Be Jazz Fenton.
Go to school. Have a good day.
It is the end of May – school's almost out. Three more days, you think, until you can eat watermelon and ice cream and read your books in the backyard and not ever wear shoes unless Uncle Vlad says you have to. It's almost freedom. Warmth in the air and fireflies at night.
The bus is loud and full of bodies. You don't like how they press in from all sides. It's nice that you don't have to ride it anymore. Mr. Smith is a very nice man, you think. He doesn't smile a lot. But when he does, it crinkles in his eyes and they twinkle. They're neat, one brown and one blue. And his voice is scratchy and deep, but he's always very quiet and asks you questions you can answer. He calls you "little miss" and "Miss Jasmine" instead of just Jazz.
You asked him why once.
His answer was quiet and serious, like Uncle Vlad could sometimes be. "Young ladies such as yourself deserve to be addressed respectfully. Remember that, little miss. Don't ever let anyone disrespect you."
It's a funny thing to think about. You're only six, though you'll be seven very soon. How do grown-ups respect a little girl? Uncle Vlad tried to explain respect to you once, after you'd had a nightmare and had to talk to Mr. Spelka for a very long time. He'd sat you on his lap and gave you a big hug, the one that makes you feel super warm and happy.
"Respect, kiska," he'd said, "is treating others in a way that you yourself wish to be treated. It is treating others kindly and using good manners. It is being understanding of their feelings and ideas. Sometimes, it even means listening to others' instructions and doing as you are told. What your mother and father did to you, how they made you feel, shows that they do not have respect for you. Or for others. And you must never ever let anyone disrespect you in such a manner again. Do you understand?"
You did not. You had frowned and played with Uncle Vlad's hair. It's very soft, shiny and silver between your fingers.
"What do you do when people don't respect you, Uncle Vlad?" you asked, very quiet.
Uncle Vlad is very strong, and very smart, and you love him a lot. But sometimes his eyes are too bright and his shadow doesn't move right, and that's very scary. This was night one of those times.
"It depends on the person, zaychik," he'd answered. "I am a man with many connections and considerable wealth. People may disrespect me in ways that they would not disrespect you."
"Like how?"
"Oh, like offering me business deals that aren't quite acceptable. Speaking ill of me when they do not think I am listening. Things of that nature. The world of business is very complicated, Jazz. And grown-up issues are complicated as well. So the way I handle disrespect will be much different than the way you should handle it."
There was something bright and Very Bad in his eyes, and you squeezed Uncle Vlad tight to make it go away. He kissed the top of your head and rubbed a big hand over your back. His chest was warm. His heart had gone ba-dump! under your ear.
"So, what should I do?" you whispered, and Uncle Vlad had chuckled.
"You should be quiet and listen. Wait until they are finished. Wait until they do not expect you to remember what they have said. And then you should tell them the things that make them feel as disrespected as you have felt."
You frowned at that because it wasn't quite right. "But Mr. Pendergrass and Mr. Spelka says I should try to be nice always?"
Uncle Vlad had hummed under his breath and ran a hand over your braids. "That is good advice, lastochka. However, sometimes, respect must be earned in ways less than kind. You are a sweet, smart girl, Jazz. There will be those who might think you are weak because of that kindness."
There was something twisting your tummy, and you remember how the Very Bad Thing in his eyes got brighter. So you had whispered, "So what do I do when they think that, Uncle Vlad?"
Uncle Vlad went quiet. And even though you're having a good day, you can remember his words bouncing around inside your head. Heavy and loud, like fists on a wall.
"You let them think you are weak. Then you find what makes them weak. And once you have found that? You break them."
Respect is a funny thing, you think, something that's good and bad. You're only little. None of it makes sense. But the weird, black look in Mr. Smith's face and the Very Bad Thing in Uncle Vlad's eyes makes you sure that respect can be bad too.
Be Jazz Fenton.
Sit with Dash at recess and talk about what you want to do over summer. Dash is going to play baseball – his daddy coaches a team with the Lion's Club league. He's going to be on third base. He's going to run and run and run and get all kinds of sunburns because that's how he and his daddy have the best times. Dash doesn't talk about his mommy a whole lot. You don't ask him why.
Mommies are hard things to talk about for you, too.
You tell Dash that Uncle Vlad is building you a treehouse in the backyard, a big one in the giant oak tree away from the house. That it's going to be huge and space for snacks, and for little chairs, and you're going to spend as much time as you can there. You're going to read and draw and listen to the wind while it talks to the trees. And you're going to be safe there. No one's ever gonna hurt you in your magic treehouse because Uncle Vlad is making it with magic. He'd said so.
Dash grins great big, and it makes his whole face bright. You smile back. It's easier now, when you're not hungry and you don't' wake up screaming for mommy no stop please Danny bubby I'm sorry please no the bad things to stop happening as much.
And then Paulina comes up.
She's with Valerie and Star and Kwan, her pretty hair done up in a high ponytail. Dash glares his hardest. Kwan looks like he wants to be somewhere else. He'd be nice, you think, if he'd stop playing with Paulina. But Star and Valerie are giggling to themselves, and Paulina is wearing her Very Not Nice smile, the one you hate the most, and you know this is going to be Bad.
"So what are you doing this summer, freak?"
Paulina likes to call you that, now. Freak. Like it's your fault Mommy and Daddy are mean. Like it's your fault Danny is gone and you have to live with Uncle Vlad. Like it's your fault that you still sometimes flinch and cry at loud noises, that you tend to hide food because you're scared it's just gonna be gone, that you don't like it when people stand behind you.
She calls you Freak. Because, to her, everything is your fault.
What else do you call a little girl whose mommy and daddy don't love her anymore?
Be Jazz Fenton.
Stare at Paulina's sparkly ballerina shoes. They're pretty, you think. Paulina would be pretty if she wasn't so ugly. Hold Dash's hand tight and don't say anything. If she gets bored, she'll walk away. Uncle Vlad is starting to teach you Spanish along with Russian. You're starting to understand some of the things Paulina mutters when she gets upset.
She likes to call the teachers fat and ugly when she's in trouble. You keep that to yourself, though.
Paulina wears an ugly smile. It's very smug. Like Mommy when she was trying to find the answer a ghost wouldn't tell her. It's a smile that makes your tummy knot. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to be anywhere but here. But your body won't move. So you just hold Dash's hand and think about how you both laughed at Matilda getting rid of Ms. Trunchbull earlier.
Only three more days.
Then it's bare feet and books and a treehouse and freedom.
Paulina flicks you hard on the forehead. You flinch. Dash stands up real fast and pushes Paulina.
"Why don't you leave her alone?!" he says, and his voice is real angry, but he doesn't yell.
Dash knows how much you hate yelling.
Kwan pushes Dash back, and now his face is mad too. "You shouldn't push girls, Dash! You're bigger, and my daddy says we can get in a lot of trouble for hitting girls!"
There's water bubbles in your ears. Dash lets go of your hand. He's shoving at Kwan now, saying something you can't quite make out. It's a funny feeling. A funny awful feeling. You hate it. Want it to stop. Want Paulina to stop calling you a freak. Want everything to move slower. Want to feel like someone, something, a person that wasn't broken into itty bitty pieces.
"Aww, look at the little baby! She's crying!" Your ears are bleeding. Too much sugar. Make it stop. "What's the matter, freak?"
Stop it.
Paulina and Star are both laughing. Dash growls, tries to shove out again, but this time Kwan catches him around the tummy and they start fighting. Wrestling on the ground.
Stop it.
The awful feeling in your tummy gets stronger, hotter, until it's bubbling up your throat and into your face. And everything is just red and you're so tired of listening to this. You want them to be nice. You want them to go away. You want everything to be quiet and freedom and books in the trees.
You want the little voice that sounds like Mommy, the one that tells you you aren't good enough, to leave.
You let them think you are weak, Uncle Vlad had said.
So let the tears run over your face and you stare at Paulina's sparkly white shoes. Ignore how your fingers are shaking. Set your jaw. Uncle Vlad says facial expression is very important when dealing with others. It's all about impression. How they see you. How they per-see-ve you.
Then you find what makes them weak, you remember.
Paulina doesn't sing well. Paulina doesn't run very fast. Paulina has terrible handwriting and can't spell. Paulina's daddy was the one who saved you and he's a police officer and Paulina loves him lots. Sometimes, Paulina spells her name wrong. You notice only because she sits near you and Mr. Pendergrass has to help her a lot. She's mean, and she's loud, and you're tired.
And once you have found that?
Be Jazz Fenton.
Stand up. Brush off the seat of your pretty blue leggings and look Paulina in the eyes. She's still grinning. Still proud and pretty and mean. Feel the heat burn in your face go away. Let it go into your throat. Then your mouth. Then feel it echo and bounce like fists on walls in time with Uncle Vlad's voice.
You break them. . .
"I might be a freak." The words won't stop, leave your mouth cold and mean. "But at least I'm smart enough to spell my name right, tonta. I'm sure your daddy's really proud."
The world stops.
Kwan and Dash quit fighting. The water bubbles get louder. Someone, you think it might be Star, gasps. Valerie runs off. And Paulina.
Paulina stares at you with big eyes, scared eyes, and her mouth works like the fishies in Ms. Newson's room at Uncle Vlad's office. She doesn't say anything. She just stares at you. Like she can't figure out what's going on. Like she can't figure out how you learned what was Spanish for "fool". It feels good. Her face looks hurt, looks scared, and you can't help but feel good because she's done the same thing to you all year and now it's her turn.
Dash puts a hand on your shoulder. You eye Paulina and grind your teeth. But you walk off with him anyway. She's still standing there. Hasn't moved an inch. The water bubbles are starting to fade a little. Your heart isn't beating so fast anymore.
It's almost time for recess to be over. Almost time to pack up backpacks and have snacks and then go home. Mr. Smith will be waiting for you. He'll wear his too-jagged smile and ask you how your day has gone. Remember to lie. He's a very nice man – he doesn't need to know all the bad stuff.
You only have three more days, Jazz Fenton.
Dash holds your shoulder tighter. His voice is quiet. "That was really mean, Jazz."
The big knot in your stomach gets bigger, comes back and turns cold. Because he's right. It was really mean. You hate it when the others make fun of you for not knowing what order numbers go in, and you hate it even more when they make fun of Dash for not doing good during group readings. So why did it feel so good to make fun of Paulina? She's mean, yes, and she makes you feel real sad and calls you bad names. But. . . is it okay for you to be mean back?
Uncle Vlad had said so. He's real smart. So it must be okay, right?
Drop your head. Try not to cry. Hold Dash's hand and say, "I'm just really tired. I didn't mean to be so mean, honest. I just want her to stop."
Dash squeezes your fingers back. "How come you won't let me tell a teacher?"
You remember Mommy rolling her eyes, and Mommy raising her voice, and Mommy telling you to stand up for yourself. And you remember sitting and crying at the kitchen table while Daddy yelled about you being stupid for not understanding math and asking Mommy why Daddy was being so mean and she'd just looked at you and said, "You need to learn to handle your own problems, Jazz. Others are mean. Deal with it."
And you remember how much that hurt even more than the hitting and the yelling and so now when you look at grown-ups you remember "You need to learn to handle your own problems, Jazz" and thinking that no one was ever going to save you. You're trying to be better. You're trying to tell. Trying to let grown-ups know how you feel.
But it's hard.
You're not ready for this.
Be Jazz Fenton.
Go home and wave at Dash as Mr. Smith helps you into the Town-Car. Be quiet when he buckles you in. Don't swing your seats, they get dirt on the leather, and that makes the people who clean the car have to work harder. Try not to think about how Paulina didn't say a word the rest of the day. Try to smile when he asks you how today was. Tell him about reading Matilda. Tell him about learning about sea turtles in science.
Don't tell him about Paulina.
Don't tell him about how you said mean things and liked it when her face went sad.
Most important, don't ask him about respect.
And if Uncle Vlad asks you that night – big shadows in his face and Bad Things in his eyes – what happened in school today, don't tell him either.
Be scared you'll like his answer.
~*O*~
Penelope found him exactly where she expected him to be – in the kitchen, sat at the table with a cup of coffee clenched between his fingers, slow country music playing quietly from the corner.
She sighed to herself. Things were. . . difficult these days. The confrontation with Plasmius had unsettled them, left a gaping maw where comfortable co-existence had once resided. It had been nearly a week, and she'd barely been able to coax more than a five-word sentence out of him in all that time. He woke up well before her, went to the prison, came home and had dinner, played with the boys then went to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat ad infinitum. She was lucky if he said goodnight nowadays.
It hurt.
Badly.
Because Walker had somehow cemented himself as the one person she could fully, completely trust with anything. He hadn't cared about her past. He hadn't cared that she hated his rules, or that she was fully capable of taking care of herself. He hadn't cared that she couldn't cook, or that she hated wearing anything more than old t-shirts and sweats in the house, or that she had to do her makeup every day because not wearing it made her so anxious it literally hurt.
Of all people, Jeremiah Walker had been the one who got a good, long look at her neuroses and just let them be.
But now? He didn't trust her anymore. And out of all the people who had lost trust in her over the years, who'd discovered her abilities or past and pushed her away, Walker's rejection was the one that stung the most.
So here she stood, leaning against the kitchen door at two in the morning, trying to find something to break the godawful silence between them.
It would've been funny if it weren't so pathetic.
Eventually, Penelope worked up the courage to say something. "You should be in bed, Tex." She kept her voice quiet. "You've got to go in later."
For a little bit, Walker didn't say anything. He just stared into his cup of coffee, shoulders hunched and tense. Then he glanced up at her, and the sheer exhaustion on his face was just. . . it hurt. It hurt, and Penelope didn't know what to do with that.
"Can't sleep," he grumbled, voice rough. "Might as well sit here an' be quiet. Beats starin' at my alarm clock."
The bruises under his eyes were stark, skin creped and spiderwebbed with blood-vessels. For the first time since she'd met him, Walker looked defeated.
It hurt.
A lot.
Penelope swallowed the knot of guilt that was threatening to choke her and stepped over to the carafe. Silently, she plucked a mug – the chipped one that said "Not today, Satan" in cracked letters – and poured herself some coffee. Then she pulled a chair close to his and sat down. The ceramic was warm between her fingers, nearly scalding, and it brought her a little comfort that at least he hadn't been alone for very long.
They sat in the quiet for a bit, long enough she didn't quite track it. There was wind outside, the sound of rain pattering against the windows. Penelope almost smiled – leave it to Walker to have a lair that made rain when he was upset. Instead, she took a long sip of her coffee. It was bitter, but not burnt, and she savored the heat seeping into her bones.
"You should prob'ly go back t'bed," Walker muttered. "Danny'll be up early. Don' wanna keep ya awake."
Penelope ignored him, took another sip of her coffee. "I'm not going anywhere."
He sighed, letting go of his mug just long enough to scrub both hands through his hair. "Pen," he started.
"Don't." She cut him off as gently as she knew how. "Look, I know things have been. . ." she huffed, unable to find the right word. "It's not been good between us since Plasmius. I know that. But I'm not just going to leave you here by yourself to deal with whatever's keeping you awake."
Walker fixed her with an exhausted, disbelieving expression that cut straight to the core, and Penelope felt her stomach knot in on itself.
"I'm not asking you to talk to me," she murmured. "I'm not asking you to trust me, either. But I don't like leaving you alone in the dark. So I'm staying."
The old record player started scratching out another song. More rain pelted the windows. Walker looked at her with those exhausted, empty eyes. Penelope wanted to crawl in a hole and stay there until she faded away. Instead, she looked right back, face impassive, and took another sip of coffee. Eventually, Walker leaned forward on his elbows, staring at the table.
"I do trust you," he rasped. "I do. I jus'. . ." He stopped, frowning hard, and Penelope tried not to shake as he gathered his words. "Ya ever get so used t' one side of a person, ya forget they got a whole other side?"
Another lump of shame built in her throat. Penelope nodded, mute. He continued.
"That's kinda what this feels like. I see you every day with Danny an' Tay. I see ya laugh at dumb puns, an' cry at Pixar movies, an' run around in my flannels that're 'bout three sizes too big 'cause yer too lazy t'do laundry. I saw what he did t'ya, how much y' love the boys, how you've been through every step an' struggle an' fight." He paused, swallowing thickly. "An' then Plasmius shows up screamin' you told him – a twenty-year-old boy – t' kill himself 'cause he was worthless, an' you didn' even try t' deny it 'cause you knew it was true. It's like gettin' slapped in the face with ice water, Pen. It's like. . . I don' even know how to describe it, but it's awful."
Her eyes burned. Penelope gripped the mug tightly but took care not to break it. The smell of caffeine centered her a bit.
"I've done. . . horrible things, Walker." It felt like there was a snake wrapped around her throat, dry scales and hard muscles that squeezed tighter with every word she spoke. "Unforgiveable things. And there's no excusing any of them, I know that. I was so angry for so long. . ." she trailed off, tracing a finger around the rim of her mug. "I'd always make the excuse that the misery kept me healthy, kept me pretty. 'Why should anyone else be happy when I'm so goddamn miserable all the time?' I'd think, and that made it easier. And being with Bertrand just fed into that because he pushed and prodded until I was his perfect little shield. Nobody looked at the weak little shapeshifter because they were so busy focusing on awful, ugly Penelope."
She swallowed thickly, face burning right beside the shame in her chest. "He was turning me into his own pet monster. And I just let it happen. Because I was throwing myself a pity party the whole time. Isn't that pathetic?"
The rain came down harder. Penelope couldn't look Walker in the eye, and he just stared at her, searching and exhausted. The silence built into a thick, suffocating wall between them.
"What happened?"
It caught her off guard. Penelope jerked upright, blinking in confusion at the sudden question. "Pardon?"
Walker took another long swig of coffee. "What happened? With Plasmius. How'd y'all find 'im in the first place?"
A chill ran down her spine, and Penelope suppressed the shudder that accompanied it. "Bertrand and I were, uh, 'working' in the hospital Vlad had been admitted to. Getting a feel for how long it would take humans to figure us out, how hard we could push before someone broke, that sort of thing. I knew the minute he rolled into the ICU. You could practically taste the emotions rolling off him."
Vladimir Masters was nothing if not mercurial, and Penelope had known that the moment she'd sensed his emotions. Everything was so volatile with him. He didn't just get angry, he got enraged. And he wasn't just sad, he was damn near inconsolable, wallowing in self-loathing and misery. Nothing came by half. And, at the time, it had felt so good to know she wasn't the only one that miserable. She wasn't the only one who hated themselves so fucking much they couldn't take another second. And it had been so easy to just. . . give in when Bertrand suggested they insert themselves into the young man's therapy team.
He'd been a scared, angry, hurt young man with horrific self-esteem issues, disfigured and left alone by the two people he'd trusted most in the world.
And Penelope had gone after him with something dangerously close to enthusiasm.
Thinking back on it, the mental image of Vlad sitting alone in his hospital bed – covered in pustules and so thin you could count his ribs, looking up at her with distrust and fear – made her nauseous. Because that very well could have been Danny. Could've been Taylor. Could've been Walker. And, at that time, she wouldn't have cared. Not one bit. She stared down into her coffee and wrestled down the urge to vomit.
"So you just. . ." Walker made a vague gesture with one hand, shoulders hunched and eyes hard, "decided he'd be yer next meal ticket?"
Penelope bit her lower lip until she could taste ectoplasm.
"He was. . . easy," she whispered. "And strong. His emotions were so intense they fueled us three times as long as any of the other patients we'd fed on. And I was so tired of being miserable, Walker. I'd been living with Bertrand for somewhere close to thirty years at that point. He made it so easy to just. . ."
She trailed off, unable to finish the thought, and took a shaky breath.
"Ya gave up." The blank, harsh disapproval in his voice knocked the breath out of her. "Ya got tired, gave up, an' threw a temper tantrum that ruined a kid's life. That about sum it up?"
Penelope fought down the tears that threatened to spill – she didn't deserve them. "Yeah. That about sums it up."
Walker stared at her, eyes cold and hard, and it made her feel almost pathetically small. He hadn't looked at her like that in months. The ache in her stomach grew, expanding to a black hole that threatened to suck her in and never let go. She hadn't felt well and truly ashamed of herself – well, for the right reasons, anyway – in so long.
"If you ever give up like that again, I'll hunt ya down an' thrash ya' within' an inch a' yer afterlife, you understand me?" He growled it like an order. "You're better'n that."
The mug was scalding her fingers. It was too hot. Had she accidentally made it too hot? She couldn't tell. Either way, it was a good distraction from the stinging in her eyes and throat. Penelope nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak yet.
An eternal moment passed, Walker scrutinizing her with near-ruthless severity. Then he sighed again, and his shoulders slumped into their previous exhaustion. He scrubbed a hand over his face and chuckled, self-deprecating and harsh.
"Lookit me, actin' like I'm any better'n you," he wheezed, blood-shot eyes peeking out between his fingers. "I ever tell ya I was a Marine when I was alive?"
Penelope took a shaky breath, confused at the sudden turn of their conversation. "I remember Johnny mentioning it a couple of times."
Walker hummed and downed the last of his coffee, smacking his lips. "He thinks it's funny 'cause I don't swear. I swore a lot back then, actually, 'fore I figured out how stupid it made me sound. 's bad enough dealin' with everyone thinkin' 'm stupid 'cause I was a jarhead – didn't wanna give 'em any more ammo."
He was quiet for a few minutes, eyes glazed and far away. When he finally continued, his voice was a low, rasping whisper. "I did a lotta bad things too, Pen. Everythin' was bad on the Western Front. Them trenches were hell. There wasn't one day durin' that war I didn't do somethin' that sometimes keeps me up. Not one."
Penelope felt her core stall in her chest. She remembered World War One, though they called it "The Great War" then. She remembered listening to the radio at night, being young and naïve enough to completely believe all the bullshit it was spitting, thinking it was the war to end all wars just as Father told her. She remembered that naivety dying as she watched boys come home on trains, disfigured and broken and crying. Boys who came home "wrong" as they'd called it. Shell shock. Combat fatigue. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Clinical terms coined through the ages to describe one horrific condition.
She'd never even considered the fact Walker was one of those boys.
"It's been over eighty years since the war ended," he rasped, "an' I still sometimes wake up thinkin' that there's shells droppin'. Can you believe that? It's what my nightmares 're about, mostly. They're different now, though, changed as I've got older. Used t' be 'bout watchin' my boys die, platoon members an' other troops we fought with. Saw so many bodies they all jus' blurred into one face at some point. When I got home, I watched Night of the Living Dead at the theater with an old girlfriend. Had nightmares 'bout zombies swarmin' up outta the trenches fer almost a month. Slept with a shotgun by my bed just in case.
"They weren't bad fer a long time, though. Not 'til I got the wards an' made my bargain with Nocturne. Now they're. . . I mostly see the boys. There was a private, way back when, snuck in underage somehow. Took 'im under my wing 'cause he was dumber'n box a' wrenches. He was a good kid though, had a big heart. Got hit by a shell, died bleedin' out an' screaming. Told 'im we all hurt 'fore he died 'cause he was cryin' and I didn't know how t' make 'im stop. That one still sticks with me."
His voice had gone hollow, empty, and Penelope fell back onto her clinical training and let him talk, even though every single inch of her wanted him to stop.
"Anyway, most'a the time I see the boys in his place. They're screamin' an' cryin' and I can't do a damn thing t' save 'em, no matter how hard I fight. I hold 'em an' they jus'. . . crumble away into the mud. And then I'm alone in the smoke, fightin' against people I can't even see. Stuck in a trench, cold an' covered in blood and mud. Lots'a times there's snakes? Dunno why. Probably 'cause I hate 'em – nasty, cold SOBs. Used t' find rattlers in the barn at the farm an' run screamin'."
He paused again. Long enough Penelope thought he might've finished, that there wasn't enough thought left to fill the silence. She almost hoped he had – this made her chest ache. Then Walker turned and looked at her, tears brimming in his eyes, and it felt like someone had stabbed her.
"But I think the worst ones 're the ones where you're there," he croaked. "'cause those're the ones that stick, ya know?"
Penelope tried to ignore how her tongue felt like sandpaper. "What do you mean, Jeremiah?"
"They stick 'cause you never blame me!" Walker choked out, his eyes glazed with terror. "You. . . you just smile at me, even while yer dyin', an' even though I can't save ya, you don't blame me! At least the others blame me! Least they know it's all my fault! You just. . .!"
He didn't finish.
He didn't have to.
Penelope slid out of her seat and moved to crouch in front of the wild-eyed man. She turned his chair to face her, kneeling in between his legs. Walker shook violently in his chair, hands clenched hard enough to bruise atop his thighs. Gently, she took his face in her hands.
"Look at me, Tex," she ordered, voice soft as she could make it. "I want you to take a deep breath for me, okay? You're panicking."
He gasped for breath, skin clammy under her palms, and Penelope gently wiped a tear away with her thumb. She'd dealt with more panic attacks in the past seven months than she had in her whole life and death. It was standard routine by now. That didn't make it any easier, though.
"I want you to tell me five things you can see, Jeremiah," she coaxed. "Can you do that for me?"
Swallowing hard, still trembling head to toe, Walker did as he was asked. "Uh. . . y-your eyes, the table, a chair, the clock, m' flag."
"Good. Now, four things you can touch."
Another deep breath, a bit less shaky than the last. "Y-your hands. . . uh, m' chair, the floor, and. . . and my mug."
"Three things you can hear."
He relaxed a little further, leaning forward as he thought about his answers. "The rain, music, the clock tickin'."
Penelope lowered her voice a tad, running one hand through his sweaty hair. "Two things you can smell."
There was no hesitation this time. "Coffee. Your shampoo."
"Excellent. One thing you can taste."
Walker licked his lips. "Salt."
Convinced he was no longer panicking, Penelope offered him a weak smile and sat back on her haunches. "Welcome back, Tex. Thought I'd lost you there for a minute."
A wet, coughing laugh erupted from Walker's chest. He scrubbed his hands over his face. Idly, Penelope took note of the new glyphs that crept down the back of his wrists, thick spirals of words in different languages. Little symbols – they almost looked like Japanese characters, but she couldn't be sure – lined his fingers, too. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered if they felt rough like the ones on his chest and shoulders. She also wondered how in the hell his wards had managed to expand on their own like that.
The rain had eased off. It still pattered against the windows, though, a comforting lull of noise in the background. The record was somehow still playing. Old bluegrass music maybe? Something slow and sad.
It fit the mood.
Penelope balled her hands into fists atop her thighs, trying to look anywhere but at him. Centered herself around the sting in her palms. Walker was still trembling, trying to come back to himself. It felt like they'd been separated by the Marianas Trench, and the sensation ached so sharply it was almost physical. A knot of shame, desperation, and fear sat like a rock in the pit of her stomach. And even though she didn't have the exact words to describe it, Penelope knew right away that the sensation fucking blew.
"You aint' gonna lose me, sugar."
It was said quietly, voice thick and exhausted. But each word seemed to bounce off the inside of her skull. Penelope felt like she was moving in slow-motion when she finally found the courage to look up. She had to look like an idiot. Kneeling on the floor of the kitchen at two a.m. wearing ratty old pjs and a tank-top, hair a mess, jaw dropped.
Somehow, though, Walker was smiling at her for the first time in three weeks, and Penelope couldn't summon the will to care.
"What?" she said. You know, like a dumbass.
The smile widened, and Walker chuckled. He stood up, offering her a hand. She took it, numb and still staring, and tried to ignore the pins and needles in her toes as she was pulled to her feet. He didn't let go of her hand when she was on her feet, though. He kept hold of her, one thumb running over the back of her knuckles.
"Y'said ya thought you'd lost me," he reiterated. "Y'ain't gonna lose me."
A surprised huff of laughter escaped, and she practically yanked her hand away. Frantic, chaotic energy was coiling up and down her arms. She needed to do something. Something that didn't include looking at his soft eyes and his stupid buff arms. Or his dumb, hot face. So, instead, she busied herself by snatching both of their mugs up and escaping to the sink. She punched on the tap. The water was too hot. It burned her fingers.
It was a good kind of burn.
"It's an expression, Tex," she countered, ignoring how her voice shook. "You spit so many damn euphemisms a day, I thought you'd know one when you saw it."
The dish soap smelled like green apples. Her hands were going to hate her after scrubbing with no gloves. She'd have to double-down on the moisturizer. The coil of self-hate and shame and desperation wound tighter in her stomach. A spring about to snap. She needed to do something. This wasn't enough of a something, but it was a start. And it kept her from looking at Walker, kept her from staring down the fact that the giant, hot asshole was a way better person than she could ever hope to be.
But then there was no more water.
And then there was a big hand taking the mugs from her, putting them in the sink.
And then she was being spun around to face a broad, tattooed – no, not tattooed, branded, those were brands he'd gotten to protect her and the boys – chest.
Penelope could feel her eyes burning. It wasn't a good burn. The world went blurry, and she fought it. Because she didn't deserve to cry. She didn't deserve to be another problem. She was a monster, everyone said so because it was a fact.
Monsters didn't deserve to cry.
The big hands settled on her shoulders. The rain was still coming down, a constant pitter-patter against the windowpanes. More sad music, too. Her eyes burned. Her nose burned. Her throat ached in time with the pit in her stomach.
"I mean it, Pen. Y'ain't gonna lose me."
Her fingers were shaking. The rain kept falling.
"You don't mean that," she ground out. "No one ever fuckingmeans that. Not when they realize I'm a monster."
More pressure on her shoulders. Not painful, but firm. "I don't think yer a monster, Pen."
"Bullshit."
"I don't, hon." One hand brushed some hair out of her face, but she still couldn't look him in the eye. "I think ya do bad things 'cause ya hurt. I think ya did some things that yer gonna spend a long time tryin' t' make right. But I know one thing. You, Penelope Spectra, ain't a monster. Understand?"
Her breath hitched. Everything ached.
"You wouldn't look at me." Penelope fucking hated how her voice wobbled, but she couldn't help it. "You wouldn't talk to me. It's been three weeks, and you acted like I didn't exist the whole time."
His voice stayed quiet, a low rumble like thunder. "I've been. . . mad, hon. An' confused. An' frickin' tired. It's taken a while t' sort through everythin'."
"It hurt. But, honestly, I fucking deserve it."
Great – now she was whimpering. A sniveling, crying, selfish monster. Couldn't even go one night without making everything about herself. Fuck, she was bad at this.
"Pen, please look at me."
No. Nope. She couldn't do that. The floodgates would open, and then shit would get real embarrassing real quick.
Walker didn't give her a choice.
A finger slipped under her chin and tilted her head up. Penelope finally met his gaze.
And it fucking hurt.
Because he was still smiling at her. Even though his eyes were wet. Even though he was exhausted, and stressed, and probably a million different other things she could taste if she wanted to but didn't have the mental fortitude to handle. He was still smiling at her.
A sob escaped before she could clamp down on it.
Walker's expression fell, and he cupped her face in one hand. "Oh, hon, don't cry. I hate it when ya cry."
The sobs came harder. Faster. Everything ached.
"I'm sorry!" she coughed. "I'm sorry I'm such a shitty person!"
Walker pulled her into a hug and buried his face in her hair. He squeezed her tight, and Penelope clung back just as hard. She kept her face pressed to his shirt. And she cried harder because, shit, now she was getting tears and snot all over him like a two-year-old. A selfish, horrible, bratty two-year-old. He rubbed one hand along her spine.
"Shhh, hon, it'll be alright. We're gonna be fine. We'll figure somethin' out."
Penelope cried even harder. Tried to focus on the sound of his core under her ear instead of the knot in her stomach. They stood there for a long time. Long enough for her to cry herself out, at least. She sniffled, nose stuffed and aching. The top of her head was wet. Walker had been crying, too, and it made everything hurt just that much more.
But she was selfish, so Penelope just burrowed in closer, tried to bury herself in the ratty fabric of his old t-shirt.
"I missed you."
Shit, she hadn't meant to say that out loud. Even if it was true. Even if she had missed him. Missed the snarks, and the conversations, and the companionable silence that felt easy as breathing. She'd missed playing games with the boys together and making snide remarks at Skulker when they thought Ember wasn't listening. Hell, she even missed listening to him bitch about her swearing.
Walker chuckled. It vibrated against her cheek, and Penelope wanted to sink into the warmth.
"I've been mad as a old, wet hen at'cha, sugar," he rumbled. "An' I've missed you, too, weird as it sounds."
She sniffled. "Really?"
Rain pattering, music playing, Walker started swaying to the rhythm. "Yeah. I missed talkin' with ya. Missed jokin' with ya, an' playin' with the boys. I even missed yellin' at'cha fer swearin'."
A choked giggle erupted from her throat, and Penelope finally lifted her head enough to look at him. Her eyes still burned. She probably looked like a damn raccoon from whatever mascara had stuck around after washing her face. But Walker grinned right back at her, his own eyes red-rimmed.
"There she is!" he praised. "I was startin' t'think you'd never look at me again."
"Well that's just silly," Penelope croaked. "You wouldn't have anything pretty to look at anymore if I did that. You'd crack all the fucking mirrors."
Walker's grinned widened, exposing a pair of hidden dimples, and he chuckled again. "Exactly. Who'd keep ever'one from figurin' out how ugly I am?"
A frown replaced her smile, and Penelope dropped her eyes to his collarbone. "You're not ugly, Jeremiah."
She meant that.
Jeremiah Walker was a beautiful man. Not just aesthetically – though, holy shit, the man was a shirtless sight to behold – but personality wise? It was kind of hard to wrap her head around. Because even though, yes, Walker was rigid and unbending morally, kind of had a resting bitch face, and could be absolutely ruthless when his temper was peaked, there were other things that just. . . made all that fade away? Like the fact that he made shitty dad jokes nonstop, or that he'd piggyback both Danny and Tay for hours after coming home from the prison. That he had a laugh that cracked at the edges and loved watching shitty spaghetti westerns.
She was pretty to look at, sure, and she was proud of that. Unreasonably proud of that. But Penelope knew for a fact that inside? Deep in the recesses of her heart? She was ugly. Ugly and cold and mean.
Walker could be mean, could say unkind things, but he wasn't a mean person.
Penelope was.
"Hon, look at me," he ordered softly.
She didn't want to. But Penelope did anyway. Slowly, she lifted her head. He was frowning a bit. But it wasn't harsh, not in the way it had been before.
"It's been hard, hasn't it?" Walker rasped – it was a rhetorical question. "I think we're gonna have t' talk a bit more. Figure out what's goin' on."
The cold knot of anxiety in her stomach got heavier. "I think you're right."
Walker sighed, exhaustion written all over his face. "Y'know it's gonna be okay, right? That we're gonna be fine."
Penelope felt her eyes start to sting again. "Is it?"
He lifted his hand to rub at the sticky tear tracks on her cheeks. "Yeah – what'cha did was awful, Pen. But I ain't about t' just. . . look, d'ya feel bad? About what you've done?"
She bit her lip hard and nodded, not trusting her voice.
Walker smiled that crooked little grin she liked best. "Then we're gonna be fine."
Another couple of tears fell down her face. But Penelope smiled anyways as relief flooded every inch of her body. She buried her face back in his chest, squeezing him around the waist as hard as she dared. They were both exhausted. Well and truly exhausted.
But this was cathartic, in a way.
"Can we go to bed now?" she murmured. "I'm tired."
Walker sighed heavily. It rattled in his chest under her ear. "Yeah – 'm thinkin' 'bout callin' in tomorrow anyways."
Penelope nodded and didn't move. "That'd be nice."
They stood there until she couldn't keep her eyes open anymore.
And when they finally did go to bed, and Penelope curled into him as tight as she could, she noticed that the rain had stopped.
And she smiled.
~*O*~
time is many things.
time is patient. for all things have their moments, whether they come rapidly or slowly, and time sees all things in itself. it watches events pass in sequence, then in reverse, and sometimes in asynchrony. time knows all. sees all. patient, quiet, an observer to tragedy and beauty and harmony and chaos. it created the beginning and it has seen the end and each point in the middle is part of a grander design than mortals will ever comprehend.
time is not, however, kind.
it is cruel and exactly and merciless. you gain no extra seconds to say goodbye to a loved one. it does not praise those who fight the inevitable. it watches, and it listens, and it waits. and then, when your time ends, you are gone.
and so time watches.
all-knowing. all-seeing. but not all-powerful.
omniscience is different than omnipotence, children.
you know what is to happen next. . .
time tilts its head. watches. it does not smile, for that is not in its nature. feelings are irrelevant to one who has seen the end, who has watched the river branch in infinite directions. the voice which whispers in its ear is soft and rasping, a wind through dead leaves. terrifying to the mortals. naught but a recurrence to time.
we have seen the likely path, yes, is its response, for who is time to lie about its nature?
the half-ghost is going to unleash a monster. . .
and time knows this to be true, for it has seen all the paths converge onto this single locus. it sees a man, broken and brittle and alight with incandescent fury, seek a power that is not his to hold. it sees a man unleash a monster. it sees death and chaos and destruction. it sees all things, for time is all things, and so it has been from the beginning and the end.
monsters are inevitable, it chides, soft but unyielding. you know this well as i.
the voice sighs and the rustle of fabric echoes to its left. time does not look. it would not see anyway. time is all-seeing but it is also blind. a mortal would cower.
time has no such luxuries.
i dislike monsters. and such a temper for one so ancient! i dislike those who would hasten the natural order.
time is not kind. but it can be amused, and so its lips curl into a faint smile at the petulant anger in that voice. you dislike having your domain tampered with, it corrects, just the faintest hint of a jest in its tone.
the air grows cold. time watches. endless, circular, ever-changing. beginning, end, middle, end, beginning. on and on in a pattern with no pattern, in a tempestuous river that changes constantly. it is blind but it sees all. the possibilities. the likelihoods. the monsters that lurk in the shadows and the heroes that rise to light. it favors no one. time is patient and inevitable and cruel.
who are mortals to hasten death's domain? it hisses, ice cracking and wood splintering. who are they to cut short those beautiful creations we oversee?
time is patient.
and time is omniscient.
it smiles and watches the river, the currents and the tragedies, the ebb and flow of all those creatures that live such small, linear existences. it created the beginning. it has seen the end. and it creates the boundaries for all those that live under its thumb. but it cannot change the river, cannot direct the flow. can only create pockets and moments, seconds or minutes frozen in the constant stream that others dare not interfere with.
time cares not for monsters, just as time cares not for babes.
but death?
death is patient.
it watches with eyes that can see, feels the heartbeats of these mortals trapped in the river. it relishes the fight, the struggle. it favors few and reviles fewer, whispering in soft voices only those chosen may hear, and it ushers on those caught in its web to other places. death favors those who fight it most. those who practice medicines and those who invest in the care of others. those who struggle and claw and use every ounce of strength and brilliance caught within their finite bodies to keep it at bay
it relishes the chance to catch those who can no longer run. revels in the final act of wrapping them in its heavy, warm cloak and praising them in a voice like a winter breeze. and it savors every chance it gets to take in those who would dare presume to call on its power, to rend them body from spirit in hands made of frosted bone and toss them to their inevitable beyond.
for who are these mortals to presume they may call upon death?
who are they to they to believe death will obey?
time cares not. time is cruel. a monster has always been a monster in its eyes, for it has seen the beginning and end of all monsters.
but death is kind.
and death is patient.
the river is ever changing, time whispers, and gestures with a hand to the shining nexus. monsters are coming, but they may also end. all we may do is watch and do as we have always done.
death sighs once more, a great rattling thing, like a thousand billowing wings. i dislike monsters. but its end will come, i suppose.
time smiles.
because death is patient, and kind, and – perhaps most importantly – death is
ȋ̷̧̧̛̳͕̣͕̦͗̓͊̈̍̍̾͠ n̸͚̦̜̟̗̪̣͔͚̮͖̬̰̺̙͂͒͋̑́̉̃͛̒͑̕͘ e̸͓̝̫̭̮̓̈́̓͆͛͐̅͐͐̑́̕͝ v̵͍̟̝̙̣̐̌̆̈́̒̾͘̕̚̕͝ͅ ȉ̷̧̯̘̫͖̬͉͖͋̔̀̿ͅ ţ̴̧͍̳͖̓͛͊͠ͅ á̸̧̯̙̂ b̴̰͉͈̮̞̬̗̥͗͊͗͋̈́́̎̓͋̑́͝ l̶̢̞̘̿̈ ȩ̸̭͖̜̰̹̼̫̹̜̗̪̟̄̆́̆͊͜ͅ
A/N:. . . . *arrives two hours late with Starbucks and smeared mascara*
So what'd I miss?
Holy shit guys, so it's been crazy? Year 3 of pharmacy school is hard, fam, but we're struggle-busing our way to the end dammit! That being said, I'm so sorry it took me this long to get this chapter out. It's been hard trying to keep a schedule for writing on top of school work. But I fucking cranked it out!
That being said, I want to mention a few things before I leave here. I think I made it pretty clear but Walker and Penelope's talk is seen through the filter of someone who has experienced severe psychological abuse and gaslighting. She thinks of herself as a monster - which, you know, that's fair in some regards - and so thinks that when Walker lashes out at her, it's entirely deserved. Let me be clear - she did NOT "just give up and throw a temper tantrum" That's not how abuse like that works. Did she do reprehensible things to Vlad? Yes. Does she need to atone and work through the shit she's done? Abso-fuckin'-lutely. But did she just throw her hands up and "give up" as Walker put it?
No.
No she did fucking not.
Walker and Penelope are both really fucked up, guys, and how he described her reaction to the systematic psychological trauma Bertrand put her through is NOT COOL. You do not put up with someone down-playing your trauma like that, guys. Ever. I am The Mom here to say that that's not okay, ever, and someone who tries to pull that shit on you needs to be sat down for Story Time real fucking quick.
We'll address their trauma and start the healing process soon, guys, I promise. And Walker WILL figure out what a dick thing that was to say. But I just had to put that down initial, gut reaction because they're both pretty emotionally raw at this point? Like, my poor babies are running on like three hours or sleep, adrenaline, and the will of the gods at this point. they're gonna be hella cranky.
Also, I made Clockwork a creepy, eldritch motherfucker. Death is also an entity. I'm not sure if you should thank me. But here we are.
I ALSO GOT FANART?! Big shoutout to tumbling-darkling on tumblr for making this beautiful fan-art of baby Danny for me for Goretober! It's Danny, guys, so the gore warning should go without saying but here's the link if you want to check it out! They did an amazing job! post/631802998026338304/show-chapter-archive
I also did a very long one-shot in another AU about my favorite crack-ship. Bitches be sleeping, for real.
Thank you all so much for all your wonderful comments and support, and I hope to see you in the next one!