Chapter 12: Renascence | Spring, 2016

Holly

Three months pass at a rapid speed, spurred onward by equal parts anxiety and excitement. The media doesn't forget the photographs of Ben and I outside the Northumberland airport: various speculation pieces continue to be released from time to time, and whenever another article is written on Ben and his work, the pictures are usually mentioned at least vaguely. I walk down the streets of New York with a slight weight on my shoulders, terrified of being recognized by a die-hard fan—but it never happens, and a great relief resides in my chest at the knowledge of my safety.

On campus, however, it does seem as though a few people have recognized me from the gossip, but they don't give me a hard time about it, and don't even dare to approach and ask. Alex initially advised me that if I pretended like I had no idea about any of it, they would doubt their suspicions and ignore it. I'd taunted her playfully, "Okay, Miss Psychology major," as, after entering Freshman year undecided, she's finally settled on going into Clinical Psychology. But, truly the advice was helpful and worked perfectly. Still, it's unnerving to see those photographs of myself on the internet, so public, under such scrutiny.

I admit that I have tracked most of the articles written about them—one chain of comments left on the photos centers around an argument over who the "mystery girl" could be to Ben. Many people worry mostly over whether the "mystery girl" could be a love interest—those comments got old quickly and don't bother me much, even when they can get slightly mean and jealous. But one comment which I found, reacting to that majority, did disturb me thoroughly, even though it was one of the comments which, objectively, I might have otherwise considered the most considerate towards my privacy; by PerryWinkle-Batch on twitter: "You guys, we shouldn't be so obsessed over these pics! Look how young she is! I'm sure our bae was just having a young relative over for the holidays and treating her to a goodbye hug. Move on!"

Before too long, though, Ben and I have discussed the photographs and the resulting publicity, and the reality of our real relationship, separate from the gossip, along with the fact of my safety and the fact that my identity has yet to be exploited off the internet—have combined to help me become comfortable again, and to leave the photos in the past.

Benedict himself, though, I cannot leave in the past whatsoever—he is present completely, in my mind and body every day, though we are separated by an entire ocean of space, and suffer a seven hour difference in time zones. For the first week after returning from his parents house in England, I couldn't sleep at all, my body suddenly startled and upset by the loss of his presence in bed beside me. But even after I recovered from that initial difficulty, it continued to be difficult to go about my day without getting frequently lost in pondering thoughts surrounding him and us.

I try to keep my feelings under control, try to maintain the tightly-boxed control that I developed so carefully over my teenage years under the harsh conditions of that time in my life, under the regime of my father. But no matter how I try to suppress the conflicting emotions, the frightening desires, fears and feelings of hope, they keep slipping out of their boxes and floating around my mind at all hours.

In an effort to take my mind off him—though we still call every day and message even more frequently when our schedules don't allow much time on both ends—and to satisfy my sudden need for more human connection, I end up, in March, reuniting with my Aunt officially after our long separation. It is the true reunification to which my phone call to her on Christmas had been the prelude.

At first, we are both equally, extremely reluctant. It begins with a few more cautious, short phone calls, progresses with a visit to her at her apartment—tentatively, making no promises. But, soon, I begin meeting with her most days after or between classes. She's out of rehab again and doing very well—better than I've ever seen her before.

We begin quite quickly to connect and talk in a way that we never did before, when one of the worst times of her life coincided with my arrival. And when I'm in need of a get-away from campus—and, sometimes, from Alex, who has become much more social than ever, and is only growing into more of an extrovert, which I sometimes can't handle as gracefully as I wish I could—I take to going to study in my Aunt's kitchen.

The apartment holds some difficult memories of that struggling year after I moved in, working as a waitress in a seedy restaurant and also as a janitorial worker (there are still burned patches on my hands from the chemicals) in every kitchen and building I could find.

But, to my extremely relieved surprise, my Aunt sits me down one day in early April and apologizes tearfully, from the bottom of her heart, for her lack of initial hospitality. And from thereon out, it is surprisingly easy for us to really mend, and my emotional loss of Ben's consistent presence is aided extremely by her companionship, and the knowledge that points which have so long been difficult between my Aunt and I have been resolved.

In addition to my reunification with my Aunt, I also become in touch with the father of the boy I tried to save on the subway on that November day. It's hard to believe that that happened a year and a half ago—the time has passed by with unusual speed, as most of the other years of my life seem, in memory, to have passed with extreme slowness from the suffering with which they were infused. Nonetheless, when the man reaches out to me, it seems as though it happened only yesterday. He offers me his thanks again, tells me good news that he has married and adopted a child, and also tells me that he wants me to know that he will forever be grateful for my efforts. It's a brief period, but it helps, when I see and feel the scar from the bullet wound in my side, to be aware of the betterment of his situation, even if his son could not be saved from succumbing to his wounds.

Benedict is up to the chin in work while filming Sherlock throughout the month of April, and often gets so pent-up in the all-consuming work that he'll call me during a break, and it will take five minutes before he's shaken his character's rather abrupt and terse, rapid-fire method of speech—a condition that makes us both laugh once he's shaken off the lingering traces of his character. It's increasingly easy to forget, at times, amongst the repetitions of I-miss-you and the like, that he is possessed of another identity separate from the simple, normal one I've come to know and adore. Alex is, oftentimes, my only source of reminder that he is a celebrity, at all.

Once I try to alleviate the awkwardness around this fact, joking that he should give me the inside scoop on the plot of the upcoming Sherlock season—and then, just a second later, feeling unsure of myself, saying, quickly, "I was kidding—you know I'd never ask that of you," and fearing, irrationally that I will have somehow upset him. But a second later he responds with a good-natured laugh, acknowledging the joke and quelling my sense of insecurity.

More than anything, though, it's the slight tension between us regarding the photographs—how close we'd come to causing a greater problem by being seen together. And, also, the feeling that worsening circumstances regarding our relationship and the media are unavoidable.

But in the meantime, Ben tries to keep me in good faith, and we work hard to continue maintaining and developing our relationship despite exterior stresses, and the frustration that results from being kept so far away from each other physically.

Eventually my lost suitcase does get located again—in London, no less—and Benedict is the one to claim it from the airline, calling me up on a video chat one day and announcing its presence in his apartment.

"They're good company," he says, of my clothes, making me laugh aloud uncontrollably as he takes each shirt from the suitcase, unfolding and re-folding them, laying them out. "But they'd be much better with you in them. I suppose... you'll just have to come over here and get them back."

But he ends up settling for shipping them back to me—at which point Alex announces without room for argument that I am in dire need of a wardrobe update, and takes me out shopping for some new clothes that still fit my old style, but are not quite so drab and overused—or so she says; I've never had much of an eye for fashion; something Alex seems to consider a fatal flaw of mine.

Throughout the month of April, I suffer a few bad stretches of time during which I can't seem to stop thinking about my father—perhaps, suggests Alex, because the year mark since he was found and incarcerated is approaching quickly. There are days when I can hardly get out of bed, and every footstep or movement hurts in a way more emotional than physical. I'll wake up in the middle of the night whimpering and disturbing Alex's sleep, remembering the feeling of his hands on my body, his ropes around my wrists, the choking sensation of being drowned in his alcohol—not being able to escape. On some nights I stay in my Aunt's apartment rather than in the dorm for the sake of Alex's sleep—or I don't sleep at all, spending all night long in the library or—once—in a coffee shop uptown, fading in and out of consciousness under the fluorescent lights—not daring to sit down, and not bearing to stand up, either.

It's during one of the nights I'm away that Alex finds—by mistake—the copy of Great Expectations that Ben gifted me over Christmas, where I'd hid it for the sake of avoiding questions. I feel my stomach turn over that morning when I walk back into our dorm to see her sitting at the desk with the book on one end, staring at her computer screen. It becomes quickly clear that she's discovered the fact that the book is a first printing edition from over 150 years ago, and—worse—has found an online appraisal of it.

"Don't tell me!" I demand immediately, when she starts to do so, covering my ears with my hands. Though my reaction is to be playful, I, really, am sincere—I've exerted much energy in the past months to avoid finding out how much money Ben had spend on it, terrified of finding out, knowing that the amount would be outrageous and knowing that I wouldn't be able to bear to know.

But Alex doesn't understand this and doesn't stop until I can't help but hearing her say, with a hint of awe and also of near-horror: "It's almost 20 grand, Holly."

My jaw literally loosens and drops open upon hearing the number, and checking her computer screen to find that, indeed, it's an accurate figure.

Quickly I'm distracted from the difficulties of my past and brought with a harsh re-entry back to the present. Now, what I can't escape night or day is the reality of the price. I can't help but think hard about Ben's possible intentions: though I know that he wouldn't ever try to manipulate me into a more serious relationship by paying a great amount of money for such a gift, I'm intimidated by the fact that he had no qualms about spending that much money on me. I know that 20 grand isn't just throwaway money, even for someone as wealthy as Ben, and as someone who has always been frugal with money, and has never been doted on in any capacity, this amount is nothing short of stunning—and a little scary, too.

My concerns finally find their way into actual conversation when I at last work up the nerve to tell Ben about Alex's findings on one of our phone calls. We get involved in a brief flirtatious argument about the price of the book itself, to keep ourselves from becoming too sincere. But once a few minutes have passed, a sudden silence overtakes us, a silence filled with the things unsaid, all of our concerns crowding the quiet space between us.

"Ben..." I manage after a minute, piecing my thoughts together cautiously. "What do you want... with me? What... what 's your goal?"

He, in turn, takes a minute of quiet to assemble his mind, and I sit in tense anticipation, waiting for him as he had waited for me moments earlier. In the end he sighs, as though giving up a fight, and then manages a chuckle, his easy-going nature overtaking him as usual, though I know he's still speaking with the utmost sincerity behind his gentle, teasing tone. "To stay with you as long as I can," he answers at last. "To stay with you until you tire of me, that is."

I don't know what I can possibly say to that: I can't see myself ever tiring of Ben, and I had only eve seen him tiring of me, on the contrary. Despite myself, I smile. I remain quiet over the phone, and I'm sure that we can almost hear each other smiling. Before I have the chance to say anything in response, though, Ben interjects again. "Speaking of..."

And he goes on to tell me that he's just found out he will be in New York again come July, to be involved in some brief filming for the new Thor movie, and then to stay longer in support of Tom and of me, as well. I tell him, of course, that I would love to see him. I am overjoyed and looking forward to it immediately, with such intensity that I almost jump up and down then and there, and barely manage to keep my feet on the floor. The thought of seeing him again in the flesh, of embracing him, of... kissing him... overwhelms me with relief and anticipation that sends tingles through my body and my heart—sends tingles lower than I'd ever though they could go after my father.

But this excitement is also balanced by some serious things to think about. The fact of Ben's presence in New York being just a month in the future, prompts me to really consider what it could mean to get into a deeper, more serious relationship with him—a relationship which would inevitably include the side effect of attention from the media and the public.

The idea sounds so alien and faraway, but, yet, dangerously close. I know there will be a high personal price for being in love with someone in his profession, with someone with his amount of fame and exposure to the public. I fear always being known because of my connection to him, and not because I'm distinguishable by my own accomplishments. But after sitting with the problem, my heart tells me quietly, honestly, that if this Is the price, so be it. I know I'm in love, and whatever struggles might accompany a more serious union with Benedict, I am more than willing to take as they come. I know he will be by my side the whole time.

Author's Note:

Well, that felt like a baby chapter after the last one. I know it probably wasn't as satisfying, mostly filler / information, and not much Benedict (sorry), but necessary nonetheless!

Thoughts and feelings?

Alas... it's late and words are starting to fail me. Suffice it to say that I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and that you're looking forward to the next one, in with Ben and Tom will both be coming to NYC!

Wishing you well,

Une-papillon-de-nuit

2 August, 2020