Taffer Notes: Content Warning for referenced suicide
In which no one really gets what they want.
Chapter 2: Breakfast
She tossed. She turned. She dreamt of waking from a nightmare so vivid, no one was ever going to believe her — only for the nightmare to be real, and her waking the dream.
Deja vu, that.
But mostly, she laid flat on the too hard mattress and stared at the ceiling, wrapped up in all that suffocating silence broken only when Ghost moved.
Click.
Whirr.
Whirr.
Whirr.
Nicole clenched her jaw. Hard enough to hurt and hard enough to get Ghost's attention.
"Guardian? You okay?"
She rolled her head to the side on that stupid flat pillow and when she looked, Ghost's blue eye caught her straight in the face. Flinching, Nicole snapped her head back and pulled the blanket over it.
The No she left for him to figure out.
Hours later, she gave up. Or maybe it was days. Or weeks. How was she supposed to know? Wasn't like she had a clock. A headache though, that she had. A slow, pulsing sort of thing. Like nails being driven through her eye sockets at a steady rhythm. Thud-thud. Thud-thud.
She swung her legs off the bed. They wouldn't stand though. Couldn't be convinced to, and so she just sat there for a bunch more hours, her head hung low over her knees. Alright. Fine. Not hours. Minutes. And not even that many of them, since here he was again, looping the same worn-out question over and over and over again.
"Guardian? Are you—"
"No," she shot back. Half shouted, really, her voice a croaky mess. With the word came the anger. Overwhelming. Unfettered. It boiled up her throat so quick, she didn't stand a chance at choking it back down. Not like yesterday, when she'd reeled it in in time. Furious, Nicole grabbed the pillow — and threw it at him hard as she could.
Didn't matter if she was way off because she wasn't looking. Didn't matter if she hit him or not. She just. had. to. The pillow went and Ghost rolled under it, his shell turning about wildly.
"I'm not okay," she added, fingers clenched into fists and the anger blooming outwards. It pumped from her heart in hard, quick shudders. Replaced her bones with white-hot iron rods. Especially the ones in her arms. It hurt. Seared at her.
"Uh. Guardian—"
"WHAT!"
"Your, ah… your… ah… fire."
Arm. Arm! Her bloody arm was burning.
The fire spun around her wrist like a hundred bracelets made of living flame, all twisting and contracting to a rhythm she couldn't make any sense of. Soon, they'd leap up her arm, she figured. Or off of her. Set the whole damn flat on fire. And then what?
"Bollocks."
Nicole stumbled up from the bed. She dashed across the room, pushed through the curtain into the bathroom, and stuck her arm under the water faucet. The fire went out— a beat before she'd fumbled to get the water on.
Not that she cared. All that mattered was that it was out.
But it hurt. A lot. And for a while Nicole stood there, whimpering, while cold water did its best to wash the burn marks away. Something it failed at spectacularly. By the time she shut the water off, her arm looked like someone had wrapped a rope around it from the wrist up wrist and twisted the rope fierce enough to leave behind angry, red lines.
"Don't cry," she said. "Don't. Cry."
She yanked a towel off a rack and soaked it in cold water to the point where it weighed a ton. It went around her arm in a soggy mess that dripped water everywhere while she pinched her eyes shut. Tightly. A whistle had started building in her ears. Constant. Pitched real high. And it got louder. And louder. It wouldn't stop, no matter how much she willed it to. Still whimpering, and with her heart hammering up her throat, Nicole bailed from the bathroom, the curtain snapping behind her when she'd shoved through.
It was still flapping about when Ghost zipped over to her. His eye fixed on her arm. "You're hurt," he said, absolutely helpful. "Let me fix that—"
"Get out," she croaked. Past the whistling in her ear that'd swelled to shrill. Deafening.
"What?"
"You heard me. Get. Out."
"Guardian…"
"GET OUT!" Nicole half-shrieked, her voice snapping down the middle and all the don't cry coming together to mean nothing.
Ghost reeled back. And when she swiped at him, almost knocking her towel-wrapped arm into him, he vanished in a puff of muted, blue light.
Gone.
Nicole sucked in air. Every gasp hurt as it went down, making her think she'd swallowed two soaked towels, not just rolled one around her arm. And now she was wringing them out in her chest, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing until her gasps turned to choked hiccups.
The tears welling from her eyes maybe didn't burn quite as hot as the fire had, but they burnt anyway. And they wouldn't simply wash off.
Ghost popped out on the other side of the door, his eye barely an inch from it. There he hung, light falling off him, thin and faint, before its motes danced off into nothing. Much as he would have liked to.
Go up in a puff. Vanish. Forever.
Dear Traveler, he quietly told the door, My Guardian just kicked me out.
He floated backwards, his shell turning lamely.
Yes, you heard right. Kicked me out. Not even a day back in the City and I think I'll be nesting with the pigeons next.
He didn't go far, no. Just enough to hover in the middle of the empty hallway. From there, he stared at the door which ought to have been as much of an obstacle as empty air.
But right now? Right now it was as tall and solid as a mountain.
"And I forgot to pack my hiking boots," he muttered. "And my legs."
Instead, he'd brought a core so heavy, he could barely keep himself in the air — all while his Guardian was in there, hurting.
When the tears dried, they left her cheeks all sticky and her throat raw. And nothing had changed. She was still alone on the floor, arms tightly wrapped around her knees, while that bleached ball stared at her through a gap in the curtains. Taunting her, probably.
Laughing. Because this was all some colossal joke.
Nothing was right. There was no phone in her pocket. No soft, warm dog at her feet. Just her and that ball and two bags left on the floor where she'd dumped them last night.
Oh. And her aching head and wrist.
Wincing, Nicole peeled the damp towel off. The burn marks were still there, of course, 100% real and angry and throbbing like she had bees stuffed under her skin. Great. Worst burn she'd ever had up until now had been from momentarily forgetting oven mittens were a thing. Now she set herself on fire. Without the need for an oven or stove or even just a match.
She sighed and dropped the towel before hauling herself up. That hurt, too. Muscles unacquainted with all the use they'd gotten pulled together into knots. Especially her legs and her shoulders. They ached like she'd grown a hundred years old.
Which was silly.
She'd died.
And then she'd skipped those years. The lot of them — and she was still thinking about that. Couldn't stop it. Couldn't pretend it was okay. Couldn't make herself get over it, because how did you get over something like that?
Her eyes flicked to the door. She almost called for Ghost then. Almost.
At the end, she didn't though. Just sucked her lips in and dug her teeth into them.
How could she be so certain he was out there anyway? That he wasn't right in here with her. Invisible. Hiding. No clue. She just knew. Felt it in her gut — or maybe in that ball of heat in her chest — that the flat was empty. Not counting hers truly, obviously.
Jaw clenched, she wobbled over to the shopping bags, swiped them up, and carried them over to the bed to upend them over it. Out tumbled her new clothes.
New clothes for a new life, or some bull like that. All wrinkled up and a far cry from colour coordinated. Wasn't like she'd gone for fashionable. All she'd done was pick the first pieces that'd caught her eye, eager to be out of the shop again. So, now none of it was neat. None of it was perfect.
Not like it'd been perfect before. Her life.
Which was a tangent. She was losing focus. Thinking about things that she shouldn't, because they hurt.
Taking a few deep and shaky breaths, Nicole pinched the bridge of her nose with her un-burnt hand before swiping it all the way down her face to wipe the rest of the tears away.
No, her life hadn't been perfect. Far from it. But it'd been hers. Hers to life.
Hers to end. Or so she'd thought.
Ghost had started pacing. Yes. Ghosts could pace. What about it? Didn't need legs for that. He'd set himself into a steady loop back and forth, ending in a tilt and sway at each corner before he went for another round.
At one point, a door opened. Not hers, not his Guardian's, but the one across and a little off to the side. A woman came out, dressed in simple City garb and trailed by a boy no more than five years old. They both regarded him as they went by, the woman with a friendly smile and the kid with his eyes all lit up.
That didn't help one bit. All he could think of was the look on his Guardian's face when she'd screamed at him to get out. The anger in them. The pain. It'd been etched into every line on her face. Plus, the tears. Hard to miss those.
Ghost kept pacing.
So what was he supposed to do? He didn't have forever to get through to her. He had a few days. That was all he'd asked for, and here he was, wasting the morning of the first one outside her door.
He stopped in front of it. His shell flared out.
Out here. Rather than in there. With her. Where he was supposed to be. Doing what though? Even if she'd not kicked him out — what was he supposed to do?
Click. His shell fell back together. Helping, that was what. Fix her burns. That'd be a good start, right? Right.
Traveler help him, he was useless.
"Hey, champ."
Ghost's shell practically blew apart as he whirled around, his stabilisers not quite catching and leaving him wobbling unsteadily, all while a mildly amused Shephard looked on with a faint smile.
How'd he done that? How'd he snuck up on him like that? And where was Darrow? Nowhere to be seen, that was where. Ghost squinted.
Between yesterday afternoon and today, Shephard had swapped his armour for a set of black clothes. Sturdy black pants. Black belt. And a black shirt tucked into said belt, all matching his black hair.
Ghost of course only noticed all of that because his Guardian would notice. Not because he paid particularly much attention to how one of the Traveler's favourite dressed. Duh. And he knew exactly what she was going to think.
Great. This… this is fantastic. She'll be thrilled. He withered a little.
Shephard caught on, obviously, his smile taking on an inquisitive quality that made Ghost wish he had more control over how his shell acted up lately.
He gestured to the door with one hand, a hand holding on to a paper bag, Ghost observed. Because he, too, could be observant. Thank you. The bag had a stylised, steaming cup printed on it. The words Daily Revive were printed under them. He didn't need to scan it to know what was in it.
Breakfast. For his Guardian. How thoughtful.
Wait, why was that bugging him?
"She okay?" Shephard asked and took a step forward. To the door. He was going to go in there and it was going to be a disaster.
"What? Yes. Yes, of course, she's okay," he blurted and, with his processing core reeling uselessly, swung into Shephard's path. Squarely in front of his chest.
A hundred-seventy-something pounds of breakfast carrying Guardian came to a sudden halt, his brows rocking up. "Oh yeah?" He leaned around him. Tried to get past.
"Absolutely." Ghost floated up and to the side, getting all in his way again. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm here to take you two to the Speaker. Remember? Question is, what are you—" He jabbed a finger at him. "—doing out—" Gestured around vaguely. "—here?"
Ghost did a lame lame roll. "Nothing."
"I can see that. So you don't mind if I..." Shephard continued, his words trailing off on purpose probably, and closed the gap some more.
Backed towards the door, Ghost's shell started giving the most uncoordinated roll into every possible direction. "She's, ah, she's showering?" he tried.
Shephard just kept smiling. A small, half tilted and unbelieving smile that grew a little as he reached up to gently push him aside so he could knock on his Guardian's door.
Once. Twice. Three times. Quick knocks that ended in an awkward stretch of silence because no one came to answer.
He'd be lying to himself if he pretended that didn't worry him.
Shephard glanced at him. Ghost tried to shrug. And so Shephard raised his hand again to knock once more. Right as the thing opened — ever so slowly — with his Guardian half tucked behind it, a hand gripping the side tight.
She looked… disheveled. But she'd ditched the oversized clothes for some of what she'd picked out last night; a peach coloured shirt, a pair of jeans, and a linen scarf in different shades of green. The scarf hung on all lopsided and her hair was equally undecided on what way to stick.
But her eyes were what drew his attention. They were puffy. Red at the edges. Had a glassy sort of shine to them and fixed on Shephard with a muted kind of terror.
Ghost hung half paralysed in the air. As if someone had pinned him there. Was he supposed to say something? Tell her he'd found Shephard, maybe? Do something? Anything? Stay where he was? Go invisible? Dematerialise? Transmat himself into a waste bin and get taken out with the rest of the garbage?
He did none of that. All he managed was a minuscule tick under his shell, barely enough to glance between his Guardian and Shephard.
Shephard who, as it turned out, still stood there with his hand poised to knock. He lowered it, slowly. Deliberately. Like he knew she'd bolt if he as much as twitched wrong.
"Good morning," he said after a beat of them staring at each other.
"Morning," she mumbled back. The fingers clinging to the door flexed. Her feet shuffled. Was she going to close the door in their faces?
Traveler have mercy, she was, wasn't she?
Shephard though seemed undeterred. With a smile on that was much warmer than the one he'd worn before, he raised the paper bag into her field of vision and gave it a small wiggle.
"I figured you'll want breakfast before we go talk to the Speaker. Buuuut—" He stuck a hand into the bag. When it came back out, it balanced a cup holder with two cups stuck through its holes. "—I didn't know if you're a tea or a coffee animal, so I brought both."
"Coffee." The response was instant.
"Abolishing the stereotype. I like it. Cup on the left."
His Guardian reached for it — but Shephard pulled the whole thing back slightly. She froze as if she'd turned into a rabbit and she'd just seen the shadow of an eagle pass overhead. Or a wolf, in her case.
"Your left," he clarified, the smile still on. And maybe reaching his eyes a little better than it had before. But what did Ghost know? He'd obviously flunked human reading.
His Guardian huffed. Then she grabbed the one on her left and slunk back into the apartment. The door she left half-open.
The three knocks had startled Nicole right out of the absolute nothing she'd been doing. All that sitting there at the small table in a murky dark, the echo of the pitched whistling haunting her, but fading. Knock-knock-knock and she'd almost fallen off the chair and spat up her heart.
Now? Now she had coffee.
Nicole backed into the room, stuck her lips to the cup, and took a sip. Was it maybe a little too hot to reasonably drink? Probably. But she did it anyway, because this? This smelled like coffee. Tasted like coffee. Went down like it, too. It was a moment of borrowed routine, an illusion of having rolled out of bed like a normal person, having put a pot on and maybe not forgotten to get a cup this time around after she'd sat down in front of her keyboard.
It wasn't even very good. It was watery and plain but it got the job done. Least until she noticed how John and Ghost were watching. Quietly. From over by the door as they loitered out in the hall. Her eyes landed on them over the rim of the cup.
She lowered it. Very, very, very slowly.
And all of a sudden she'd grown a rabbit brain. It insisted, thumping and reeling and pulling her stomach into a knot, that she go hide under the bed.
Why? Because John filled out the entire door, decked in black. Shoulder to shoulder. Head to toe. Blocked it all. No way out. Nowhere to go. Between her and the hall stood a black wolf, its green eyes set on a snack.
Naturally, she ought to run. Now. Right now. Move.
Run.
Run.
Run.
John's brow furrowed. The smile he'd come knocking on the door with faded, and his eyes flicked to Ghost. "What happened?" he asked. The question prompted her burn marks to itch fiercely. He'd noticed them. But she didn't dare scratch at them, especially when he stepped into the flat. One long stride. Right in. Nicole remained rooted to the spot, her fingers around the cup tightening.
"Ah," Ghost started, his everything wobbling left and right while he got herded in with a lazy arm gesture. "I made her mad."
John's brow kicked the other way — up, rather than down — and the smile came back. "Look at that. You found yourself a solarflare."
Nicole's cheeks immediately turned awfully red.
Flared. If you will.
God. She'd actually thought that. Why'd she thought that?
John, as if he'd read her mind right then and there, looked at her and… ah… winked. It was brief. It was fleeting. And maybe she'd even imagined it.
"Don't worry, there's nothing wrong with you," he said after he'd thoroughly embarrassed her. "It happens to the best of us, no matter if we're a hundred years old or hardly a day."
He gestured between her and Ghost and jutted his chin into her direction. Promptly, Ghost floated over to her, his trajectory keeping him at hip level and his shell drooping.
When he reached her, he wordlessly washed the burns off her skin. Just like that. Here now. Gone then, vanished by a shy bloom of his light. It left a timid tugging sensation behind, even after he'd put his shell back together. A hint that maybe she still carried something under her skin that couldn't decide if it wanted to stay — or fall away and return to him.
Which made absolutely no sense.
But hey. No more swarming bees where the burns had been. No more itching. No more headache, either, though that was the coffee, she figured. And, most importantly, John hadn't shown any indication yet that she was going to be a snack.
Rather, he moved around in the flat like he owned the place, every step purposeful. He dropped the bag off on her table. Pulled the curtains open all the way, the morning light coming in hard enough to burn her eyes. Glanced at the messy piles of clothes on her bed. Glanced at her. Drank his tea. And through it all kept his distance.
Slowly, her stomach unknotted.
"So, how do you like the place?"
Aaaand it clenched up again. Stupid. Thing.
Nicole stuck her nose back down over the cup and mumbled a non-committal "It's alright," before distracting herself with another sip of gradually cooling coffee.
"Yeah, guess it is. Bit smaller than I remember. Cozy though."
"This was yours?" Ghost blurted and whirred himself up to hover by her shoulder.
His proximity made her tense up — got every inch facing him to bunch up. Made it all… tingle. Like someone had thrown a shower of sharp pins against her. No amount of rubbing at her neck made the sensation go away. And she tried. She really tried.
"Yep. My second apartment after Darrow raised me. You know, from the dead. Not raised raised." John stopped his round through the place in front of the window, his gaze fixed on the Traveler. "You'll get used to it," he said then. Not to Ghost. To her, she figured.
Whoever this man was in the grand scheme of things, he saw right through her, didn't he? Or maybe having the curtains drawn like she'd had them — turning the flat into a box made of shadows — had given away just how much she didn't want to see it. Because she really didn't want to. See them. The Traveler. Ghost. They both kept shoving this nightmare back into her face.
Nicole looked at the pale ball, unconvinced, and swallowed another gulp of coffee. Her mouth scrunched up. The brew had suddenly gotten a lot more bitter. "If you say so."
"Oh yeah. I do. Now—" He'd gone back to the table, scooped up the bag, and carried it into her general direction. "—how about another quick tour around the Tower? See some sights. Chase some pigeons. Meet the Speaker."
He let the bag fall half open and she almost jumped. Almost squeaked, really. Had to squash the budding of a noise in her chest before it could grow into something more substantial. Into something embarrassing — because there wasn't anything threatening about him. Not in his slow, deliberate motion. Not in the subtle professionally disarming smile, and not in how he kept himself at least an arm's length away from her at all times. Her arm's length, to be precise.
All so that she could reach her hand into the bag and play go fish for pastries, as it turned out. Which she did. Carefully and half reluctantly. But they smelled nice. Even from that arm's length away. Good enough to convince her stomach to unfurl so it could growl at her.
That traitorous thing.
"Is that a yes?" John asked.
"What? I mean. Yes. That— that sounds good." Nicole's dignity tried to crawl up her throat. She swallowed it back down. With great difficult, mind you.
"Does it?"
God.
"No. No, it doesn't." Because it didn't. She didn't want anything to do with any of this. "But I'll come."
For a moment, John simply stared at her. The professional smile he'd worn for the longest time dimmed just a little.
She didn't know what to do with that. With the stare. With the smile. With the anything. So she did the only thing she could reasonably think of at that point: she bit into the piece of unidentifiable pastry. It was flaky. Still a bit warm. Sweet. And reminded her she had no manners.
Swallowing hastily, Nicole added a halfway muffled "Ta."
John's right brow rocked up. "What was that?"
"Thank you," she clarified. "For, ah, the coffee." She raised the hand with the cup in it. "And breakfast." Raised that one, too. "And, ah, the food last night. And the clothes. And—"
The rescue.
"Don't mention it," he said and indicated the door with a slow sweep of his arm.
Right before she managed to wring that half-life up her throat. Because she didn't mean it. Not really. Not when maybe, just maybe, if he hadn't shown yesterday then that nightmare would have ended right then and there. That, if he hadn't saved her, the choice she'd made would have mattered. A choice she'd had every right to and that no one ought to have taken from her.
But here she was. With guilt burrowed deep in her gut and a life she'd thrown away hell-bent on haunting her.