Disclaimer: None of the characters portrayed are of my creation. They are the creative property of Brad Falchuk and Ryan Murphy.

Chapter 6:

Constance stood on the doorstep and looked up at the house. She had no reason to be hesitant, shy even, about opening the door. She had as much a right to enter it as anybody else had. The house contained the majority of what her life had once been- so much of her story was written on the walls and etched into the floors. She wasn't going to let anyone take the house from her.

Secretly she had been glad when Billie's exorcism- or what the hell it had been- failed. She couldn't let her children be taken from her like that. She had failed them, it was true, but they had also failed her. They were never what they could have been. She seemed to have everything that would secure her the family she wanted: a handsome husband, enough money, a mansion and her own beauty, of course.

Well what has come of it? You've done wrong often enough in your life, but this boy was sent to you for a reason. That he was.

She opened the door and stepped inside. The heels of her shoes clacked loudly on the wooden floor. It made her feel strong when she made her presence known like that. All around her doors were shut and blinds closed. There was a carpet of dust covering the floors.

"Well, where are you all at? I'm feeling a little peckish. Is Moira's service becoming worse now that you let her become lazy? I have half a mind to find some new inhabitants for this house. It seems a little empty, don't you agree?"

"What do you want, Constance?"

"Well, well, that took you quite a bit longer than it should have. But firing you would only strain the atmosphere even more, I suppose. How's the family getting on? My little angel is growing wonderfully, if Mrs. Harmon should ever ask you. I tell you, it is all due to my telling her to eat the brain. Nothing better than that if one wants to have a lively, strong little child. The other one wasn't so lucky. A great tragedy, but one rather common in twins, from all I've heard."

"Was that your purpose for coming here, Constance? To chat with the neighbors? As I know you, you act to spite. What is it this time?"

"Think what you like of me, but don't you presume to know me. In the end, I suppose, it is all down to jealousy, wasn't it always that way, Moira? Because no matter what you say or do to me, you will never have what I had. He only used you."

Constance stood close to Moira's face. In a swift motion she walked past Moira and towards the stairs, her heels announcing her arrival to anyone who hadn't noticed her yet. Her hand was already on the bannister when Moira spoke again.

"You don't know what you're doing, Constance. That child is of the devil and may heaven be good on us, if you let him loose on the world."

Constance turned around to face the old woman: "Now, Moira, don't spoil my mood. We've had such good times. There's nobody quite like you when it comes to blood and bleach."

She was about to continue her walk up the stairs, when the glowing embers in the living room fireplace caught her eye. The windows and blinds were all closed. There was nothing but the faint orange glow from the fire amidst the darkness of the room.

"I do hope my murals are still on display. Hugo was always such an admirer of my art.", Constance said.

She walked into the room. She wasn't quite sure why she did it, but there was an enticing pull from the orange, red glow. There were no sounds apart from her feet moving across the floor. It suddenly seemed exaggeratedly loud to her. Constance felt like she was intruding somewhere where she shouldn't be. It was an unusual situation for her. She was a woman who had always been sure of herself, she was never one to bow to foolish whims nor opposition. A woman who knew how to use her mind and her charms to her advantage; all together a creature to be feared. And yet, despite all this, her life felt curiously empty. Her hopes had been disappointed so often. She had given up on them and lost them to other things. All she had wanted to achieve had been sabotaged in a cruel joke of fate. She would make sure her little angel would succeed where she hadn't. She was going to do it right, at least this once.

She stood in front of the fireplace and looked down at the ashes and embers that were scattered across the floor in front of the fire. A book among the cinders caught her eyes. She bowed down to look at it more closely. It looked in perfect condition, but when she reached out to remove it from the remains of a fire that had burnt there not long ago, her hand recoiled from the touch of the hot leather. She picked up a fire poker that was lying nearby and pulled the book out from under the ashes and onto the floor. Lying there, it looked like any other book. Constance was puzzled. The book had evidently been thrown into the fire and left there to burn, and yet it hadn't.

She didn't know what she was doing when she picked it up. The hot leather was hurting her hands, she could feel her skin prickling from the heat, but she couldn't drop the book. She left the house, ignoring Moira standing by the living room door, ignoring Travis who greeted her in the hall, ignoring her plans of visiting Beau. All she felt and all she could think of was the book in her hands. As she stood on the porch, the wind-chime in the tree played its song in the wind and crows settled on a branch. Constance made her way back to her house in silence. She didn't even hear her shoes on the pavement anymore.

Tate was crouched next to the bathtub. Violet was still lying in it and groaning from time to time, though mostly she made no sound. It was that which unnerved him the most. He could tell she was still in a lot of pain, but he couldn't explain it to himself. Her hands seemed just as raw and charred as they had been hours ago. Nothing was happening and he didn't understand why.

At first, Tate believed his perception of time had been skewered even more. For months, he hadn't been lucid and aware for such a long period of time. But he could hear the clock downstairs steadily ticking on and he began to believe what it was telling him: Time was passing, but her pain wasn't.

Violet was still passed out and it was beginning to frighten him. It shouldn't take her that long to come back around again. Tate wanted to blame someone for her pain. What had she been doing? What had made her willingly burn her hands almost down to the bone? But he couldn't find a culprit without her telling him what had happened and he couldn't hope for that.

Tate found himself admitting to himself that as much as he wanted Violet to wake up and be ok, he enjoyed being able to be with her like that. He knew she would never let him be so close to her for such a long space of time if she were awake. And yet, his wish for her wellbeing was stronger than his desire for her. He knew that if he wanted to he could have her and take her right then and there. Perhaps with other girls he would have done it, but never with her. He couldn't really explain it to himself. It all always got too much and he would give in every time to drive away whatever it was that was haunting him. But that situation was more complicated. He was haunted by the wish to be good, to do good, but he was battling one side of himself with the other. And it was her who had urged on the light in him.

Tate held her head in his hands and pressed Violet's face to his shoulder. His whispered words to her were hardly coherent, but he wanted to hold her. It was the only thing he could think of that he could do just then. But he had to let her go when he felt Violet stir in his arms and heard her groans become more frequent, though less agonised. He carefully let her rest against the edge of the bathtub again. Her hands in the water looked more pink than red and black. But Violet started to babble and raise her voice, quite as if the movement hurt her.

Tate tried to hold her steady. He pressed his forehead against hers.

"Shh, Vi, please don't. Try to calm down. Shit, I don't know-"

Tate tried hard to restrain his anger. He lowered his eyes to avoid her pale face. The pain and suffering was etched into it.

When Tate looked down at the water, he saw Violet's skin restoring itself and once again becoming as he knew it. He just pulled her closer then and, to his own surprise, felt her arms slowly wrapping around him. Only then she tensed up and Tate knew he had lost her again. For those hours she had belonged to him and it was the feeling of her responding to him again that stuck in his mind when he was in the darkness of the cellar.

But he saw she wasn't fully conscious yet, so he lifted her out of the bathtub and lowered her onto the floor. Tate pushed away the strands of wet hair that stuck to Violet's face. He carefully undressed her, trying not to move her too much. Tate dried her hair with a towel and slipped off his shirt to dress her in it. His fingers ghosted over her shoulders when he slipped it over her head. He wanted to touch Violet's soft skin, but he had gone too far already. He was trying to restrain himself. He was going to do the right thing.

When she was dressed and somewhat dry, Tate carried her into her room. In her semi unconscious state she would sometimes look up at him with a bemused expression on her face. Tate laid her on her bed and allowed himself to hold her hand before he left the room. The skin was taut and had a more leathery feel to it than he remembered. But Tate couldn't allow himself to think about it for too long. She was already becoming more conscious and he quietly left the room and made his way to the cellar.

He felt eyes all around him, but no one left their hiding places; not even Hayden. Tate was glad and disappointed at the same time. He had to take his anger out on something, but he couldn't allow himself to. Not now, when he was closer to her than he had been in ages. He wouldn't. He couldn't.

A/N: Thanks for your continued support! Please review xx