Thumb Rings and Ballet Slippers
((A/N: As with the last chapter, domestic abuse is mentioned so if you feel as though you'd be triggered by it in any way then please don't continue reading. Look after yourselves, lovelies!))
"It's awful. Really, really awful."
Plato hated it when Victoria was upset. It almost destroyed him when her voice broke with emotion, made him want to cry along with her and hold her small frame so that she knew she was safe and okay. He could see her; she'd have her hair in a pony tail to keep it off her face and she'd be wearing one of the shirts he purposefully left there, he imagined her laying in the foetal position as she whispered down the receiver, her brow puckered and her eyelashes fluttering more than usual. She told him about Jemima's sister, how grotesque the marks decorating her skin looked, how she could still hear her room mate dancing around the flat, trying to make sure everyone was comfortable.
"It sounds it," he replied, "Do you want me to head over now and keep you company? Because I can."
She laughed a little then and it was like music, her giggles were the notes to an aria and he let them engulf him in warmth. She made him forget how angry he'd been when she laughed, she was like soothing anesthetic to his head that still ached from the pounding earlier and he wanted to be with her now.
"Don't be silly, it's incredibly late and we both have work tomorrow."
"I'm sorry I was so short earlier," Plato said instantly, his abrasive nature had been plaguing him all evening. He had confided in Tumble, as his younger brother tried to figure out a way that was tactful to remove the very drunk Etcetera from his hips, about his small episode earlier and had felt his heart sink as the other boy mumbled that it was good of Plato to keep his cool long enough so that he didn't yell at Victoria.
"You sounded busy," there was relief in her voice, she'd obviously been waiting for the apology. He wondered if she'd thought about his moment of short temper as a strange woman on her sofa poured her heart out and cried about her abusive partner. He felt nauseous at the idea. Sometimes Plato got angry, but of course he'd never hurt Victoria, the prospect of her being in pain was agonising for him. But then he thought about his brothers' toys that he used to break in the middle of a temper tantrum when they were younger, how he'd punched through plaster board once when he was a teenager, the glasses he threw at the wall now and watched with satisfaction as they splintered and broke. Breaking things had always provided a release but he couldn't even fathom the idea of breaking Victoria. Images of her splintering away played in his mind and he felt his jaw slack as he tried to form a coherent sentence.
"I love you dearly," came her voice, "But I need to get some sleep and so do you."
"Okay," was all he managed.
"We'll talk more tomorrow," she said, he could hear the small smile in her voice.
"Yeah," he replied, "Yeah, we'll talk tomorrow. You can come over if you'd like."
"I don't want to leave Jemima. She's pretending like she's okay but you can tell she's terrified."
She was so kind, always looking out for the younger girl she lived with. Her sweetness breathed life into him, allowed him to shake off that awful feeling of fear and smile warmly even though she couldn't see it.
"Okay," he said gently, "Then I'll come over and make you lovely ladies some dinner, she'll be run off her feet looking after her sister and you'll be worn out after being a full-time ballet ninja so I'll step up and make sure you guys get some decent nourishment."
"You darling," she laughed, "But I've witnessed your culinary skills and while I appreciate the offer, I really do, I'll have to pass. You're welcome to come over though."
"Point taken, I'll bring Chinese food."
There was that laugh again, clear as a bell. He smiled a little, stretching on top of his bedsheets and looking up at the ceiling, all visions of Victoria hurting dismissed by that beautiful sound. He was being stupid, he was worrying too much, he could never hurt anything that created a noise so pure.
"I love you, you goof," she said between giggles. It was funny, the first time she told him that she loved him it was on accident. He had only brought her a cup of coffee on his way over to her flat and she had excitedly proclaimed her love for him before noticing what she'd done and clapping her hand over her mouth as though she'd swore in front of him. Since then, she had no qualms about saying it but every time she did it was like the sun shone on only him, privately showering him with warmth.
"I love you too," he wondered if it had the same effect on her, "Good night."
Victoria hung up then, smiling for a moment at her phone before burrowing further under the sheets, trying to block out all of the horrible things that were going on in her flat. In the room opposite, Demeter lay in her little sister's bed and felt her eyes get heavier and heavier. She wouldn't be able to sleep for quite some time though, she'd grown used to always being aware from living with Macavity. She'd just asked to get to bed now so that she could have time alone. While she was thankful to the elfin girl that had helped her slide into the bed before stroking her hair and whispering her good night's, she wanted to hide away from everyone. She was humiliated.
Demeter wasn't this person Macavity had made her. She was strong, she was a survivor. Her only memories of childhood were the times she hid under the cover with her sisters as her Mother and whatever man was around at that point fought in the next room, she'd survived that. Her memories of adolescence were tainted by having to explain to her little sister why their Mother wouldn't be coming home from the hospital, why they were packing up to go live with Aunt Jenny, she'd survived that. Her days at university were a blur of alcohol and arguments with spoiled brats that took their education for granted, she'd survived that. The trademark of her early twenties was her largest heartbreak, when she found out that Macavity had slept with some woman he'd worked with on some shady project, she'd survived that, albeit only just.
And yet here she was, bundled in a stranger's pyjamas and her little sister's bedsheets. The bruises on her spine made it difficult to get comfortable, she couldn't cradle her arm by her head because her face would brush up against it and flare up as though a hot iron was being pressed to her skin. She was always on edge, ready for uninvited hands that she had once loved to make their way to her hips and push her further into the mattress and take her to places that she had no interest in going to. Hate burned in her mouth, made her want to scream at the ceiling and blow the roof off of the cramped flat, made her want to spit in her assailant's face. She wanted to pull at his red hair, to claw at his ivory skin, screech her hate into his beautiful face. He'd robbed her of her dignity, he hadn't just defiled her body, he'd defiled everything she liked about herself and shed light on all of her worst attributes, he had hurt her. (And still there was this nagging voice in the back of her head that petulantly pointed out that she'd still fall for it, were he to come crawling on hands and knees, tears in those beautiful eyes of his.)
At one point, she thought he was the only person that would never hurt her. Her Mother had hurt her by not caring enough about her daughters to sort herself out. Her Auntie Jenny and Uncle Skimble had hurt her by bringing around the sharp realisation that her ideas of family and home were not the norm. Her Sisters had hurt her, and still did to some extent, by acting as though they were entirely unaffected by their familial circumstances and blatantly refused to speak about it. But never Macavity, even when he'd been unfaithful, she saw it as that bitch at the office hurting her. And now he hadn't just hurt her. He'd broken her, and she feared that she was beyond repair.
She needed Bombalurina. Jemima was trying her best, she was doing everything right but she couldn't compare to the oldest sister. Bombalurina had a way of wrapping her arm around Demeter's shoulder, of whispering soft and soothing phrases into her ear, of looking into her eyes and making her feel entirely at peace. Bombalurina made her feel safe in a way no one else was able to, she needed that. Jemima was safe too, but in a different way, in a way that meant people felt like they could say whatever was on their mind with no fear of being judged, but her younger sister provided little security from the nagging voice in the back of Demeter's head that whispered that Macavity could show up at the door at any point. What would Jemima do if he did? Make him a cup of tea? That was why Demeter had clung to her the smaller girl's wrist and whispered that she wanted the man that had shown up entirely on instinct to stay the night as well.
But Demeter was oblivious to the tension she had caused that was filling the living room and suffocating the twenty-seven year old man who watched the nineteen year old girl run a hand through her hair as she contemplated the next step on the road to fixing the people in her life. They hadn't said anything since she returned from her bedroom, wearing only a large t'shirt and pyjama shorts, he wondered if that shirt belonged to the boy he'd seen her with in town and she tried to figure out how she'd go about taking tomorrow off of work to look after her older sister.
"She wants you to stay," Jemima said suddenly, her eyes flicking from the floorboards to his face, "She asked me to ask you."
His brow raised quizzically, "Did she say why?"
She shook her head and he sighed, shedding the coat he'd put on seconds before and cringing as Jemima walked past him to the kitchen. He anticipated the sound of the kettle boiling, knowing full well that tea seemed to be Jemima's answer to everything, and when the familiar noise found it's way to his ears he followed her.
"Do you mind?" he asked, "I mean, do you mind if I stay? I understand if you don't want me to, I don't want you to be uncomfortable."
She pulled herself up so that she could sit on the kitchen counter. She hadn't looked up from the kitchen floor yet, she was afraid of looking at his face and blurting out all of the questions and musings that had kept her awake at night since they'd kissed. He watched as she took a deep breath and slowly lifted her head to smile a little at him. It wasn't a Jemima smile, it was far too strained, far too worried, but he was thankful for it.
"The way I see it," her words were soft and obviously carefully chosen, "Is that whatever happened between us has to be put to rest right now. Demeter's my main priority and I'm sure she's yours too, I want to do whatever is needed to help her out. So of course I don't mind you staying, you'll have to make yourself comfortable on the sofa though."
She always had been mature beyond her years, Munkustrap had been thrown by her pensive stare when he first met her as she sat looking off into space on Skimbleshanks' porch, and it still disarmed him now. He felt his mouth dry up by how frankly and honestly she was speaking to him, but she made sense. He let a small smile slip onto his face and watched as she took a sharp inhale and her gaze rested on the little quirk of his lips before finding his eyes again.
"You're probably glad," he said quickly, needing to say something before the silence between them swallowed him whole.
"Glad about what?" she replied, her eyebrows furrowing as she tried to fathom what part of this situation was meant to make her feel remotely glad.
"To put what happened to rest," he said gently, "I mean, I got the impression that you're involved with someone nowadays."
He couldn't help his curiosity and he automatically wanted to retract the words. Munkustrap was a firm believer of 'a time and a place' and he knew that now was neither the time nor place to discuss his feelings on Jemima's relationship status. Contrary to that, he was also well aware that if he didn't spit it out then he'd probably never get the answer he'd been looking for and the tension between the two would continue to smother them and he couldn't be the only one finding it unbearable. However, her blank expression was not the reaction he'd been expecting, he'd anticipated her to blush or to roll her eyes and tease him, she just looked confused.
"Where has that impression come from?" she whispered, and slowly a bemused smile made it's way to her face and he knew at once that his presumptions about the boy in town were false.
"Oh, um, I've probably just misread the situation," Munkustrap murmured, "Alonzo and I were in town the other day and we saw you with a guy, we just kind of assumed you were together."
Her brow puckered and for a second he saw her lip tremble, "Is that why you haven't spoken to me since we-"
Munkustrap couldn't stand her looking so sad, so unsure of herself and suddenly the weight of his behaviour hit him full force in the chest. Of course, he couldn't have possibly known that she'd spent nights in her bed wondering about where she went wrong, panicking about how she'd pushed him away, but perhaps completely avoiding her as a result of his tendency to be completely self-deprecating was not the way to go about what happened between them. He moved closer, waiting for her to flinch away like Demeter did, but she was perfectly still, the only thing moving was her chest that rose and fell with each breath. He realised that he could close the space between them, could wrap her in his arms and diminish every uncertain thought that danced within the crevices of her confused mind but something stopped him. Perhaps it was because her older sister lay only a few footsteps away and seeing her earlier that night, bruised and shaking, had spurred his old affection for her again. He inhaled sharply as she lowered herself from the counter before walking, slowly and purposefully, over to him. His arms seemed to naturally open for her and she hesitated before running her hands up them, remembering how they'd held her before, she smiled as his own hands found the skin of her arms and they stood like mirror images.
"I'm not," she said, "I mean, I'm not with the boy you saw me with. In fact, he's pretty infatuated with a girl I work with."
She gave a chuckle and looked down at the kitchen tiles, the garish overhead light hit her hair and made it shine, before blinking back at him and grinning a little.
"Seems like I can't be involved with any guy unless they're in love with someone else, doesn't it?"
Her words, meant in jest, were like a slap in the face. She went to pull away, to carry on making her cup of tea because God, she didn't know how to deal with this and his clutch on her arms tightened involuntarily. They stood in silence for a while, her eyes on his hands and his eyes on the small downturn of her lips.
"It's okay," she said softly, "I knew then and I know now, it's my own fault for kissing someone hopelessly in love with my sister. It's just- It's just, when it was happening, I kind of tricked myself into thinking that you might feel something like that for me too."
"Jemima."
"Because I do," she ignored his efforts to interject, "I mean. I kind of feel something like that for you."
He sighed and she winced, mistaking his anger at himself for agitation at her for the confession of affection. She blinked up from his hands and into his face, her eyes stinging as he saw the concern on his face as his brow furrowed.
"Stupid, right?" she tried to laugh but the forced giggles died in the air as soon as they escaped her lips, "Sorry."
His face was unreadable and that was so Munkustrap, to be the epitome of stoic indifference whilst still maintaining the ability to let out an undeniable warmth that made her feel safe as he stood above her, made her feel protected. She couldn't get used to that feeling though, not now Demeter was back and needed all the help she could get, not now if Munkustrap had the opportunity to finally make the woman he'd been in love with since he was a teenager his. So she pulled back, and he let her this time, and turned back to her kettle.
He watched her as she made the tea, she worked through the process systematically, expertly. He remembered bearing witness to when Jennyanydots had first taught her how to make tea, remembered watching her face screw up with concentration and her eyes cloud over as she spilled milk. He thought about how she'd smiled nervously at him when she handed him a cup of tea, how her eyes watched as he sipped it and sat back in his chair at the kitchen table, how her face lit up when he told her it was the best cup of tea he'd tasted. She was making him a cup now, she hadn't even asked if he wanted one, it was just second nature for Jemima to nurture people. He smiled fondly at her as she put one too many sugars in her own mug, a habit she hadn't kicked from childhood. It was comforting to watch her work through something so menial, it was familiar and distracted him from the heavier things going on in his head (How close he was to homicide after seeing what Macavity had done to Demeter, how far he was from the dull suburban life he'd lusted after, how Jemima still looked pretty when clad only in pyjama shorts and an oversized t'shirt.)
When she handed him his mug, he placed it right back on the kitchen counter and waited for her to take her first sip before brushing her cheek with the back of his hand softly. She blinked up at him in surprise before slowly placing her mug next to her too, uncertain of how to approach the situation. He felt his tongue dance behind his teeth as he tried to work out what to say, Munkustrap made it one of his top priorities to only voice his thoughts if they were coherent and right now all he could think of was how he liked that when she smiled he could see that her teeth were slightly tea stained and that he liked that she had to stretch her neck to look up at him because she was so small. Perhaps he wasn't in love with Jemima like he was Demeter, perhaps all this was a silly infatuation because she'd been kind and she reminded him of a simpler time. Maybe all she was to him was a lovely distraction from the woman who didn't love him back and the brother that had single-handedly destroyed her. He just couldn't help but think that the warmth spreading through his chest and making his throat tighten with words he wanted to say meant that, even if she wasn't Demeter, there was something between them that made him happy when she was happy and sad when she was sad.
"You're not stupid and don't apologise," was all he could think to say, "Because, you're right, I've loved your sister since I was a teenager, I still do, and it kills me knowing that he's done this to her."
She nodded slowly, her stare never faltering and he tried to think of what to say next. What if the warm feeling in his chest was just provoked by the distraction she provided him? He was nervous, uncertain as to how his own mind was working and he couldn't bear it if he toyed with this poor girl's emotions any more than he already had. He thought of how she lit up for him, he remembered smelling her shampoo and tasting the tea on her lips and suddenly, he knew that Jemima was far more than simply a distraction. He knew that whatever he felt then, with her legs around his hips and her eyes on his chest, wasn't just a result of being preoccupied with something other than Demeter. He knew that whatever he felt now, with her looking expectantly up at him, wasn't just a passing infatuation. It wasn't love, not the kind of love he felt for Demeter at least, but it was something and he didn't want to lie to her.
"I don't want you to think that what happened between us meant nothing because it did. I hadn't looked at anyone who wasn't Demeter and wanted to do that but then, when we kissed, I forgot about your sister and I wanted to be entirely there with you and that's... Well, I guess, that's not nothing."
He watched as she tried to process what he'd said, grinned as the realisation hit her and she blinked in surprise, felt the air get knocked out of him as she granted him one of the prettiest smiles he'd ever seen. Her hand had just reached for his, their skin had just touched, when a scream from Jemima's room broke the silence between them and the connection was lost as she ran past him, that smile replaced with a look of fear.
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The Rum Tum Tugger was on his hands and knees, trying to pick up shards of glass, that had decorated his carpeted floor when his older brother threw one of the more expensive vases that Quaxo was so fond of at the wall, without cutting himself. He heard Quaxo whisper his goodnight to his little sister on the phone and picked up his pace, not wanting his house mate to see the full extent of the destruction of one of his favourite household items because it would only serve to worsen the younger man's mood. It was understandable that Quaxo was upset about Macavity showing up at his door, screaming bloody murder and swearing about what he'd do to the person that managed to convince Demeter to pack her bags, especially when he learned that it was in fact his little sister looking after the runaway girlfriend of the lunatic in his living room. Therefore, Tugger wanted no part in making Quaxo more upset, on the contrary, he wanted to relieve the stress that made the little magician stand with a straight back and a frown plastered on his face.
He heard said house mate sigh in the passage way and quickly fumbled with the glass on the floor. He should have been focusing more as a clumsy twitch of his hand meant that he cut part of his palm as he tried to scoop as much of the fragments up as quickly as possible. He cringed and bit his lip, trying to refrain from cursing before hovering his bleeding hand over the bowl he'd been using to keep the fragments he'd picked up in so that he didn't get blood over his cream carpets. His house mate walked in and he twisted his body so that Quaxo wouldn't see the blood or the parts of the vase he had yet to clear up.
"What are you up to?" came the smaller man's voice, Tugger could hear the suspicion dancing in the words and he sniggered slightly, Quaxo wasn't the trusting type.
"Just cleaning," he replied.
"You're sat funny," Quaxo said, making his way over. Tugger gave up on trying to hide the mess he made, he felt his shoulders slump as he admitted defeat and smiled guiltily at the other man. He'd expected Quaxo to roll his eyes or make sharp retort, he could be cold when in a bad mood.
Instead, Quaxo sighed lightly and pulled on his friend's good hand to indicate he wanted Tugger to follow him. The two walked to the kitchen and the younger made Tugger put his injured hand underneath a cold tap as he pottered around to find the first aid he kept in the cupboard, next to the glass cupboard, they reserved for random crap that couldn't fit anywhere else. When he successfully dug through the mess and found it, he returned to his friend's side and began to tend to the cut on his hand, chuckling slightly as Tugger winced at the antiseptic wipe and furrowing his brow as he tried to concentrate on the bandage.
"How are you holding up?" Quaxo asked, not taking his eyes from his work.
"What do you mean?" Tugger mumbled, but he knew exactly what the other was getting at.
"I mean with your favourite brother showing up at the door looking worse than he did than when he went through that phase where he'd take whiskey around with him in a hip flask."
"I don't have a favourite brother," he replied before giving up on being evasive and sighing, "It's just all a little too much, you know? It would be okay if I didn't know that Demeter's probably lying in her bed right now, thinking about how she's going to get back with him and I'll have to do this all over again in a few months."
He saw Quaxo's brow furrow for a moment and felt his concentration on the bandaging lapse. There was something his house mate wasn't telling him, something about the situation that Quaxo knew and Tugger didn't and that was going to bug him. Especially since he knew that Quaxo was bearing the burden of whatever he hadn't told Tugger with the notion that he was making things easier for his older house mate.
"What?" he said automatically. Quaxo ignored him and finally taped the bandage up before shooting a smile up at Tugger's concerned face. Feigning ignorance in the hope that Tugger would play along.
"There, all fixed. I wish my vase was as easy to repair," he tried to joke but Tugger was obviously having none of it.
The older man raised a brow, "What aren't you telling me?"
Quaxo's eyes moved quickly, looking at each individual aspect of his best friend's face quickly, before sighing. He cared a lot about Tugger. Although he pretended that he was nothing but irritated by the other man's childish demeanour and enthusiasm for the world but it was actually one of the things he loved the most about his friend, one of the things he felt he needed to protect. He didn't want to tell Tugger the harsh reality, didn't want to see his face crumple and his boyish smile fade. Then again, he had a right to know that his romanticised idea of his older brother was far from true.
"Macavity, he's um-" Quaxo struggled to find the words, "He's really hurt her. Victoria says Demeter showed up at her door in a state and that, um, she'd been screaming and crying for about thirty-five minutes when I just called."
"They always get like that," Tugger said slowly, "They always have a melodramatic break-up before deciding that they can't stay away from each other like sensible people would."
Oh God. It was going to be hard to watch realisation hit Tugger.
"I don't want to tell you this," Quaxo said truthfully, "But he's not just upset her. He's physically hurt her, the girls have had to help her shower, get changed and get into bed because she's in such a bad way. They're calling the police tomorrow."
Tugger's face fell and he stepped back a bit. Quaxo clutched at his friend's arm in an effort to steady him, knowing very well that Tugger always had a child-like admiration for the brother that had taught him how to smoke and had styled his hair for him on the first day of secondary school, knowing very well that the news his brother wasn't just an angrier version of the suave man Tugger had painted him out to be in his own mind would shake the older man, knowing very well that Tugger felt incredibly small when faced with such a huge mess.
"They're going to... The police?" Tugger whispered, "I should go over. I need to make sure they're okay."
"Munkustrap is already there," Quaxo dropped the volume of his voice too, made his words softer and draped his arm around the other. He knew that Tugger needed comforting now, knew that the older man wouldn't outwardly ask for it and was more than happy to alleviate part of the concern from the other's shoulders.
"I promised 'Rina that I'd look after her sisters," Tugger said, his face reminiscent of a guilty child struck down in fear by the prospect of getting scalded by an adult.
"You weren't the one beating Demeter," Quaxo replied instantly, wishing he'd thought his words through before saying them as they elicited an almost violent reaction from the man who shoved past Quaxo and left the kitchen, stopping dead in front of the table that had once homed the vase that Macavity had broken. A sigh escaped Quaxo's lips as he reconsidered what to say in order to comfort his friend. He took tentative steps towards Tugger's brooding figure and slowly made his way to the front of him.
"Listen," the magician said gently, "I know this seems awful right now, well, because it is pretty awful. But it's not just your responsibility. All you can do is be there for the girls while we try and sort it all out as quickly as possible, this is a group effort now and we'll make sure that everything turns out okay. Now, while I know you want to go swanning in and play the hero, you won't be much use right now while you're shaken up and wounded."
Quaxo shook the bandaged hand jokingly which caused the other to chuckle despite himself. He grinned a little before hooking his arms around the taller's neck and pressing his lips against the other's chastely, he felt Tugger exhale deeply and he pressed closer, determined to make his house mate feel better. Tugger's hands found the small in his back and rested there, Quaxo pulled back to look into the crestfallen face of the other man for a second before letting his hands trail down the other's arms.
"You'll be okay, we'll sort it out," he mumbled and Tugger's eyes stung a little at the tenderness in his voice.
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Demeter had quite literally cried herself to sleep.
She'd had a nightmare, had woken up in an unfamiliar room and panicked which resulted in the most heartbreaking scream that Jemima had ever heard. She'd dreamt that she was back at Macavity's, that he hit her until she screamed out, finally he had grabbed her head and made her look into the corner of his room to see her Mother sat watching and crying. She'd had the dream before, it was the worst of her recurring nightmares, but this time it seemed to hit her more given that she'd only just found sanctuary in her little sister's house and the prospect of being there with him was worse than ever.
She'd cried and screamed for a solid fifty minutes. She felt so guilty about worrying Jemima but she couldn't calm herself down, every time she tried her throat would seize up and she'd feel as though she was suffocating. She was waiting for Macavity's slap to find her cheek and a 'shut the fuck up' to find her ear, but it didn't come, she could just feel the warmth of the smaller girl next to her. She felt worse when Victoria popped her head in, her eyes pink and tired, to ask whether she could get them anything. She felt absolutely terrible when the anxious voice of Munkustrap made it's way from the living room to her ears as he asked Victoria what was going on.
Finally, Jemima lay with her screaming sister and began to stroke her hair and sing a song Skimbleshanks used to sing to them as children. Her gentle soprano broke through the cries, muffled the voice of Munkustrap and the shuffle of Victoria's feet and Demeter felt herself get lulled into sleep again. She felt her little sister's hands in her hair, she'd learned to hate people touching her hair because Macavity had developed a liking for pulling on it, but this gesture was gentle and comforting, conveying nothing but a tenderness that only Jemima could possess. Demeter turned her head so that she could look at her little sister, Jemima had turned on the bedside lamp when she came in and it shone behind her like a heavenly light. She focused on the brown eyes that she'd always found so intimidating and let them swallow her whole, let her voice die and her eyes shut slowly.
Jemima sat with her for a few minutes. She looked at her sleeping face, her closed eyes and her slightly parted lips, and she pretended for a moment that the bruises weren't there and Demeter was simply visiting out of goodwill, that Demeter was okay. When she was satisfied that her sister was sleeping peacefully, she slowly crept out of the room and back into the living room where Munkustrap was pacing and Victoria was sat on her chair, her head bobbing up and down sleepily.
"She had a nightmare," Jemima said gently, "She's sleeping now. Sorry she woke you, 'Toria, I know this is a huge pain, you have work tomorrow."
Victoria smiled sweetly and rose from her chair, "It's not your fault, it's not hers either, it's just a really awful situation. I'll be getting back to sleep now though."
The blonde girl gave her room mate a brief hug before dashing back to her bedroom, wanting to bury herself in her bedsheets and grab a few hours of sleep before having to be up early for a day of dance.
Jemima rolled her shoulders back and gave Munkustrap a brief smile which he didn't return, his eyes were locked on the corridor that had previously been full of Demeter's screams and Jemima was overcome with the realisation that she would always play second to Demeter when Munkustrap was concerned. He had spent years of nights thinking of his future with her, fantasizing about the day she came to her senses about Macavity and ran to him to confess her affections, dreaming that his feelings weren't entirely unrequited. Jemima couldn't wipe out years of nights by a few rushed brushes of lips on her sofa, she was stupid to ever think that she could. But then he had said he felt something for her too, had looked her in the eye and told her that her feelings went partly requited. She hadn't imagined that, his hand in hers and his eyes on her face were real, it had happened and while she couldn't ever fill the space that awaited Demeter, she could rest easy knowing that she wasn't entirely delusional.
"Don't worry, she's okay," Jemima said softly which caused the man to move his gaze from the corridor onto her face.
He smiled a little but it didn't hit his eyes, "I didn't say I was worried."
"Yeah but it's obvious that you were," the elfin girl replied, playfulness and exasperation mingling in her voice. He saw her brow pucker and her lips spread into a tighter smile over tea-stained teeth, watched as her shoulders sagged when she sighed and proclaimed she was tired.
"You better get yourself comfortable on the sofa, Mister," she said, "The bedsheets I'd usually lie out are in Victoria's room and I don't really want to wake her again, so you'll have to deal with the crappy blanket we use to hide the cracks in the leather."
"If I'm on the sofa, where will you be sleeping?" he raised a brow quizzically as a grin began to toy at the edges of her lips.
"My chair," she shrugged, making her way to the sofa and rearranging pillows and the blanket to make a makeshift bed for her visitor.
"Won't that be uncomfortable? Why don't you take the sofa and I'll take the chair?"
"You're not sleeping in my chair, it's my chair."
Jemima heard him snigger and mentally slapped herself for sounding like a petulant child, but then it was her chair and she liked routine. Plus, were Munkustrap to sleep on it then it'd be weeks until she got the smell of his cologne out of it and she didn't know if she could bear to be surrounded by a reminder of him when she was just starting to come to terms with the prospect of him flocking back to her sister. She straightened up, satisfied with her rearrangement of the sofa, and turned to see Munkustrap hovering only a few centimetres away from her.
"Sorry," he said quickly, but he didn't move away, "I was just watching."
"It's okay," she replied, trying to keep her tone casual despite her heart being in her throat as a result of being in such close proximities with him. Jemima thought about their conversation earlier, about how he still loved Demeter, about how despite that he might have feelings for her. She considered the size of his heart, to be able to love someone and still have room for another must be a rarity, she wondered if it was big enough to forgive his brother for doing what he did to Demeter. His tendency to care too much, to love too much, was something about Munkustrap that Jemima could identify with. He put up a front, pretended that he was simply the protective, responsible college tutor that paid his dues and kept his head down. He kept his ability to shower people with love and understanding and tolerance to himself, he only let it show when it was needed. That was where they differed, she supposed, because Jemima naively shared her affection with anything with a pulse openly and he was able to restrain his natural affinity for making people happy when appropriate. But then, had it really been appropriate to act on his caring urges with Jemima that once? Was it appropriate of him to tell her his feelings when he had no inclination to act on them again?
Had Jemima been someone else, it would have probably been the most stupid thing he could have done, but Jemima had a horrible habit of accepting whatever affection was given to her with little reluctance. He felt like he had exploited that. Of course, he hadn't meant to, Munkustrap was not the exploitative type but that aspect of herself made him feel all the more terrible for acting so brashly. His guilt almost drowned out his longing to pull her closer and bury his face into her hair. Almost.
"About what you said earlier," she muttered, "I hope you know that I'm not going to hold you to anything. I don't want to get between you getting what you've wanted for so long. It's just, um, it's just nice to know that I wasn't entirely crazy when I thought there might have been something there."
"You're being far too nice about this," he said automatically, "You're meant to tell me I'm an idiot for leading you on, that I should have called before, that I should just get over her and- Christ, I'm sorry."
"Don't be," she replied quickly, her hands instinctively reaching out to stroke his forearms, "Okay, you should have called me, you can apologise for that. But I understand. I get that feelings are messy. I don't want to talk about this any more, I just want to get some sleep. Is that okay?"
"You're not sleeping in that chair, you'll mess up your back."
"Sorry Dad."
He flinched at that comment, it served as a reminder that he was older than her and should know better than to get entranced by her mahogany hair and knowing eyes.
"I just want to get some sleep," she repeated and he sighed, knowing that he was fighting a losing battle, before pressing his lips to her forehead chastely. In the past, he'd have barely thought about the gesture, Jemima wouldn't have either, but now as he pulled back from her, he wondered if that was the responsible thing to do. It probably wasn't. The elfin girl, she was too close and he could feel the warmth radiating from her petite frame, blinked up at him from under her eyelashes and her lips naturally parted. Both of them stood, waiting for the other to move away.
Jemima shocked herself by being the first to take a step back, perhaps Munkustrap was shocked too because his eyebrows shot an inch up his forehead. She shook her head and turned away, laughing lightly under her breath as she took her place on her chair. He watched as she curled into a ball, somehow making the chair seem larger with her tiny frame on top of it, and she smiled at him.
"Yeah, this is good," she mumbled.
"What's good?" he asked, quirking his head to the side as he lowered himself onto the sofa, ignoring the uncomfortable coolness of the well-worn leather.
"This distance is good," she replied, "I don't imagine your pectoral muscles in such graphic detail from this distance."
He laughed then, because despite the awkward nature of this encounter, she was still Jemima and she still had the natural ability to make him laugh when it seemed like his whole world was crashing down around him.
They didn't even say goodnight, they didn't even turn off the lamp. Jemima just decided that from that point she was, for all intents and purposes, asleep. So Munkustrap followed suit, after a few hours of straining his neck at every creak of the house in case it was an indication of Demeter stirring and shifting to get somewhat comfortable on the very uncomfortable sofa, he fell asleep. (Said sofa had seemed so much softer when Jemima was below him, blinking up at him and shining.)
The sky was navy blue and birds were beginning to sing when he was woken up by small sniffs, shallow breaths and the occasional groan. He'd assumed Demeter was having another episode, had sat up straight and given himself a head rush, and then realised that the noise was coming from the chair opposite that cradled a melancholy girl that had too much thrust upon her all at once. She was hunched over, her hair covering her face and her shoulders shaking.
"Jemima, are you awake?"
There was a pause; the sniffs, breaths and groans stopped.
"No," came the response, laced with an ironic chuckle. Munkustrap rolled his eyes at her sarcasm but blinked so he could see her face properly as she pushed her hair back. Tears had made trails on her cheeks, the yellow of the lamp made her look washed-out and her lips were shaking slightly. She'd thought about calling the police, calling Bombalurina, having to sort out the mess that awaited her and she couldn't handle it. Most of all, she thought of how Demeter was so frightened and hurt and she felt all of her restraints dissolve as she cried to herself, trying to muffle it so as not to wake up the man on her sofa. Obviously, it hadn't worked because now he was watching her with his pity visible on his face. She didn't like that.
He shifted so that there was more room on the sofa, "Would you like to come over here?"
"I'm fine, really," she murmured, plastering a grin on her face.
"No you're not, and that's okay. Offer stands."
She watched him for a moment. There was nothing flirtatious in the offer, nothing remotely romantic. He was staring at her like he did when she was fourteen and crying over her first boyfriend in her sisters' bedroom. She didn't know whether or not she liked the familiarity or hated the fact that he wasn't blinking at her with his heart-eyes that she'd grown so fond of, she wasn't sure if she should act on the impulse to run over and bury herself into his arms, she wasn't sure if she was really standing and running over to him or she was just dreaming and she'd wake soon in her own chair with the older man sleeping peacefully.
But then she reached him, he wrapped her in his arms and her head was on his chest and she could hear the soft rhythms of his heartbeat and she realised that it was definitely happening. She didn't cry any more, she just let him slide down with her and cradle her as she fought the screaming in her head that told her this was a bad idea, that she'd get too attached to this warmth and she should leave now before she got hurt. The screaming was easily squandered by the comfort he provided her, especially when his fingers began to draw circles into her back. He should know better than to let her be so close, because he could so easily duck his head and press his lips to hers and drink the anxiety she was trying to keep lidded from her mouth, replacing it with sunflowers that had begun to wilt under the heaviness of her circumstance.
"I'm dangerously close to those pectorals of yours."
"Oh for God's- Please be quiet, Miss 'Mima."