Note: I will personally rip ff dot net in two if it breaks down this update. I actually finished it early, darn it, and since I'm supersuper super excited for where the story is headed this chapter, I'm going to be one of those obsessive review-readers this time around. Not that fanfic writers aren't obsessive review-readers by nature. But this time, as a thank you for your time, I WILL reply. And if I don't, you can digitally slap me. With a pancake.
Chapter Eighteen: Collapse
Trains had always been Nami Stone's favorite method of travel. Cars dealt with traffic; planes were too-often detained by weather; boats could be overturned by the tides. Trains, however, stayed on one track and followed it to its finish. Meanwhile, you just enjoyed the ride.
"We might not see each other for years, Gustafa."
The steady hum of the machine gave background music to the thoughts swimming in her mind; Nami picked up Gina's letter again and sighed. A week or two ago, she'd have killed for this. Now, however…
"I told you, Nami. I'm a pretty patient guy. Do what you need to do."
This career hadn't even been her expertise. A phone call and a photo later, though, her new boss was happily handing her a decent salary. "You don't need to know what you're doing," the man had assured her. "Just read what we tell you, point, and smile."
All the same, Nami had begun reading an overview on weather predictions. A weatherwoman. She'd worked to become a private investigator only to stand in front of a camera and read aloud the day's forecast: all because her body looked decent and her voice sounded favorable. A shallow reason if she'd ever heard one.
Still, a job was a job, and a paycheck was a paycheck. Who was she to turn down easy money? Frankly, it shocked her that Gina cared enough to give her the heads-up. During their short stay together, the redhead had been nothing but rude to the nurse, yet Gina had taken it upon herself to be the girl's monetary savior. Go figure.
"Flowerbud Village, huh?" Nami flipped the card in her hands over and sighed. "Never heard of it." She'd only be there temporarily; it was Gina's new hick town of choice, and it was the closest town to the TV station. Maybe she wasn't doing the most high-end networking, but Nami figured it was better than nothing, and she had dealt with little villages before. Just look at Forget-Me-Not—the place didn't even show up on the map.
Just like Flowerbud Village. Ironic, that.
"It'll be fun, Nami. A new experience. Write me all about it, okay?"
"Those departing please grab your luggage and exit the train now. If this is not your destination, please remain sitting…"
Nami yanked her suitcase down from above and shuffled down the steps listlessly. The sky shone a clear winter blue, and if she squinted she could make out the sun hidden behind a single cloud. A new life. A new place.
All the same, she flashed her gun permit and brought her pistol along, unwilling to forget the past just yet.
"Broom, broom... Where's the broom?" Gwen scurried about the inn and groaned. "Steiner, where is that broom? We're behind schedule and my uncle is going to kill me!"
The last minute booking had thrown them all for a loop; Doug had gone out with Duke for the weekend on a much-talked-about camping trip, and Gwen had expected another boring restaurant-style two days. Instead, she got a call from a Ms. Stone for a reservation, and could she please check in at her room today?
Yet if the blonde hadn't chosen to spend last night as she had, Gwen knew that this wouldn't be a problem at all.
The memory made her cringe a bit upon recalling; perhaps it had been guilt—no, it had been guilt—that'd prompted her actions. "We haven't been alone like this in a while," she had commented, sitting by his side. Her amber eyes flitted from the couch to his stone expression. "It's kind of nice."
Steiner hadn't said a word, just nodded and wrapped his arm tighter about her shoulders. His fingers felt cool on her skin, yet for some reason Gwen found herself yearning for warmth instead, and a little sigh left her lips.
"What is it?"
"Nothing. I'm perfectly happy, Steiner." A bright smile stretched across her face and she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Just over-thinking, you know. It happens."
Another nod. More silence.
Her heart sunk a little lower within her and Gwen bit her lip. This was her punishment, she supposed. This treatment was the price of her demand; well, who was she to begrudge him that little protest? Steiner had feelings, too, and he could display them how he chose, immature or no. Any melodramatics he chose to perform, he had a right to. Though frankly, the part that had truly hurt Gwen…was that it didn't seem like an act at all.
The blank glances. The quiet nods. All seemed natural, done without his realizing it. Only baby Claire invoked the old side of him; when Gwen saw him alone, it was as if some old specter had appeared and taken hold of the man she loved.
"Steiner? Are you alright? Hey." Gwen placed her hand on his cheek and smoothed out his frown lines; "Why don't I make us some dessert? Claire's sleeping, Doug's gone, and I've got enough sugar to last us five lifetimes."
"No, thank you."
No flippant retort. Just a polite, dull reply.
She'd done something. Gwen couldn't word it exactly, but that forlorn expression, that listless mood—her actions had prompted that. If she hadn't been so pushy, or impatient, perhaps the smooth-talking Steiner she'd fallen for would still be sitting beside her. Oh, God, to think that she could be the cause of his unhappiness—! The thought sent tendrils of remorse shuddering down her spine.
"Steiner?" His lips remained frozen, so she kissed life into them, murmuring, "You do know…that we're alone, right?" Her hand slipped towards her ponytail, loosening her long blonde locks to frame her pixie face as another kiss linked them both. "Just you and me."
Gwen's tiny heart pumped inside her body, the blood screaming in a way she refused to let her lips mimic as she brought her hand to his thigh. It didn't feel real, not really—just foreign, letting her body give signs to his. She'd had no experience, certainly, and she'd never thought to before marriage. But in the movies, and in the books, this was it. The proof two people lacked so desperately of their love; that one act that gave everything, including an apology, in order to receive part of yourself in return.
For a few, agonizing moments, the man stared at her with eyes full of disbelief and longing. "Gwen." Steiner smiled a bit to himself and placed his hand on her own. "Oh, Gwen. You really have no idea what you're doing, do you?" Then, delicately, he pressed her fingers back into her palm. Gwen felt her breathing still as his hands enfolded over hers like petals about a rosebud: soft, gentle, patient. "It's not that I don't want to, believe me. It's that you don't. I can tell."
"Steiner, I—"
"You're shaking," he whispered into her ear. His finger toyed with a stray blonde curl, and his breath tickled her cheek. "There's no need, Gwen. But…I'm touched that you'd go that far for me. Really."
Her reply strangled in her throat. It had been a protest—Gwen almost wanted to call it one—yet she had curbed it so easily. She should have been furious, she supposed: insulted, affronted even. Perhaps she was in denial. Or perhaps, as he held her hand with almost sacred intimacy, Steiner had read her better than she'd read herself. "…You could tell all that, just from looking at me?"
"Yes."
"But you said no, even though you knew I'd have done it anyway?"
"Yes."
The muscles relaxed, one by one, and Gwen bit her lip down harder. She'd already cried enough in front of him; she didn't need this now, even if these tears were far from sad. "Then, thank you." She cuddled closer to him, and with her head on his shoulder, they rested awhile in an almost perfect silence. No, this Steiner wasn't the one she'd first met. He was someone far beyond Gwen's expectations: someone who, no matter what he'd done in the past, she knew could be trusted with her heart.
"Found the broom, Gwen." She blinked, and once again it was morning and hectic and busier than it ever should've been. Steiner held the broom forward with an apologetic grin, and added, "Sorry it took me so long."
"It's fine," she assured him. "We're just pressed for time, is all."
It wouldn't be long before she knew just how little time that was.
He hadn't seen her in ages. He remembered her vividly enough; yet the doctor couldn't have described himself back then, not from the outside. The last time, he'd seen her, though, her cheeks had been flushed with anger; her hair tousled with fury; her eyes wet with tears. Now, staring into her crystal blue eyes once again, Trent tried to block out that last snapshot with this one: a sun-kissed fairy, eyes aglow with surprise and blood red lips parted in an O as her airy voice breathed out his name.
"Trent?"
"You never told me when to come," he stated simply. "I had to set my own schedule." The doctor waited for Claire's common sense to return and only entered the doorway when she stammered out an invitation. The room smelled different than he remembered, almost like tea. It reminded him of Elli's, oddly enough.
"Um, I didn't clean up—" The blonde stumbled from the bedroom to the kitchen then back again, blushing. "Sorry, if I'd known I would've…I mean…God, I just can't believe you're here."
Trent couldn't help it; he smiled. "I'm not the best of company, but I'll try and live up to your expectations."
"And you're making jokes. Wow. This is…wow." Claire plopped herself on the bed and covered her face (had it ever burned so red?) as she stuttered, "I—I need a moment for this to sink in. Sorry."
"Take as many moments as you need. I have the day off."
Puzzled, Claire cocked her head at him. "But it's not Wednesday."
"I can take a day off to see my wife, don't you think?"
That did it; Claire cracked, laughing as grateful tears streamed down her cheeks. Wife. Had she really missed that word so much? Had she missed hearing him say it that desperately? Trent found himself immediately running to her side, rubbing his hand up and down her back in soothing motions as she crumpled forward. "It's okay," he whispered, even though it was by no means a guarantee. "It's okay, alright? I'm here."
"You took the day off for me," Claire repeated to herself, wiping her nose. "Y-you came all the way here, and you—"
"I didn't do anything that shouldn't have been done a long time ago." Trent fished through his pocket for a hanky, and Claire took it, blowing noisily. The doctor ran his fingers through his hair and confessed, "I didn't know. I had no idea what you were already dealing with, Claire."
"That's not even your fault," Claire blubbered on.
"It's not anyone's fault." Trent paused. "I just got afraid of dealing with more than I could handle." Postponing, Dr. Hardy had called it. Funny, wasn't it, that a man in boxers and flip-flops could label defenses so acutely? "I didn't realize, not until I got your letter, that you were already struggling with more than any one person should. But what really got me was—"
"I understand that this doesn't change anything. I accept that. I don't blame you for leaving me. Love is all about trust, isn't it? I ruined that. I take the blame."
His words died and Claire rubbed her eyes, eyebrows raised in confusion. "What?" she insisted. "What happened, exactly?"
"I realized I deserved some of the blame, too." Trent's hands tangled through his thick black hair; he'd practiced this conversation with Elli, oh, a thousand times, but the nurse had always rebuked him for using her as a guinea pig. "Just let it come from the heart," the brunette had ordered. "Stop rehearsing!" He let his eyes catch hers and he smiled, awkwardly. "I left you home alone constantly with Willow. I'd come home and expect things to be running smoothly, that I could just pick up from where we'd left off the night before and have a seamless marriage. No strain, no conflict." A pause. "What if that'd just gone on, Claire?"
The farmer folded her hands in her lap; she shrugged. "I knew what I was getting into, didn't I?" Claire murmured. "I married you knowing your work came first."
"But work shouldn't come first. You're not some Stepford wife, and I can't expect you to shoulder every little thing that I don't have time for. Work doesn't make up for that. Work doesn't—" He sucked in a deep breath. "Claire, I've been working for a season and a half now, and—and God help me, but I couldn't seem to think of anything but you and Willow that whole time." Trent chuckled despite himself. "Sometimes I wonder if…if Skye hadn't kidnapped Willow…if I'd ever have truly gotten to know her."
"Of course you would have," Claire assured him.
"No. I wouldn't have." His statement left Claire cold, and this time she was the one to wrap her arm around him as he hung his head in shame. "I'm turning into my father," the doctor announced. "I saw him so rarely, but he seemed so strong, so serious and brave, that I couldn't resent him. A doctor, always working, always saving others. We barely spoke, but I wanted to be strong, like he was. It didn't occur to me…that being strong, and being caring, can be the same thing."
"Oh, Trent." Claire's hand alighted on his cheek and let her fingers graze it fondly. "You're being too hard on yourself."
"And you're not being too hard on yourself, Claire?"
"You never lied to me," the farmer retorted. "You never betrayed me."
"But I lied to myself," Trent answered. "And I betrayed not only you, but Willow."
A perfect marriage was not built of two perfect people. A man did not leave his house knowing his wife and child to be safe; an outsider couldn't ruin a marriage that didn't already have its cracks. Blaming Skye had been simple. Blaming Claire had been heartrending.
But blaming himself?
Doctor Trent had seen his wife's medical records. He knew her blood type, her DNA, her scars, dimples, and the constellation of three freckles on her back. Seeing that, and connecting all of it to a photo of a beautiful smiling girl, didn't compute. Her medical past became incomprehensible. All a fluke, of course; no sadness hung in those eyes. Glassy eyes couldn't be wet with tears, could they?
"Are you aware that your wife was mentally and physically abused as a child?"
The abuse. The affair. All of it. "I blinded myself. I did it on purpose, I suppose. I let you handle the guilt of everything; I preferred to let things stay the way they were instead of addressing the flaws."
"I can't say I blame you for that."
"Well, you should." Trent drummed his hand on the bedspread, a dull and cushioned thump making sound while his lips made none. "Claire, about what you wanted to tell me." He paused. "I think I already know. I think I always knew."
"If you knew," Claire whispered, turning away, "you wouldn't be here, would you?"
What had tied Trent and Claire together, from the beginning, had been the belief that each fully knew the other. Trent exuded reliability, brilliance, precision; Claire personified loyalty, modesty, and dedication. Yet all these personas had been shattered in a single year. How could you call someone "husband" you barely knew? How could you call a total stranger "wife"?
"You're wrong. If I'd known everything from the beginning," Trent answered, closing the gap between them, "I'd have never left in the first place."
Marriage, broken down to its basest form, means "a gamble." All the roses in the world wilt eventually; all the promises ever made have been bent, if only slightly. Expecting anything always leads to the unexpected. Watching a bride walk down the aisle does not signal the end of a story; instead, it opens the doors to a whole new journey, with whole new secrets waiting to be unfolded.
The question wasn't whether or not you'd been deceived. The question was, in fact, how willing you were to embrace the person behind the veil, and how willingly you, too, cast your own aside.
Innocence could be a child chasing a butterfly; innocence could be an unbroken heart, a song unsung. Nami had watched the flighty girl in the Inn for a few moments, and innocent had suited her quite nicely, she supposed. Young, able, spunky, bright: innocent, yes, innocent. "I'll be with you in a minute, Ms. Stone!" she shouted over her shoulder, swiping a ring of keys off their hook. Then, ponytail bouncing, she held it forward with a little grin. "The keys to the upstairs room, first on your left. Gwen at your service; call if you need anything, okay?"
"You're rather young to be running an Inn," Nami heard herself critique.
"Oh, it's not mine!" Gwen laughed. "My uncle runs it. You just caught us at a slow time of the year; he and a friend are out camping. But don't worry—I'll make sure your stay goes just fine. I've learned a thing or two from my uncle, believe me."
The blonde seemed so sure of herself that Nami felt almost guilty for doubting her. "I'm sure everything will go just fine," the former detective nodded. "I'll just take my bags upstairs, then."
"Are you kidding? We have people who do that for you," Gwen reminded her with a little smile. "You're at an Inn—at least let us pamper you a bit, okay?"
Her generosity brought a faint flicker of nostalgia to Nami's eyes; the last time a hostess had been so kind, she'd thrown it all away for a badge and a gun. And in the end, that's all she'd kept with her, wasn't it?
She held forward her meager belongings and shrugged. "If you insist."
"Steiner! Steiner, stop goofing around and help the lady with her bags!" Gwen hollered upstairs. "I swear," she laughed, "good help is so hard to find these days, huh?"
Nami nodded once again.
"So what are you doing here?" the innkeeper inquired cheerily. "I heard from the new nurse that you were acquaintances, but that's all I've heard."
"I'm a weatherwoman." It was the first time those words had left Nami Stone's mouth, and though they somehow mortified her, Gwen beamed all the brighter at their sound.
"Oh, that's good! We had the most boring man on there for awhile…very dry, very nasally voice. Smart, sure, but did you want to hear him drone on and on about clouds? Not at all."
"I'll be sure to avoid droning, then."
Gwen laughed at that, then threw another glance up the stairs. "Oh, for the love of—Steiner, get your butt down here! Really. I know you like being with Claire, but please, do your job for once, would you?"
"Claire?" Nami heard herself murmur. It shouldn't have shaken her like it did, but hearing the familiar name woke up a side of her that had long remained dormant. A side that didn't believe in coincidence.
There was a jovial laugh, and then a thunder of footsteps down the staircase. Everything unfolded slowly for Nami then: a figure dressed in dark pants, followed by a blinding white shirt that opened at the neck to reveal even paler skin. He turned his neck so that his silver locks parted before his eyes, seeing first Gwen and then the detective standing there. Oh my God. His grinning visage appraised hers uncomprehendingly, and never before had Nami seen such eyes—cut from the coldest of sapphires. "Ah. You must be Ms. Stone."
Nami Stone had spent many days, and many nights, wondering if she'd ever be granted a chance like this: a clue, a hint, a damn anonymous tip that could save her sorry career before it flushed down the drain. In a single, automatic motion, the bag fell from her hands and her fingers gripped metal instead, her pistol aimed straight at this man's heart.
"And you're Skye the Phantom Thief. A pleasure to, after all this time, finally make your acquaintance. You son of a bitch."