Chapter Three
October
Alison prefers summer, but Halloween is her favorite holiday.
In 1999, she crafted her first costume by herself. It included a dangerously short mini dress - sewn from a thrifted bedsheet with colorful flower print - and knee high white go-go boots she borrowed from a relative. She'd used cheap purple L.A. Girl eyeshadow and every bit of glitter she could find to give herself what she considered a mature look. She'd twisted her hair back in small sections and clipped in plastic, neon colored butterfly barrettes. When asked what her costume was, Alison responded with "the popular girl". She was nine years old. The adults on her trick-or-treat route laughed goodnaturedly and gave her extra candy.
In 2007, she'd snuck out to attend a party in a neighborhood much classier than her own. Her high school boyfriend was there, chugging cheap beer and ignoring her. Alison had arrived in a slinky, sequin dress and was trying her hardest to emulate Paris Hilton's sexy, smoldering look. It made no difference because soon she found herself outside on a patio deck, sharing her first joint with a girl named Maggie. They chatted about classes, college plans, Friends versus How I Met Your Mother, and Britney Spears' lackluster VMA's performance. It was Maggie whom Alison first revealed her plans to fully pursue a singing career after graduation, despite her father's wishes. The other girl nodded and replied "That makes sense" before stubbing out the finished joint and heading back inside to the party.
In 2012, she stood on the stage of the Gorge Amphitheater in Grant County, Washington, dressed like Madonna circa 1985 and belting out her latest #1 hit. Her heart filled with pride and adrenaline pumped through her veins as she covered the stage from one end to the other. She wondered if Maggie had been in the audience watching.
Now she sits in a booth at Harry's Hideaway, nursing an amber ale and smiling out the window at a toddler across the street clutching his new Spider-Man costume to his chest. Ali chuckles quietly and wonders how good old Peter feels about being such a celebrity.
The neighborhood has given a tremendous effort in making the entire block look like a set design from a holiday movie with pumpkins and cobwebs decorating every available space. Children walking home from school stop inside Cynthia's for hot apple cider and kettle corn to snack on. Leaves drift down from the Red Maple trees that are shedding for winter hibernation. Harry and his staff have even put forth effort in decorating the pub. Orange pumpkin shaped lights have been strung across the chalkboard, illuminating the list of beers on tap. A skeleton stands at the front entrance, greeting patrons with a toothy smile and sign that reads SEAT YOURSELF. Harry's wife, a cartoonist named Rita, painted the windows with Frankenstein, Dracula, and the Werewolf raising a toast with foaming mugs while Mr. Hyde served as bartender behind them.
It's charming inside and the kind of cozy quiet Alison needs. Sally, a middle aged waitress, swings by, pointing her finger at Ali and barking "Game's on in ten."
Ali smiles and takes a drink of her ale. "Cool by me. Hope your team wins."
Sally is from Erie County and eats, sleeps, and breathes the Buffalo Bills. "They will," she says confidently and turns on the TV mounted on the wall above the bar.
The normalcy warms her. She returns to gazing out the window, has a fleeting thought of grabbing one of Cynthia's pumpkin spiced lattes (much better than Starbucks!) for her walk home, and sighs with a soft smile on her lips.
An hour later and Alison has finished her beer plus the whiskey sour Sally brought over because Josh Allen was having an amazing game. Not caring about the Bills or Josh Allen, Ali took the drink with a salute and chuckled as Sally hustled off to attend to some newcomers who clearly did not understand the importance of football.
Now she feels the buzz of alcohol and lets her eyes wander over the other inhabitants of the pub. Baxter sat at the end of the bar, lightly teasing Sally whenever one of her players were tackled. His neon construction vest suggests he's finished his shift at the library remodel for the day.
In the back corner booth sits a squad of college aged ladies, each with a pretty colored drink rimmed with either salt or sugar. They giggle frequently and Ali smiles at their youth. She's not much older than them, but it's a large enough gap to look at the girls with a remembrance of her own adventures in her early 20s.
A bell over the entrance door rings as new customers come inside to join the midweek lunch shift. Alison glances over and instantly recognizes a tall, muscled frame and head of luscious blonde hair.
"Warren!" She waves as Angel stands scanning the chalkboard's list of beers on tap.
He smiles and slides into her booth. "Well, well. Hello Ali."
"I see you've finally decided to return to New York."
Sally appears and Warren places an order for a dark stout. "And please, place all of Alison's drinks on my bill," he adds. Ali tips her chin in thanks and orders another whiskey sour. They watch the football game for a few minutes while Sally prepares and delivers their drinks.
"So…" Ali prods. "I guess you're here to finalize everything?"
Warren frowns into his pint glass. "I am, yes."
She waits for him to continue and when he doesn't she finds herself wanting to defend her friend and plead Betsy's case. But Betsy has kept her relationship issues permanently locked away and Ali had only recently been privy to the divorce papers Warren had served his wife. Betsy continued her day to day life in New York as if nothing had happened, never showing that she was affected by the drastic action.
Sighing, Ali doesn't bother pushing the topic further. It wasn't her place to interfere anyway. She sips her drink and returns to watching the game.
They sit in silence until their drinks are done and Warren pays the bill. He offers her company on the walk home, but Ali shakes her head no. "I like the solitude," is her answer. He gives her a sad smile and a nod before he heads out of Harry's Hideaway and into the chilly autumn afternoon.
Armed with one of Cynthia's perfect pumpkin spiced lattes in hand, Ali presses on in a battle of resilience against the late October winds. She flips the collar of her denim Sherpa and bores on, walking slowly and enjoying the cold, the coffee, and the alone time.
Lately there has been absolutely nothing better than being left to her own company. Her friends and teammates were kind and caring and desperately wanting to help her through her mourning. But when around any of them, she couldn't help but feel like a burden or charity case. Alison refused to be either. And so she took solo walks in the morning and evenings, no matter what else was going on at the Institute. Occasionally she'd walk to this exact neighborhood and lazily windowshop. There were a few boutiques housing local, lesser known designers with mostly expensive boho styles. The kind moms with blogs and YouTube channels adopted as their uniform.
A charming children's bookstore sits on the corner and every time Ali passes by, she thinks of Meg Ryan in You've Got Mail. Across the street is a stationery shop called Ink Blots that smells incredible. It's one of the only places Ali will spend money for artisan soap. Today she pops inside, grabs another of her favorite lemon and honey scented bars, and quickly slips back out to continue her walk.
There's a park bench under a maple tree and she sits to sip her latte in peace. The quiet is nice. The chill is nice. The simple, Hallmark-esque picture of this one street, decorated and filled with locals, is beautiful.
Don't forget this. Her heart whispers. Don't forget the simple or the tucked away corners of the world.
She lets out a sigh and finishes her coffee.
November
Thanksgiving is dominated by Remy and Anna Marie shouting at each other in the kitchen. The Cajun has masterfully prepared a full feast, with the helping hands of Ororo and Jubilee, who is visiting from California for the holidays.
Alison largely stays out of the way, until she decides a bottle of rosé is needed and sneaks into the battlefield to snag it from the refrigerator. When she's returned to the dining table, Betsy has two diamond-shaped glasses waiting to be filled.
"So?" She uncorks the bottle and pours. "What did you hear?"
Alison takes her glass and leans back in her chair. "They're fighting about Paris."
"Well, I should think so," Betsy scoffs. "He was gone for a year, with another woman."
"Her point exactly. He countered with California and Erik." She makes a face at the name and sips her wine.
"Bloody hell." Betsy swirls her glass and scowls. "And I'm sure our dear Anna is ready to throw in the towel and speed off to San Francisco just to spite that redneck."
"Come on," Alison says gently. "It's hard for him too."
"Oh don't defend him. He's a pervert and always has been." She downs half her glass in one go.
Alison keeps her lips sealed. Three weeks ago, Warren served his wife with divorce papers and since then Betsy had been bitter. She'd signed the papers, took a decent bottle of scotch from Logan's private collection, and sat on the roof of the mansion, angry and silent.
Alison, clad in pinstriped pajamas, sticks her head out her bedroom window. Perfectly pedicured feet dangle above her head. Ali sighs and props her chin on her hand.
"You know, the forecast says possible snow tonight." Betsy doesn't answer and so Alison hauls herself out the window and climbs up the dormer to sit next to her friend. "Rough day?"
"The worst," Betsy grits out. Her mascara is running and her lipstick is smeared. Battling enemies not included, it's the lousiest she has ever looked. "Don't tell me everything will be alright."
"I wouldn't dare."
Betsy drinks from the bottleneck. "You're a good friend."
Alison looks up at the stars. "I don't know about that. A good friend would have a bounce-back plan for you."
"Nonsense. You're here. It's enough to have someone to drink with." She hands the scotch over.
Alison takes a sip and internalizes her guilt of not doing more for the woman next to her. They sit side by side, absorbing the quiet melancholy.
"Why don't you move back?"
"What?" Betsy frowns. "Back into the institute?"
"Sure," Ali shrugs. "Why not? You're here all the time anyway. Your friends are here."
"My soon to be ex-husband is here." She snags the alcohol back.
"Yeah, but only until Thanksgiving. There's no way he'll stay for Christmas, it'd be too painful." At Betsy's glare, Ali quickly adds, "Sorry. I'm trying to say I think you'll benefit from moving back in."
Betsy considers before she smirks. "Can't stand being miserable alone, eh darling?"
Alison smiles. "Nope. Gotta take you down with me."
They finish their scotch with little left to say as the moon and her shining children stare back at them. And despite their wobbles and near slip of footing they climb to Dazzler's bedroom window - somehow without falling off the roof.
It's not until Alison is nearly asleep when she hears the soft "Thank you" from her friend snuggled in the bed across the room.
At some point, Rogue bursts through the kitchen doors, shouting in an octave even Banshee would be hard pressed to hit.
Alison and Betsy freeze in their seats, and the entire dining room is ringing in silence as all eyes are on the Southern beauty. She blinks and looks around to each one. "Well," her voice quivers. "What are y'all starin' at? This ain't the first breakup y'all have ever seen!"
Ali jumps up and rushes to Anna's side, Betsy right behind her. They take their friend by the arms and gently guide her out, shushing her tears.
"Wait," Betsy turns back around and snatches the bottle of rosé. "We're going to need this."
Sitting in their shared bedroom, Anna and Ali quietly pass the bottle of rosé between them while Betsy practically hangs out the window, seething. "There he goes," she reports. "He's leaving on that dreadful motorcycle of his. Do you think he's off to find her?"
Rogue bites her bottom glossed lip. "Probably."
Betsy turns from the window and joins the other two, sinking down next to Ali on her bed. They wait, giving Anna their patience as she figures out the words to say.
"This isn't Laura's fault," her beautiful green eyes meet her friends' curious stares. "Ah want y'all to understand that. This is not Laura's fault, by any means."
Alison nods. "Sure. We believe you."
"Tell us what happened, darling." Betsy gently urges.
Anna fills her lungs and lets the air out in a long sigh. She runs a hand through her curled white and brown hair. "Well, y'all know Logan left about a year ago. And when he didn't come back when scheduled, Laura went off to find him. And when Remy found out, he went after her," Anna gives a sad smile. "Not because he's in love with her or because of a fight he and Ah were having. But because Laura sees him as he truly is. Laura, and 'Ro, and me, we know his heart. She's his friend - a damn good one. And he couldn't let her go alone."
"So he went searching for her and Logan and wound up in Paris for a year," Alison concluded.
"Yes."
"And that's what you fought about tonight?" Betsy frowns.
Again, Anna sighs. "Y'all don't…look, y'all can't judge me, okay? Before Ah tell yah the rest, promise yah ain't gonna jump me with a lecture."
Alison shrugs, "I don't see why I would."
Psylocke purses her lips together briefly before answering, "I will do my best."
Anna nods and looks both women in the eyes before taking a golden necklace from beneath her turtleneck. A diamond ring swings solo on the chain. She doesn't say anything as her friends' eyes grow wider with understanding.
"Who?" Alison asks.
Anna fingers the ring and touches it to her bottom lip. "Erik."
"Excuse me?" Betsy shouts.
"He's tried to kill us!" Ali's mouth drops open. "More than once!"
"He's different now." Anna says softly. "Y'all forget there was a time when Ah was an enemy too. And - look, Erik and Ah -"
"It is so weird to hear his name," Ali mutters.
Betsy crosses her arms over her chest and fixes Anna with a suspicious stare. "Are you sure this isn't Stockholm Syndrome?"
Rogue ignores them both. " - we were stranded alone in the Savage Land last year. Ah know him." Her voice drops to barely above a whisper. "Ah love him."
Alison and Betsy share a look, their concern and skepticism pushed aside for the time being for the sake of their friends' obvious need of their approval. Leaning forward, Ali places her hand on Anna's nyloned knee. "If you love him, be with him."
"Y'all ain't gonna try to talk me outta this?"
Betsy snorts. "Who do you think you're talking to, darling? You are a grown woman, completely capable of making your own decisions. If you say he is a worthy man, we shall take your word and believe it."
"We lost our men, Anna." Ali says quietly, the other women giving her a pitying look. Betsy places her hand on top of the one Alison lays on Rogue's knee. "Go get yours."
December
No amount of bribing can bring her out of bed on Christmas Eve morning. Not the surprise visit from Kitty and Piotr. Not the traditional English feast Brian and Meggan had arranged for delivery tomorrow as their gift to their X-Family. Not the box from Tiffany's with her name on the tag and XOXO, B. And not the annoying twenty minutes of Bobby throwing snowballs at her window.
She's curled on her side, still in flannel pajamas, still trying to hold on to the last few moments of sleep. If she opens her eyes, she knows she'll see the snow and hear her friends and the students and hear the Christmas carols Hank likes to play over the intercom all day. She knows Remy will be cooking in the kitchen, teasing Ororo and threatening anyone who dares to touch his secret sauce simmering on the stove. She knows Betsy will be wearing some fabulous dress she's had logged in her planner just for the occasion. And she knows that the tree is not fully decorated.
The X-Men have a long tradition of waiting until Christmas Eve to decorate the Eastern white pine. What had begun as an accident bred from being called away to action, has since blossomed into a favored bonding activity for those on the team home for the holiday.
Alison wants absolutely no part of any of it.
She has been doing well enough these last couple of months. Her panic attacks have subsided, her crying has minimized, she is eating and sleeping and being somewhat social. She and Betsy have formed a strong friendship, coming to rely on each other to work through their difficult and traumatic life events. Bobby and Hank continue to check in on her when able to. Anna had left for San Francisco the day after Thanksgiving, but she calls often and has plans to visit after the first of the year.
And then this stupid holiday snuck up on her. She's not particularly religious, nor is she keen on spending time with her mother and stepfather. Lois would welcome her, but Alison has not seen her half-sister since before she and Longshot returned to Mojoworld.
And she doesn't want to leave her bed anyway.
She has to eat. Biologically, she has to nourish her body with fuel if she plans on continuing with life. And she has to continue with life, because otherwise Betsy will kick her ass.
She lugs herself from the comfort of her fluffy bedding, slips on a comfortable pair of matching sweats and oversized sweater, and opens her bedroom door into the real world.
Swiftly, she rushes down to the kitchen, hoping everyone will be too busy wrapping presents and drinking spiked eggnog to bother noticing her. Remy could possibly see her, but he's more likely to bark at her for getting in his way than ask how she's coping. She runs the risk and slips through the door. Luckily there is no sign of Gambit, though she is instantly hit in the face with whatever the Cajun is making for brunch.
Alison quickly crosses to the refrigerator and opens to find quite a few containers with Post-It notes written with threats all over them. Apparently Gambit took Christmas Eve and dinner and Catholicism very seriously. The shelves are stocked with all kinds of fish, each marked with a cooking time and either an over temperature or stove setting.
She quickly shifts aside some trout to reach for an apple and a block of extra sharp white cheddar cheese.
"No, I told you. I missed my flight." Alison freezes as Rachel pushes open the swing doors, a cell phone to her ear. She stares down at her feet, her shoulders a bit slumped. "I know, I know." She bites her bottom lip. "This is… it's hard for me, okay?"
She waits, listening to what the person on the other end of the phone line is saying. Ali dares not move, fearing her presence may force her to join in holiday merriment, or embarrass the red head agonizing through a phone call.
Rachel runs a hand through her shaggy, chin length hair. "I'm sorry. Please, have a good Christmas," her voice cracks. "I'll see you when you get back." She hangs up the phone and covers her mouth with her hand, choking back a sob.
Ali clears her throat.
Rachel snaps her head up, a gasp escaping her. "How-how long have you been there?"
Feeling completely guilty for her eavesdropping, Ali fidgets and gives the other woman an apologetic frown. "Uhm. I was here when you came in."
"Oh my God," Rachel covers her face with her hands. "You heard all of that?"
"Yes." She's hugging her snacks close to her body, uncertain why she feels so nervous. She was not the one caught in what was clearly a private conversation. "Can I ask who you were talking to?"
Rachel brings her hands down and glares at her. "What does it matter to you?"
"Well," Ali slowly walks towards her. "It doesn't. At all, really. But you seem pretty upset. So," she stops right in front of Rachel. "If you want to vent or cry or whatever, now's your chance."
Rachel bites her bottom lip as she decides if revealing her secrets are worth it or not. "I…" she begins. "I think I'm in love with someone."
"You think?"
"How can you tell?"
Alison smiles kindly, remembering Longshot's smile and innocent curiosity and his loud, pure laugh. "You just know. You just…there's no doubt. Is that how you feel?"
"I think that's how he feels." Rachel glances away guiltily.
"What about you?"
"I…" she hugs herself, struggling to find the correct words to describe what she feels and fears and wants. "I want him. I want to fuck him, I mean."
Ali lets out a bark of laughter. "I'm sorry!" She slaps her hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry, I just wasn't expecting that."
Rachel ignores her outburst. "I want him to be happy."
"You don't think he can be with you?"
"I don't think anyone could be happy with me." She meets Alison's eyes. The truth behind them is haunting and Ali feels a deep pang of sadness for the other woman.
"Why?"
"There's a lot of baggage that comes with me."
"We all have baggage, Ray." Dazzler reaches out to squeeze Rachel's hand, but she flinches away. Ali drops her hand. "You're afraid to give it a chance, aren't you?"
Rachel nods. Her voice is barely above a whisper when she speaks, "If I hurt him -"
"Why do you assume you will?"
A gulp, a clenched jaw, a tear escaping and rolling down her cheek. "I don't deserve him."
"Stop that," Alison frowns. She reaches out again and grabs Rachel's chin, forcing her to look at her. "Stop that. Whoever this man is, whether he's a knight in shining armor or a Priest for the Almighty, don't you ever question if you're deserving of him. You are Rachel Anne Summers, daughter of Jean Grey and Scott Summers. You are one of the most powerful mutants on this fucking planet and you will not doubt yourself over a man. Do you understand me?"
Rachel has always had beautiful green eyes, and Ali notes that when filled with tears they are more accurately a jade color. The Phoenix nods. "Yes," she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "I understand."
"It's okay to want him," Ali tucks a strand of hair behind Rachel's ear. "It's okay to love him too. You get to decide."
Abruptly, Rachel throws her arms around Ali's neck, causing the blonde to drop her fruit and cheese. "Thank you," she squeaks and Alison is reminded that regardless of her level of power or her responsibilities, Rachel is still a young woman, weaving her way through her twenties.
Ali hugs her tightly. "Anytime."
The motorcycle is gorgeous - sexy! And Alison can't wait to take it for a ride.
Only…she can't bring herself to actually sit on it. Not because it's so incredibly gorgeous. But because of the guilt. She'd complained so much about how unfair this Christmas had been. How they were stuck in insolation in a ghost town of the Australian outback. How they didn't have anything to do all day but stare at each other or spar. They didn't even have a damn tree to decorate!
And yet…her team had pulled together to gift her this big, beautiful motorcycle. Despite her whining and her being totally annoying and brattish, they'd banded together to give her something she really loved.
She was such a bitch.
"Hey," Longshot comes to sit next to her on the dirt road. She smiles at him before returning her longing gaze to her prized possession. "I'm surprised you haven't taken off on it yet."
"Yeah, well," Ali shrugs. "Just don't feel like it's the right time."
He furrows his brow at her, looking worried. "Do you not like it?"
"Oh, no!" She smiles. "I absolutely love it."
"So, what's up?"
Ali looks down at her hands and picks her cuticles. "I just…I don't really deserve it. I was such an ass hole all day long. And you," she glances at him. "You spent Christmas trying to return stolen goods back to their previous owners."
"Well that's unfair," Longshot frowns. "They were upset and I had to help. It was freaking me out."
She shakes her head. "Your powers are so weird."
"Are they?" Again, he looks worried.
She bumps his shoulder with hers. "A little bit. I mean, you can read an object's history? And like, stolen items 'talk' to you?"
"More like moan or scream, maybe even cry. I'm not sure, it's still super new to me."
She giggles a little. "Well, you see my point, don't you? You spent all of Christmas Eve returning crying stolen objects to their owners. What did I do? I griped about not having enough stuff."
"Hey, you helped me. Everyone did." He wraps an arm around her shoulders. "And it's okay to want stuff, Ali. There's no harm in liking things."
She leans her head against his shoulder. "I guess you're right. Thanks, sweetheart."
He kisses the top of her head. "Any time. But uhm, are you ever going to ask me to go for a ride? Or are we only going to look at the bike?"
A chuckle leaves her lips. "Oh alright. Come on!" She pushes up to standing, Longshot following. "But I'm driving."
When she answers the knock at her bedroom door, her eyes are red and puffy. Bobby stands on the other side, wearing a festive sweater that offends her with its jovial Rudolph. "We're decorating the tree. Come down?"
"Do you see me right now?" She gestures to herself, still in her sweatsuit, with her blond locks pulled up into the messiest bun the world has ever seen. And her face is red, blotchy, and puffy from crying - how dare he ignore that.
"It's a family tradition. You gotta come."
Alison rolls her eyes. "You are far too merry of a person." Nevertheless, she follows him down, barefoot.
The scene in the grand living room is one Hallmark would be proud of. Red hot flames crackle and lick their way up the fireplace; crystal glasses are filled with champagne, spiced wine, and boozy eggnog; her friends chat and laugh and pass gifts around to tuck under the tree.
Betsy spies her and quickly crosses the room to greet her. "Darling, you're here! I was so concerned you would sleep the entire day away."
Ali gives her a weak smile. "It was extremely tempting. I was practically dragged out of my room."
"Kicking and screaming," Bobby adds. "Drink?"
"Just water, thanks." He nods and leaves the ladies to fulfill his duty. When he returns, the three stand eyeing their team, some only have just arrived for the holiday.
"Rahne looks incredible," Ali remarks. "She's grown up. Much less awkward and gawky."
"Darling you last saw her at fourteen!" Betsy chortles. "She's twenty-three now."
That was fair. Alison has never been a solid member of the X-Men. Other than her time with the outback team, she's always stayed and gone on a whim. She isn't like Ororo or Scott or even Logan. She is a fleeting piece to the family. Still a piece, but off living her own life.
Still, to see Rahne and realize it has been nine years since she last laid eyes on the girl…
"I think I might stay," She said to Bobby. He looks at her questioningly. "On the team. Like permanently. Like we kind of talked about."
His smile is infectious. "Really? Dude, that's awesome! Tell Storm as soon as you can, she'll want to know."
She sips her water and watches as Jubilee and Remy string the first cord of lights around the tree. Rachel and Kitty pull out glass bulbs and antique pieces from Charles' private collection. Ali gulps down a painful sob of missing the Professor, hoping he's enjoying Christmas with Lilandra and that they'll decide to visit soon.
There's so many missing from their little family. Whether due to inconvenience, or missions, or even death itself, the X-Men's Christmas party is small this year.
He should be here, Ali feels an ache in her chest, right where her heart lies. He loved decorating the tree.
For a moment it's too much. It's too happy. It's too normal. She isn't happy or normal and she doesn't want to pretend that she is just for the sake of Christmas.
She clears her throat, mutters "Excuse me" and promptly leaves the living room. She's halfway up the huge staircase when Bobby catches her wrist. She doesn't bother wiping the tears that fall down her cheeks.
Betsy stands behind him, her heart on her sleeve as she tentatively watches Alison. Neither speak and it's like an admission of their sorrow for their friend.
It makes her crumble. Bobby grabs hold of her and brings her body against his for a hug, giving her a safe space to let out the pain. She doesn't wail or even whimper, just cry and sniffle and cling to her friend while she silently begs whatever God will listen to please, just bring her husband back.
"Come on," Bobby says gently, starting up the stairs again.
"No," Ali shakes her head. "No wait." She pulls away from him and walks down the steps again, coming back to the entrance of the living room.
Betsy comes to stand next to her, taking her hand in her own and giving her a supportive squeeze. The others continue with their Yuletide cheer, more so now that Piotr has placed the vintage aluminum star on the top of their tree.
Her friends - her family, really - deserve this peace. This moment of quiet normalcy. This feeling of security with each other, despite what may be outside these walls. They deserve each other.
Remember this, Alison's heart whispers. Remember their faces and their love.