddenly, his voice cutting through the heavy air. Erin thinks she hears her heart literally stop beating until Charlie answers, his voice laced with venom. "You don't get to ask the questions." He follows it up with a sharp kick to Jay's lower legs, and yet it's Erin who winces, then silently chides herself for it. She picks up the bowl and the spoon, tries desperately to fight looking at Jay's face - and fails, the expression drawn upon it etched into her brain - and makes for the stairs.
"Come on," she tells Charlie. "I'll make you something to eat."
He complies - miraculously - although not without a second kick for good measure, but Erin refrains from using his name in a bid to stop him: won't slip up the way he did just moments ago.
She locks the basement door and watches as Charlie sinks onto the couch, still clad in his winter coat despite the significantly warmer heat of the living room.
"Why were you down there?" he asks, not bothering to turn to face her as she heads on into the kitchen. "He makin' a noise?"
"No," she lies. "But we need him to think he's gonna get out. Stop him from causing a scene. I took him something to eat."
He seems to think it over for a moment before settling for her explanation without further question.
"Where were you?"
"At work."
She knows that's a coded don't ask. She doesn't press further. He gets up then, makes his way to her to settle in behind her back and she knows it's meant for reassurance; meant to relax her but she can't, and she ducks out from his arms under the pretence of needing crisco from the cabinet across from where they are. She doesn't even know what she's making really, but figures it's going to have to be pancakes now: it's not like there's any chicken in the refrigerator for frying.
"You should get some rest," Charlie decides, taking the tub from her hand. "I'll keep an eye out."
"Jack's napping," she sighs. "He'll be up in a half hour or so."
"I've got it."
"What if -"
"- I've got it." He repeats, and Erin nods in agreement.
"Okay."
She's halfway out of the room when she turns back, watches the father of her child scoop the shortening from the tub in a way so unlike he was earlier that she feels herself soften just a little. "You used my name in front of him."
"What?"
"When you came down to the basement. You called out my name."
She watches the realisation cross his face like a grey cloud on a windy day. "We'll be more careful."
She nods - only once - and heads upstairs.
