It had started with small things, things that Graverobber only noticed in passing, from the corner of his eye, but noticed all the same.

Fewer smiles and a lack of contact between her petite hands and his clothes, his hair, his skin. Less waiting up for him when he was out late and less excitement when he returned early. Less Claire in general.

And then it escalated, and there was no denying the marked lack of attention she was paying him, or the seemingly endless amount of time she was now spending locked away in her room.

But he never asked what was going on, because he felt like this was all somehow his fault.

Perhaps he hadn't paid her enough attention, or said something he shouldn't halve. Stayed out late once too often, or not given her enough gifts. So he stepped up his game, coming home earlier and earlier and bringing her something back as often as he could. And before he knew it, he'd stopped going out at all.

When Claire noticed, she did what he hadn't been able, and asked what was wrong. It figured that the girls who couldn't speak had been the first one to ask the question that had started this whole thing.

He was worried about her. That's what it came down to, even if he played it up and acted like he was just taking a break. His flimsy charade didn't fool either of them, and Claire pulled him into a hug.

Graverobber remembered then why he'd missed the contact, why he'd missed the hugs. Her slim, warm frame nestled against his larger, colder one. Her hands grasping at his back in order to pull him that much closer as his own hands worried with where to land against her, unaccustomed to this particular act.

And then she pulled away slowly and smiled at him, and he remembered why he'd missed those too.

"I'm fine." She mouthed, gaze soft and understanding. "And the moment I'm not, I'll tell you."

The pad of one thumb strayed from its place on her shoulder, catching a slim slice of throat in its errant path. "I'll hold you to that."


The next week was filled with late nights, as though to prove that he wasn't worried anymore, even though he was, and every time he found her curled up in the armchair by the door, he resisted the urge to wake her up and tell her how much he appreciated it.

But almost immediately after, as though to balance out the progress they'd made, Claire vanished up into her room and wouldn't come out except to make dinner. And, he noticed a little belatedly, she never ate any of it herself. She was eating something, though, because he would find dishes in the sink that weren't his, but were scrubbed clean.

The night he'd decided he would ask her about it was the night she greeted him at the door, suddenly all smiles and sunshine.

It was the smile he noticed first; too large and too bright.

And then it was the thin scar along her neck, reaching from the point of her chin to the hollow of her collarbones.

And finally, it was the light, still-a-little-rough-from-surgery voice whispering a soft, welcome home.


It took him nearly a month to get used to the voice, sounding the way he'd always imagined it would, drifting through the hallways.

Over the first week, all Claire did was talk, explaining her behavior was because she'd been sneaking out at night to go see about surgeons who could fix her up.

And the week before he'd found out had been filled with her coughing up blood and eating only liquids.

But now, now Claire had a voice. A voice that could laugh and tease, and squeal when he picked her up and toted her off to bed. A voice that murmured softly while she slept, and giggled when she woke up suddenly and found he'd been watching her this whole time. A voice that screamed when something creepy and crawly decided to invade her personal space without permission.

A voice that could welcome him home by name. A voice that he would never tire of hearing.


Probably the last one... But also possibly not.