A/N: I did change the title of the previous chapter, just because it made more sense with this one. Cheers!
~Storybrooke~
Even though she'd already put the car in park, Lydia couldn't bring herself to relinquish her vice-like grip on the steering wheel. Had it still been daylight outside, she was sure her knuckles would have been white from the pressure.
Breathe, she kept repeating to herself. Just breathe.
Turning to look out her window, she felt her stomach sink at the imposing sight of the dark mansion she was parked out in front of. Yes, a mansion; one of the few mansions standing in all of Storybrooke, and this one was home to none other than Jefferson himself.
She swallowed thickly. I shouldn't be here, she told herself. No matter how much he'd insisted on the phone earlier, she never should have agreed to come over.
But then a voice seemed to whisper to her from out of nowhere: Who else do you have?
Closing her eyes, she released a long slow breath. It took a while, but her hands finally began to relax on the wheel, and she reached down to switch off the ignition at last. Stepping out of her car, Lydia lingered beside it a moment longer before shutting the door and walking up the stony drive. 316, the bronze plaque read on the stone pillar she passed. The last home on the edge of Farley Street. So many times had she driven by this property, silently in awe of the massive Tudor-esque structure: the tall windows; the steeply pitched roofs; the elaborate stonework of the lower level; all of it suggesting a style from some sort of bygone era, one that never failed to impress her no matter how many times she laid eyes on it.
Seeing it up close like this at night, however…something about this place just seemed so unreal to her. Almost frightening. As if the faint glow from the upper windows gave the building eyes that were watching her raptly as she approached. An involuntary shiver prompted her to cross her arms over her chest, but she forced her apprehensions aside as she ascended the brick steps of the porch, coming to stand before the ornately carved double-doors for what felt like an eternity.
Enough, she told herself. Exhaling steadily, she lifted a hand to knock on the—
She bit back a gasp when one of the doors flew wide open, revealing Jefferson on the other side. She stared, her heart thrumming even faster beneath her chest. His was a face that had haunted the thoughts and dreams of both her lives, and despite some of the modern changes in his appearance, those piercing blue eyes were just as captivating as ever.
"Clara," he said—
—but she swiftly raised a hand to silence him. "Please," she rasped, "that life is behind me now, and I'd rather keep it that way." Then she felt something strengthen inside her as she told him, "I prefer Lydia. Please."
For a long moment, he just stood there silently, his eyes boring into hers with an intensity that caused her to squeeze her jaws together. But then he was tilting his head as he simply responded, "As you wish," then stepped aside as he made a sweeping gesture for her to enter.
After a brief hesitation, Lydia stepped through the doorway, very aware of his proximity as she brushed past him. As she crossed into the foyer, however, she blinked, coming to a halt as her eyes slowly scanned her surroundings.
"Oh," she breathed, but barely a sound escaped her lips. It was the first time she'd ever set foot inside his home, and aside from some of the elaborate decorations and furnishings she saw…it wasn't what she was expecting. At all. Usually, such large structures had high ceilings and a vast, cold openness that made them feel akin to a museum, but not this place. The low ceilings, muted lighting, thick carpeting, and rich colors of the damask wallpaper gave it a warmth that she hadn't anticipated from a mansion. So much…cozier, the word came to mind. It was, in truth, a very pleasant surprise.
The audible click of the door closing behind her broke her out of her reverie, and in the ensuing silence, she could sense Jefferson drawing nearer.
"Tea?" He inquired tersely.
"No," she replied quickly, turning to him. "Thanks, I…" The words died in her throat as her eyes locked with his. He was so close, and despite her nervousness, she couldn't help but let her eyes drift over him, noting how his overall appearance reflected the environment in which he now lived. His immaculate suit had obviously been tailored to his form; the brocade vest and silk scarf were no doubt worth more than everything she owned in her apartment; the intricate stitching of his Italian leather shoes; the glint of the signet ring on his finger; the fresh scent of his cologne; even his dark hair—once thick and unruly—was now short and styled in a way that allowed her to see his entire face. No longer the impoverished man she once knew from Wonderland, but someone who exuded wealth, success…power.
She cleared her throat. "You, um…you've certainly done well for yourself here."
He gave a humorless laugh. "Have I?"
Not even a hint of a smile had touched his features, making him appear as coldly handsome as ever. And yet…there was something shimmering within the depths of his icy eyes, a fathomless sorrow that had her heart clenching in pain.
Alone, she lamented silently. He's been here all alone…
Not a word passed between them, not even when she lifted a hand to reach for the scarf around his neck. There was no objection from Jefferson, who tilted his chin up just a bit as her fingertips pulled the silken material down…revealing the smooth scar encircling the entirety of his neck underneath. Her lower lip quivered as she released a trembling breath, and the telltale sting of tears caused her vision to blur as memories of long ago began to wash over her once more…
~Wonderland~
Despite the incessant churning of her stomach, Clara managed to push her revulsion aside, her hands steady and sure as she continued working the curved needle through the man's flesh over and over again. Regardless of the horrific circumstances, he was her patient now, and her primary objective was to make sure he received care that he needed. She was keeping the stitches small, ensuring that the resulting scar would be as thin as possible when she'd finished reattaching his head to his body.
Put him back together, her mind whispered as she pulled the thread through once more. That is your task…
"Get it to work," he kept muttering to himself, "I gotta get it to work…"
She paid him no mind as he rambled on about things that made little sense to her, the words fading in her ears as she continued to focus on her work.
"Grace; Grace is…waiting for me. I have to find her. I…I promised…"
Hearing him say that, however, was what had her heart breaking for him. She didn't know who Grace was, but judging by how he talked about her, it was clear that she was someone he deeply loved. Friend? Lover? Family? All she knew was that she was someone dear to his heart, and he was fated to never see her again.
But that was what the Queen of Hearts did best, wasn't it? Tore families and loved ones apart without any shred of remorse, and doomed them to an existence that left them forever shrouded in hopelessness.
Clara gritted her teeth against the burning pain in her chest. Damn you, she thought, damn you for everything you've done…
"You have to help me."
It took a moment for her to realize that he was addressing her directly, and her hands stilled as she looked up at his stricken face.
"My Grace; I have to get back to her. You have…you have to put me back together."
I'm trying, she thought, drawing in a slow breath through her nose. Those eyes…they were so strikingly blue, even in the dim light of the room. Though they were swimming with a myriad of painful emotions, she found herself completely transfixed by the way those shimmering blue orbs were focused on her. Deep down, something told her she'd never be able to forget them.
"Grace," he choked out as his eyes pooled with tears. "I need my body back. Please. I need…I…I need…"
She placed a hand on his shoulder—a light touch, but one that automatically quieted him. It was hard to say if he could actually sense the contact in his current condition, but the healer within her felt an instinctive need to provide him with some form of comfort, no matter how insignificant it might seem.
I'll help you, she vowed silently, pulling the needle through once more. In any way I can…Part of her still couldn't fathom the cruelty of it all: re-attaching a living head to its corpse, only to further subject him to torment and humiliation? Would he even regain mobility, or was this all just a twisted ploy to get his hopes up? What had he even done to warrant such a punishment? And what would become of him if he somehow succeeded in his task? What…would become of her?
But she shook the thought from her mind. Finish the task, she told herself as she completed her final suture. Just finish the job at hand…
Snipping the thread with her shears, she closed her eyes as an unmistakable rush of magic passed through her, like a warm wind rippling through the vastness of the stone chamber—
She gasped in shock when a hand suddenly seized her throat, and before she could even react, her back was slammed up against the nearest wall. A jolt of pain shot through the back of her skull, making her see a bright flash of white behind her closed eyes.
"Ahh…" She managed weakly, feeling the pain gradually fade to a dull throb. When the worst of it had subsided, she peeled her eyes open, taking in the sight of the man—no longer a decapitated corpse on the table—standing before her as those blazing blue eyes bore into hers. She didn't dare move, but while his hand was firmly grasping her neck, it wasn't enough to completely constrict her breathing.
For what felt like the longest minute of her life, he maintained his hold as his eyes continued to search hers. "Clara," he finally breathed.
Hearing him utter her name had her eyes widening slightly.
"That's what the Knave called you," he said.
She couldn't even blink as she stared at him, but then she was slowly nodding in reply.
As he clenched his teeth beneath his cheeks, the hand around her neck blessedly loosened a bit. "Your shears."
Not a question, but a command, and it only took a moment for her to realize that she was still grasping her shears in one hand. Any other time, she might have used them as a weapon in self-defense, but…Without a word, she carefully lifted her hand to offer the shears to him, and he finally released her as he accepted them. Clara coughed as she brought a hand to her throat, trying to ease the pounding of her heart as he inspected the sharpness of the twin blades. While he did, her eyes caught sight of the freshly stitched line surrounding his neck, and her vision began to blur with tears.
"I need material," he finally said, lifting his gaze to hers.
Feeling two tears fall down her cheeks, she pointed to a table on the far side of the room, where several piles of neatly folded fabrics were already waiting for him.
"Get it to work," he muttered under his breath before turning to go to his table. Clara sagged against the wall as he walked away, letting herself slide to the floor as she watched him reach for the fabric at the top of one pile. "I've gotta get it to work…"
~Storybrooke~
It was Jefferson's hand on her wrist that drew her out of her thoughts.
"You should proud of your handiwork," he said flatly, "it's kept me together after all these years."
She stared, then blinked slowly, not surprised when she felt the warmth of tears spilling from her eyes. His hand was still holding onto hers, his grip firm yet gentle.
Then she saw the barest flare of his nostrils as he exhaled. "Come with me," he rasped, his hand sliding from hers as he turned and headed for the nearby staircase. There was no hurry in his step.
Watching him ascend the stairs, Lydia contemplated the notion of bolting out the front door, but at the same time…
Sniffing quietly, she wiped away her tears. Taking a deep breath, she wrapped her arms around herself before following him up the stairs.