A/N- Thanks for the reviews guys! I can't believe we're entering into the home stretch of first season…it's been quite a ride! Thanks for sticking with my story or finding it along the way- hope you all enjoy this chapter!

Love in the Afterlife

Chapter Four

"I'm so sorry, Violet. I'm not picking up anything." Billie Dean let go of Violet's hands, opening her eyes.

Violet shook her head, her voice strained with frustration. "But this is your job. To contact spirits. I don't understand. Why can't you find him?"

"In my experience, when it's this difficult to contact someone, it's usually because they don't want to be found. You should be happy. Tate's soul isn't in trapped here in torment anymore."

Violet leaned back against the side of the staircase in the basement. "So that's it? There's no way you can find him?"

"Why do you want to find him so badly? You fulfilled your destiny, Violet. You helped him cross over. Let that be the end of it."

"What if he's not in a better place? What if he's in trouble? What if he needs me?"

"Then he'd use me to contact you." Billie Dean said softly, in her "Lifetime-series" voice. "You have to make your peace with his passing. You're sixteen years old. You have your whole life ahead of you. There will be other boys, I promise."

"Do I get my money back?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I paid you to find Tate, and you couldn't. So do I get my money back?"

"I can never guarantee the success of my services, dear. The spirit world is not an exact science. You paid me for my time."

"Like a hooker?" Violet crossed her arms over her chest.

"Don't be crass, Violet."

"I bet if a hooker didn't get a guy off, he'd want his money back."

"Our session is over for today." Billie Dean got to her feet, delicately dusting off her gray pants and pink ruffled top. "I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news about Tate. But if I were you, I would move on. Celebrate Christmas with your family. Go back to school. Find a new boyfriend. Maybe one who's still breathing."

She was trying to make a joke, but Violet's expression just hardened further with dislike. Billie Dean laughed a little nervously, hurrying out of the ground entrance to the basement, her expensive high heels click-clacking across the wood floor as she left.

Violet stayed where she was, not moving, feeling nothing. Sometime later, she heard her father coming down the stairs.

"Vi? Are you okay?"

Violet shrugged, picking at her lace sleeves.

Her father sat down next to her, looking at her intently. "Your mom said you've been spending a lot of time down here."

"How observant of her."

"Violet. Tell me what's going on. She's worried about you. We both are."

Violet licked her lips, hating that her dad's calm, quiet voice still made her want to tell him everything. The truth was out of her mouth before she could stop it. "Tate left, okay?"

"He moved away?"

"Yeah."

Ben took this in for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. "I'm sorry, honey. I know you cared about him. But it's probably for the best. He was very unhappy here."

"He told you that? He told you he was unhappy?"

"All the time." Ben looked at her sadly. "You know, sometimes, you can try everything to help someone and it's just never going to be enough. He needed more help than you or I could ever give him. Maybe he'll find it somewhere else."

"Maybe so." Violet said quietly.

"But I'm sorry. It's always hard to lose a friend."

Violet rolled her eyes. Surely her dad wasn't really this clueless. "We weren't just friends, dad."

Ben sighed heavily. "I know."

"I told him I loved him, and he left. How do you get over something like that?"

Ben patted her leg. "Well, for starters, you get out of this dark, depressing basement. Your mom's drafted me over here to help decorate this place for Christmas. You could help me out if you want."

Violet nodded reluctantly. "Fine. But no Christmas music. I'm not up for that."

"Fair enough." Ben laughed, helping her up and leading her out of the basement and into a red-and-green explosion in the entryway upstairs.

two weeks later

At first, Violet thought she was imagining things. Enough time had passed that when she was awake, it was getting easier to distract herself from thoughts of Tate. But when she fell asleep, he was always there in her dreams. So for a moment, she thought the sound of rocks hitting her bedroom window was just the beginning of another dream where she would find him again, be with him for a few stolen, perfect hours that would make her feel pleasantly hot and shaky when she remembered them the next day, fall asleep in his arms and wake up alone.

She walked over to her window, looking down and seeing no one there. Violet's eyebrows went together with confusion. If this was a dream, Tate would be standing there, waiting for her. That's usually how they started. What was going on?

Violet reluctantly got back in bed, sighing heavily and closing her eyes when there was another distinctive sound of a rock hitting her bedroom window. She leapt to her feet, hurrying back to the window barely in time to see a figure disappear into the trees behind her house.

The Murder House was surrounded by impressive grounds for a home in LA, but Violet hadn't paid that much attention to them until now. Now that they could be possibly housing Tate, she found herself much more interested.

Violet threw her warmest oversized sweater on over her pajamas, hurriedly tugged on her soft fleece boots, and raced downstairs, disabling the alarm system and running out into the backyard. If there was even a chance Tate was there, that he had somehow been able to come back, she had to know. She had to see him again.

"Tate?" Violet called, her breath coming out like smoke in the chilly night air. Los Angeles was having an unusually cold winter, and the people on the news were even talking about the possibility of snow in the coming weeks.

No answer. She crossed her arms over her chest, gritting her teeth to try and stop them from chattering as she crossed the tree line into the woods, straining to see in the near-total darkness. But suddenly, she saw a shadow dart behind a tree from the corner of her eye, and Violet spun towards the sound of twigs snapping under someone's feet, getting frustrated.

"Who's there?"

The intruder stepped out from behind the tree with his hands clasped behind his back, dressed in oddly formal clothes instead of his usual black latex but no less recognizable. Violet's face fell.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded.

Eli smiled, leaning against the side of a tree. "Once you have teenage pussy, it's hard to go back."

Violet grimaced with disgust. "No rubber suit to hide behind tonight, I see. How ever will you trick girls into having sex with you now?"

"I seem to remember you having a pretty good time." Eli smirked.

"Tate was better." Violet said boldly.

This seemed to catch Eli momentarily off guard, but he quickly masked his expression of surprise with one of sarcastic indifference. "So my idiot brother finally got his huge dick to work. What'd he do, snag some of your dad's erection pills?"

"What are you doing here?" Violet ignored him, repeating the question.

Eli pushed himself off the tree, walking towards her with an elegantly slow stride. "I wanted you to pass along a message for me. From me to my brother."

Violet stiffened when Eli reached out, touching her cheek with his ice cold hand. She pushed his hand away. "Tell him yourself. If you can find him."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Eli asked.

"Tate's gone, Eli. He's crossed over."

"No. T-That's impossible." Eli's voice suddenly sounded shaky and strange. "I would have felt it. I would have known."

"Well, clearly not." Violet shrugged. "Now leave me alone. If you come back, I'm calling the police."

"You're giving Tate my message." Eli's voice had hardened again, his dark eyes appearing black in the dim light.

"What message?" Violet sighed.

It happened so fast she couldn't even react for a moment. Eli withdrew a knife from behind his back, plunging it into her stomach with a swift, smooth motion. The pain was so immediate and so intense that a sound like a dying animal escaped her lips as she staggered backwards against a tree, reaching out to claw at Eli's face, one of her fingernails breaking the skin and leaving a long bloody scratch mark across his left eyebrow, eyelid, and cheekbone. Eli shoved her back with a cry of pain, recovering his grip on her shoulder and stabbing her over and over, Violet's vision swimming and distorting from pain and blood loss, but she could have sworn she saw tears in Eli's eyes. Tears for his brother? She couldn't even begin to make sense of what was happening

But suddenly, someone grabbed Eli from behind with a roar of fury, strong arms wrapping around her attacker's neck as he was hauled backwards. Violet tried to keep her eyes open, but was losing consciousness, vaguely hearing the sounds of two men locked in an intense physical struggle before everything faded to black.

It was only minutes, but it felt like she'd been asleep for a hundred years, her body completely drained of strength when she felt someone frantically shaking her shoulder.

"Violet, come on, please wake up…"

"Tate…" she breathed out, opening her eyes to see him holding her, his face bloody and bruised from a fight, his hands soaked in blood as he tried to keep pressure on her wounds so she wouldn't bleed out.

"Thank God." Tate let out a desperate breath of relief. "Just hold on, Vi, they're coming to help you."

"Who?" Violet asked weakly.

"The ambulance. I called 911. They'll be here soon."

"No." Violet said vaguely. "No, I don't want help."

"Just rest. You don't know what you're saying."

"Where's Eli?" Violet's eyes darted around, feeling like she might pass out again.

"I took care of him." Tate assured her. "It's all going to be okay, Violet, I promise."

"No, listen to me." Violet tried to sit up, but her bleeding stomach wouldn't permit it. Her head was spinning, her body was losing blood with alarming rapidity, but suddenly her mind was clear and she knew exactly what she wanted to say. "I don't want help. I want to go with you."

Tate shook his head vehemently. "No way."

"Please. Please, Tate. I'd do it for you. Take me with you." Violet looked up at him, clutching his shirt with one hand, her vision still blurring at odd moments. "We need each other. I thought you wanted us to be together."

"I do, but…" Tate's eyes filled with tears, his resolve dangerously close to crumbling. But suddenly he seemed to remember something, something very important, and he shook his head again. "Violet, you're not going to die. Not here. Not for a long time. You're going to go on and have this amazing life. I know it. The rest of us…this house took everything good in us and made it ugly and cruel. But not you. You're so strong and smart and beautiful, and there's no way…there's no way I'm letting you throw all of that away for me."

"Tate, please…" Violet tried to pull herself up to him as they both heard ambulance sirens in the driveway, followed by the sound of car doors slamming and footsteps running towards them in the woods.

"I love you." Tate leaned down, and she closed her eyes at the pressure of his lips against hers, and then, just like that, he was gone. When Violet opened her eyes, she was surrounded by a team of paramedics, and she vaguely heard her parent's hysterical voices, and then she was on a stretcher, so tired, too tired to stay awake any longer, and she let herself drift away again.

"Get up."

Eli grunted at the sudden impact of Tate's boot in his stomach. He rolled onto his side in the pile of wet leaves where Tate had left him unconscious and tied up while he tended to Violet. Eli looked up at his brother, forcing his busted lip into a smile. "Aww. You're back. I knew you still cared."

"Oh, I'll be killing you at the end of this conversation. I just wanted to make something clear."

"Tate the murderer. I must say, I like it much better than Tate the tortured poet. I couldn't believe how many people used to fall for your shit." Eli's eyes narrowed into a glare. "Mom always thought you were so perfect. She used to call you her angel."

Tate crouched down over his brother. "And what would that make you?"

"Evil Incarnate. That's what you all wanted, right?" Eli laughed. "I can't believe you turned your little girlfriend down. I thought I was doing you a favor, killing her. Giving you a playmate in whatever twisted afterlife you've finally moved on to. What's it like—"

"Listen to me." Tate interrupted, his hands closing around his brother's throat. "We're not on the property anymore. I'm killing you, but you're not coming back. You can't ever hurt anyone again. You're never going to see me, or Addy, or mom, or dad ever again. It's over."

"You're depriving me the gift of our perfect little family?" Eli sneered. "What a tragedy."

Tate looked down at him, thinking of all the horribly depressing stories he'd heard from the people he'd encountered on the other side. "You're not the only one with problems. Get over yourself."

Eli looked up at his brother carefully for a moment, as if deciding something. Finally he spoke again. "You're right, Tate. There are people with problems much worse than mine. Like Larry Harvey."

Tate blinked with surprise, his grip loosening slightly. "Larry Harvey? From next door, a million years ago?"

"Yeah. I mean, not only does the only woman he's ever loved not love him back but if you kill me, both of his sons will have met violent ends."

"Larry had two daughters." Tate reminded him, too confused to stay angry.

"With his wife, yes. With our mother, no."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Larry's our dad, chickenshit. Mom had to sleep with that freak show to finally get us, her perfect, pretty children. Hugo, Mr. Langdon, the man we grew up calling father— had a vasectomy after Addy. Look up the medical records if you don't believe me. I heard Larry and mom talking about it a few years ago, when they thought they were alone. I don't miss much that happens in that house. Their relationship is pretty sick. She's a real bitch to him, but he still loves her."

"You're so full of shit." Tate replaced his hands around his brother's neck, but just as Eli started to struggle against him, Tate's hands began to turn translucent. He was fading away again, back into the space after life. He had discovered that he could return to Murder House, but it was never for long, and he couldn't control when he was pulled back. Eli looked up at him with confusion for a moment, until he seemed to understand what was happening and his mouth spread into a triumphant smile.

"Don't worry. We'll see each other again." Eli promised his brother, but before Tate could respond, he was gone, left to wander the other side with nothing but thoughts of Violet bleeding on the ground and Eli's bizarre proclamation about their mother and Larry Harvey.

There was no way. If Tate knew one thing about his mother, it was that her entire life had been spent in the pursuit of beauty. She was obsessed with it. She would never give someone like Larry a second glance.

Right?

Tate rubbed his eyes wearily. As much as he liked the peace and quiet in heaven or purgatory or wherever he was, he didn't so much like the fact that this place gave him entirely too much time to think.

1976

"Constance? What are you doing here?" Larry opened the door, hurriedly ushering her inside and out of the pouring rain. She was soaked to the bone, her thin bare arms shaking. Larry led her by the shoulders into his living room. "Here. Come sit by the fire."

Constance gratefully sat down in the chair next to the fireplace, looking up at him. "You're always so good to me."

Larry sank to his knees in front of her, gasping when the firelight illuminated her eerily perfect movie star features, showing a large purple bruise under one eye and a bloody busted lip. "Did he do this to you?"

Constance laughed weakly, taking out a handkerchief from her purse and dabbing at her lip, the white stiff fabric of the handkerchief embroidered with the initials CL instantly turning red. "Hugo always did have a bit of temper."

Larry shook his head, his eyes dark with anger. "That son of a bitch."

"He was drunk." Constance shrugged. "He doesn't remember himself when he drinks."

"Why do you stay with him?" Larry suddenly asked, unable to hold in the question any longer.

Constance ran her tongue over her teeth, hoping the blood wouldn't stain. She'd been born with perfect white teeth, and could hardly be a great actress without them. "He was my first love."

Larry reached out, taking her ice cold hands in his. "Things change, Constance. People change."

Constance looked down at him imperiously. "And where's your wife, Mr. Harvey?"

"She took the girls to visit my mother-in-law in Santa Barbara."

"You didn't join them?"

Larry laughed humorlessly. "I had to stay here for work. Lorraine looked relieved. She always gives me so much hell about not spending enough time with the girls, but whenever I do spend time with them, she thinks I'm parenting them all wrong."

"Family is a trying business." Constance conceded, slipping off her high-heeled shoes and tucking her long, nude-hosed legs up underneath her to warm her feet. "Laurence, could you be a dear and bring me some hot tea?"

"Of course." Larry hurried off to the kitchen, and when he returned with two mugs of hot tea, Constance looked considerably more relaxed, staring into the fire with a furrowed brow as if trying to solve an equation in her head.

"What are you thinking?" Larry sat across from her, passing off her mug of tea.

Constance gave the slightly chipped mug with a handle a perfunctory look of displeasure before answering him. "Just how often dreams die in the face of reality."

"What were your dreams, Constance?"

"Be a big star. Marry the man I loved and have this perfect family."

"Well, I don't know about the perfect family, but you will be a big star, Constance. We both will, if we work hard enough."

Constance's lips twisted into a smirk. "Really? Because I think our current roles could use a bit of work."

"What roles?" Larry looked up with confusion.

"The ones in the little charade we've been running for the past five years. You play the faithful husband who's not in love with me, and I play the happy housewife who doesn't know it."

"Constance—" Larry's cheeks turned red, setting down his mug.

"No, it's fine. You make me feel good about myself when Hugo treats me like dogshit, and I give you a perfect body and pretty face to imagine when you're trying to get through a night on top of your mousey wife. I would call that a mutually beneficial arrangement, wouldn't you?"

"It's not like that." Larry crossed to her, on his knees again. "I'm in love with you."

Constance looked down at him. "Wanting someone is not the same as loving them."

Larry took her hands, speaking in the most confident, certain voice she'd ever heard from him. "I. Love. You. I would do anything for you, anything in the world."

"You're a married man, Laurence." Constance reminded him.

"The things I feel for her are nothing like the things I feel for you. I think you're the most beautiful woman in the world. I haven't stopped thinking about you since the moment we met."

Constance pulled her hands away from his. "Get up."

Larry stood up obediently, watching nervously as Constance rose to her feet as well, taking him by the shoulders and shoving him back into his chair. He just watched in silent admiration as she slid her green dress off her shoulders, taking off her white gloves and stockings, staring him down with an odd sense of purpose in her dark brown eyes. Finally, she took down her long blond hair, shaking it around her shoulders as she stood before him wearing nothing but a thin slip and her wedding ring.

"Constance," Larry breathed out, "you're so—"

"No, no." She leaned over him, one hand on the arm of his chair, the other clamped over his mouth. "I don't want you to talk."

"Then what are we doing?" Larry mumbled against her hand.

Constance swallowed hard, shooting a brief look at her stately mansion out the window, the lights off in the master bedroom, Hugo probably passed out and uncaring. Well, there were still men that wanted her. Constance thrived on revenge, and this seemed like just the thing to make her feel better.

"Everything you've always wanted." She smiled down at Larry, and even though she didn't love or want him back, just seeing the desire in his eyes for her was enough. And when he kissed her, she closed her eyes, finding Larry much more appealing when she didn't have to look at him.

Two months of missed periods later, she came to the sickening conclusion that she was carrying the child of her secret, shameful lover. Hugo didn't seem to care enough to do the math that would make it very clear he wasn't the father. He just laughed that apparently the procedure he'd had after Addy wasn't enough to stop his little swimmers, and Constance weakly laughed back.

And when the twins were born, with gleaming blond curls and big brown eyes, and everyone fawned over them and told her how beautiful they were, Constance wasn't at all sorry for what she had done. She had finally gotten what she wanted—beautiful children. At least one of her dreams had come true.

2011

"Son of a BITCH!" Patrick pounded his fist against the front door.

Chad watched him from the staircase, sighing heavily. "Pat. You've been at this for hours. We're not getting out of here."

"No! No, that doesn't make any sense."

"We're dead, honey." Chad shrugged. "I always thought this house was haunted. I guess now we're the ones haunting it."

"This isn't funny, Chad! Something's keeping us here!"

"Well, look on the bright side. Now the bank can't take the house away from us." Chad grinned. "You don't have to pay mortgage from the great beyond."

Patrick ran a hand through his hair wearily. "Why do you keep saying shit like that? We're not dead."

Chad blinked. "You don't remember dying?"

"No. I remember coming home and finding some freak wearing that rubber suit standing over you…and that's it."

Chad's dark brown eyes softened with sadness. "He killed us, Pat. Both of us."

Patrick let out a long breath, sinking down on the stair below Chad on the staircase. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying…I think this is it. This is what comes after."

Neither of them spoke again for a long time, both staring at the front door and listening to the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the entryway.

"What do we do?" Patrick finally said.

"Try and find some kind of peace." Chad swallowed, his voice coming out a little unsteady when he spoke again. "What's wrong? You don't want to be stuck with me for all eternity?"

Patrick looked back at him, his bright blue eyes full of tears. "When I came in the house and I saw you on the ground…when I thought I'd lost you…" He trailed off, characteristically unable to find the right words to express how he felt about Chad, how he'd always felt about him. "I just…I'm glad you're here."

Chad looked back at him, his jaw set in a hard line, refusing to pretend everything had been all right between them before they died, falling back into comfortable acidity. "Spare me the histrionics. We both know that the only reason you weren't home when I was attacked is because you were busy getting sucked off by your trainer in some disgusting communal gym shower."

Patrick sighed, turning away from him. Chad let out a humorless laugh. "You're not even going to deny it?"

"What would be the point?" Patrick got to his feet, shaking his head and walking off into the kitchen, grumbling to himself in a loud enough voice that he was clearly making sure Chad could hear him. "Good thing this is a big fucking house."

"I'll make sure to draw a line down the middle of the floor." Chad called after him. "We can each pick a side."

Patrick ignored him, and Chad leaned back, his elbows resting on the next highest stair. He was angry with Patrick, and didn't plan on letting any of that go anytime soon, but he also felt oddly, bizarrely content with this new turn of events. If he was being completely honest with himself, he had what he wanted. The house. Patrick. Those were the only two things he'd ever really wanted in his life, and now they were his, for all time. No one else could touch them or take them away from him.

It wasn't exactly heaven, but he'd take what he could get.

2017

Violet looked around the bedroom in Murder House that had once been hers. It still looked mostly the same. The walls were still green. Her chalkboard was still up. Constance had even left her comforter the same. It felt like walking back in time.

Apparently her room was one of the most requested, largely due to her connection to Tate. Constance told her that people regularly held séances in Violet's bedroom, trying to contact Tate's spirit, but so far, none had been successful.

That night Tate saved her life in the woods, six years ago, had apparently been the only time he'd been able (or willing, she thought with a slight, painful twinge) to return. She hadn't seen or heard from him since, and according to Constance, neither had anyone else, even a group of devoted ghost-hunters who returned every month in search of the spirit of Tate Langdon. He'd achieved a kind of cult status after the story came out per Constance about his brother (or "Rubber Man" as he'd become known to Murder House devotees) framing Tate for the school shootings and letting him die in his place, while continuing to terrorize Murder House and its occupants until his mysterious disappearance after his attack on Violet Harmon. Apparently, when Violet had been near-delirious from blood loss, she'd told paramedics that a man in a rubber suit had attacked her and the long-dead Tate Langdon had saved her life, and therefore unknowingly inserted herself into the increasingly fantastic tale of the Langdon brothers. Countless ghost hunting and real life haunting television shows had contacted her for an interview about her connection to Tate and Murder House, but Violet refused them every time. Despite her silence, the faithful followers of Murder House lore had taken her attempted murder by Rubber Man and claim that Tate had saved her as gospel, and inserted her into the legend as the girl who'd fallen in love and had a relationship with their tragically misunderstood ghost.

Violet understood the obsession. Tate's story had all the elements of a good tragedy—he was wrongfully accused. He died young, and unjustly. Once they threw in a good love story between a living girl and a ghost, he became irresistible to the thousands that now flocked to Murder House to investigate its secrets for themselves. Constance, industrious as always, had finally bought her beloved house back and turned it into a bed-and-breakfast catering to the dark-minded and supernatural-obsessed who longed to have their own ghostly experience. And many did. Norah and Charles Montgomery were a popular sighting, as were the ghosts of Chad and Patrick. The nurses murdered in the sixties, and the Franklin devotees who'd terrorized Violet and her mother, provided some of the more horrific sightings.

It was bizarre to think that the ghosts who had so terrified her when she'd first moved in now had their own fanbases. And according to Constance, most of the ghosts loved the publicity. It definitely livened up their eternal imprisonment to have people coming from all over the world just to see them—rooms were often booked months in advance, and the current waiting list for Violet Harmon's bedroom was eight months. But Constance had made a special arrangement when Violet had called her.

Constance and Violet had come to an uneasy kind of understanding after Tate crossed over. They had never exactly bonded, but Constance had attended her graduation party, and even thanked her for helping Tate find some kind of peace. Violet had been so surprised she had just stuttered out "N-No problem," and accepted Constance's graduation gift of three crisp hundred dollar bills folded inside a card with the initials "CL" monogrammed on the front.

Constance had informed Violet upon her arriving back at Murder House that her weekend stay had garnered a fair bit of attention from the other guests to whom Violet Harmon was practically a celebrity, and they were all dying to meet her. Some of them had even asked if they could get a picture with her to take home to their fellow ghost-obsessed friends.

But Violet didn't plan on leaving her room much. She was here for a very specific purpose. To write. For her senior thesis at Berkeley, she had decided to write about Murder House, and specifically, the nearly century-long public fascination with the place and its occupants. When she had told her thesis advisor her idea, he had laughed merrily and said she should thank him in the acknowledgements when she got a book deal out of this, before happily signing off on her proposal.

When Violet had arrived at the bed and breakfast, it was late enough that everyone else was asleep in their rooms. Constance answered the door, still flawlessly made up and dressed even though it was the middle of the night.

"Violet. At last." Constance said, standing imperiously in the doorway, looking very comfortable in her newly rediscovered role as the Queen of Murder House. "You've dyed your hair."

Violet nervously ran a hand through her newly jet-black hair that was also newly shorter, now hanging just below her shoulders. She still couldn't decide how she felt about the change, and it was obvious Constance didn't like it. "Yeah. Got bored. Sorry I'm late. Traffic was terrible coming into the city." Violet said, feeling a little awkward just standing there. She hadn't seen Constance or this house in four years. It felt beyond surreal to be back here again. Seeing this place and Tate's mother changed his absence from a dull, familiar ache to a sudden, shooting pain.

"I'm just glad you've arrived safely. Would you like the grand tour? Not much has changed, but it couldn't hurt to reacquaint yourself."

"You don't mind? I know it's late."

"I don't mind." Constance ushered her inside, Violet feeling suddenly dizzy and a little sick as she stepped over the threshold. She hadn't been expecting the effect this place would still have on her, after so long. She'd never felt things as intensely as she'd felt them here, and even though she'd liked college and made friends and even had the occasional boyfriend, including a guy from her thesis class she'd just broken up with two days ago, Violet knew there was a part of her that she had left behind in this place that she never really got back.

"This place stays with you, doesn't it?" Constance looked at her with a small smile, almost as if reading Violet's mind.

"Yeah. Maybe that's why I feel like I have to write about it. Get it out of my system or something."

"Good luck with that." Constance laughed airily. She showed Violet around the newly renovated home, and Violet was pleased to find it all still looked mostly the same. Her heart had nearly pounded out of her chest when Constance had led the way down into the basement, the place where she and Tate would always meet up after her parents were asleep. Violet half-expected him to be waiting there, but the basement was empty and silent. Constance seemed nonplussed by the lack of supernatural activity, giving Violet a small shrug and saying, "I suppose they're all getting their beauty sleep." She led Violet back upstairs, turning to face her in the entryway. "Well, your room's all ready for you." She handed Violet a small antique key. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

"Thanks." Violet took the key, making her way up the stairs to the second floor landing, hearing Constance talking to someone in the kitchen that she called "Laurence", Violet barely hearing the murmur of an unfamiliar male voice replying.

She let herself into her room, finding it strange to have to unlock the door to what had once been her own bedroom, dropping her suitcases and book bag on the floor before carefully setting up her laptop in its old spot on her desk. The room felt way too quiet, but she couldn't exactly blare music in the middle of the night when the house was fully booked for the weekend.

Violet looked around the room, taking in the small differences from the years that had passed, eventually changing into her pajamas and laying down on her old bed, staring up at the ceiling. She was more tired than she had anticipated from a hectic week at school and a long drive into the city, her eyelids growing heavy. And just as she was drifting off—

"Hey."

"Holy shit." Violet clapped a hand to her chest, sitting up and seeing him standing there, right in front of her, wearing a flannel shirt and ripped up jeans she recognized from what felt like a million years ago.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." Tate rocked back on his heels, looking nervous. "I just never know how long I get to stay, and when I saw you were here..."

"Where have you been?" Violet swung her legs over to sit on the side of the bed facing him, part of her wanting to go to him and part of her scared he would vanish the moment she did.

"I'm not really sure." Tate shrugged. "It's nice there though. Addy's there. And no one's sad or angry." Tate looked at her intently, as if trying to memorize everything about her. "I miss you though. Every day. All the time."

Violet swallowed hard. "I miss you too."

"How long have I been gone?"

"Six years."

"Seriously?" Tate's eyes widened. "So you're, what…like twenty-one now?"

"Yeah." Violet grinned. "Do I look older?"

"Kind of." Tate smiled back. "I like your hair dark."

Violet blushed. "Really?"

"Yeah. It's hot. You look like a bad-ass."

"Thanks."

"So where are your parents now?"

"They ended up getting divorced."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was for the best. My mom moved back to Boston with some guy. She told me they adopted a baby boy from Africa. Maybe he'll do better than I did with gluten-free baby food."

Tate snickered, and Violet smiled slightly, still confused by Tate finding her funny. He was one of the only people who ever seemed to get her admittedly droll sense of humor. She went on. "And my dad's still in LA. He opened a practice with another psychiatrist. Some lady. She's cool. I mean, she tries way too hard to be nice to me when I come to visit him, so knowing my dad, he's probably doing her, but whatever. He and I actually get along okay now. We get lunch sometimes."

"That's cool. What are you doing back here?"

"I'm writing my college thesis on this place."

"Where'd you go to college?" Tate asked, hungry for information, finding himself still wanting to know absolutely everything about her.

"Berkeley."

"Figures." Tate shook his head with a laugh. "I always said you were a fucking genius."

Violet laughed. "Shut up. No, I'm not. I always feel like everyone there's smarter than me."

"They're not." Tate finally closed the space between them, sitting next to her on the bed. His eyes briefly flicked down to her mouth, and Violet felt the flicker of nerves in her chest intensify to an actual burning sensation. What would it feel like to kiss him, after all these years?

He reached out, touching her cheek, tucking her hair behind one ear. "I feel like I've been looking for you forever."

"I know what you mean." Violet said quietly.

"Anytime I could come back to this place, even if it was just for a second, I would. Just to see if there was any chance you'd be here."

"How does it work? How long can you usually stay?"

"Sometimes it's a few seconds. Sometimes a couple hours. And then it's just like…something pulls me back."

"That sucks."

"I know."

They looked at each other for a long moment, years of built-up tension and desire and need making it almost unbearable to be this close to each other and not act on their feelings.

Tate rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, looking like he dreaded having to ask his next question. "So do you have a boyfriend?"

"No. I mean, sort of. I did. I broke up with him like two days ago." Violet rambled nervously.

"Why'd you break up with him?"

Violet's lips curved into a small smile. "I dunno. I still think I'm kind of hung up on this guy from high school."

Tate just looked at her, not smiling back right away, and Violet realized he was trying to figure out if she meant him. She sighed. "You, Tate. I mean you."

"Really?" There was a brief flicker of something behind his eyes, something that almost looked like sadness.

"Yeah, really." Violet swallowed hard, finally just abandoning all pretense of small talk. "I'm still in love with you."

Tate looked down at his hands on his knees, taking this in for a moment. Then suddenly, he looked back up at her. "Do you want to—"

"Yes." Violet cut him off, both she and Tate moving towards each other at the same moment, Tate taking her in his arms, Violet already fumbling with his clothes, their mouths crushed together as they fell back on her bed.

A/N- Until chapter five! The Langdon family has a confrontation for the ages, Chad has to hear some very unpleasant truths, Larry comes clean with Constance, and Violet and Tate find an unexpected solution to their dimensional separation…reviews will make my Saturday shift at work feel much shorter…:)