distaff
Summary: Say… Dark looks a bit different lately.
Pairings: past Celine/William, Damien/DA
Warnings: mentions of death and injury, sibling relationships written by an only child
@opprose @statictay @volbeast @mirrorslament (if you want to be tagged lmk)
buy me a coffee?
Celine hadn’t slept in what felt like decades.
In the Place For Broken Things, that cold and snow-filled wasteland, time was meaningless. Every day was engineered to be just the same as the last, as best as she could make it; there was no use in counting the days, because it was never meant to end, not really.
All she wanted was to keep her brother alive and safe, whatever it took. If that meant taking on the full strain of maintaining an inner world all on her own, warding off psychic assaults from the monster her ex-husband had become, while her brother got to play at being a lumberjack, then…
Then it was all worth it. She’d pay whatever price it took to keep them alive.
Celine hates to say it now, and always has, but… she overestimated her strength. Her credit.
It was supposed to last, but every day felt just a bit harder than the last. The sky looked a bit more static, the cold waxing and waning as she struggled to keep their snowglobe world contained. The trees, one by one, disappeared under her brother’s axe, and suddenly she couldn’t make the forest expand any further.
He came home and mentioned voices, a pink flower pushing through the snow.
She shouldn’t have snapped at him, perhaps, but…
How else was she to react to evidence that all of her power and preparation was for naught? How else but with fear, both for her and her brother? If some wayward voice pushed through, then…
And then the bastard finally dared show his face. He didn’t look like himself, a copy of his wardrobe and movie-star smile pasted over him to almost seem as a parody. He oozed slime and confidence, delusions of grandeur miles above anything prior to that night.
It wasn’t fully him, not really, but how could Damien sense such a thing? The stench that clung to his soul, overpowering until cool earth and oranges smelled of rot and the grave— that was something beyond the man they once called dear.
But, ultimately, they’d become inseparable. She knew of nothing to purge that demon from all of her study, and after all Mark had done, well.
She didn’t feel particularly inclined to try, but an axe throw directly to the skull felt pretty good, instead.
Then… then her brother offered to let her sleep. Take the wheel, as it were, after all she’d done.
Seeing the broken sky and static beyond, she wanted to say no. The darkness bonding them in one place would change him, and despite his faults, one thing she could say about her brother is that he was good. Good beyond any of them, save perhaps his lawyer friend.
The demon, the revenge, the vicious world at large… she’d always sought to protect him from all of it. He could keep his golden heart and his optimism, and she’d handle the rest; that’s how it had always been.
But she was so, so tired, and all she could do was offer a warning. He wouldn’t be the same, and he would have a duty to fulfill.
He grinned his cocky grin, and they were swept up in water warmer than it had any right to be.
It felt like climbing into her cup of chamomile just before bed, warm and soothing and fragrant, gentle arms carrying her off to bed.
Then…
She slept.
—
Something isn’t quite right.
Just as it feels when you lose your covers in the night, or someone in the house moves, her bed— for lack of a better term— no longer warms and comforts her. Disgruntled at the interruption, she opens her eyes a crack.
This is not the Place For Broken Things. It isn’t her old home, isn’t a cabin, isn’t… well, it isn’t anything.
Not anything she recognizes, anyway.
Slowly, she sits up in bed, taking stock of the room around her. It’s rather plain, really, if cloaked in shades of charcoal, steel, and white; the bed is a touch firm for her liking, crisp sheets just mussed from a sleeping body.
Aside from the bed, there’s a rolling desk and chair, similarly dark, with a few sheets of paper on the presumably wooden surface. They almost glow in the not-light of the room, and with such sharp contrast, she notes writing in dark ink.
That’s all for the room, unfortunately. Whoever owns or made this place isn’t big on comfort or style— really, it all seems more like an afterthought, necessities only. Sad, in a way, but at least no-nonsense.
The world outside the singular window is equally barren. As far as she can see, there’s only darkness in all directions. It would give the impression of being boxed in, but it glows with its own strange light just as the room does; with the added illusion of depth, it seems to go on for miles.
Were she not made of sterner stuff, she’d probably shudder at the notion of getting lost in that void; as it is, she still feels her magic at hand, enough to form whatever compass she may need, and deeper— a sense of familiarity.
She’s never seen this place in her life, and yet it feels like— well, somewhere she’s been for years.
First things first, though. Celine slides off one side of the bed, aiming to snoop through those papers on the desk. Only a step in, though, one foot wobbles, and the next trips over— something. Fabric?
Curious, she looks down at her body. She’s… not in her dress at all, nor her winter clothes. Rather, it’s a quite sharp white suit, clean and very much tailored, but not for her body. It’s too large, the inseam long enough for a bit of the pant leg to brush the ground, the shoulders too boxy.
It’s certainly not something she would have chosen to wear, not with this sizing. Honestly, if it were to suit anyone’s tastes— aside from the color— it would be…
Far from an unintelligent woman, Celine snaps her head up to look around, out the window again. “Damien? If this is one of your jokes, we don’t have time for—“
Something in her gut gives her pause. A tugging, almost like intuition but not in her voice.
She’s been a medium for years. When a voice is trying to tell you something, indistinct as it may be, you at least check it out. Just as it directs, she steps back to the desk, taking up the paper in one hand.
Celine,
I don’t know if this will work. You’ve always been better at this than I have, and even after I’ve had a lot more time to practice.
That said… I know what you mean, now. About being tired. It’s been… out here, it’s been a century, almost.
For all her fortitude, Celine can’t help a shiver at the thought, a cold and dawning realization in her chest.
He’s been doing this for almost a century. All while she was asleep.
What kind of sister—? Swallowing hard, she makes herself return to the letter.
I’ve done a lot. I’ve learned some. I’ve worked more than you probably would have allowed. Now, I need a rest, just for a little while.
If you don’t come out when I sleep, I’ll just get rid of this. But I thought I’d leave you something, just on the off-chance you aren’t—
It cuts off and starts fresh. She doesn’t think she’d be able to write something about his death, either.
If you do, know that we have powers, more than even yours. It took me a while, but I’m sure you’ll show me up in no time.
Also, we have responsibilities, as always, but… I’ve been a bit more prone to isolated work after everything. If you don’t show for a while, I don’t think many of them will care.
Well… one will. Don’t approach them. Please.
Which only piques her interest further.
You’ll feel pain, still, but not hunger. I didn’t even feel tired until recently. That pain… it gets manageable. Eventually. I don’t want to leave you with it, but…
I suppose it’s a consequence for what we did.
As if on cue, her stomach burns with fire, and her neck aches. Yes, a consequence from a broken body— and judging from that little voice nudging at her, Damien hasn’t forgiven her.
It saved their lives. His friend offered. No reason to feel guilty.
That should be it. I have my files here and in the office outside of the void. Copies— you can never be too careful.
I’ll try not to be long, and then you can go right back to sleep.
I love you, Lina.
Damien
She hasn’t heard that name in a very long time. Not since that night, at the very least, before that thing took her body and forced her hands around her brother’s neck.
Deep in a different kind of dream, it would have been less painful to kill her than to hear her twin, her Pup, plead with her.
Pup certainly took more explanation than Lina, in terms of nicknames. It was simple, though, really— all he’d ever done was remind her of a dog, even in their earliest years. Earnest, kind, loyal— puppy eyes when he wanted you to listen to him.
Her Pup is tired, now, and she’s his Lina. His big sister.
“Don’t worry, little brother,” she mutters to herself, tucking away the letter in a drawer for safekeeping. “You can rest. I’ll handle this for now.”
First things first— she’s adjusting this suit. She might need to move, and tripping over fabric isn’t in the plan.
The room holds no closet or chest of drawers, and she was never good with a needle and thread. With a sigh, she goes about doing it the old-fashioned, do-it-yourself way, rolling up and twisting the fabric until it holds.
Her pant leg doesn’t look too bad when she’s done, and it should hold if she needs to walk, but as she moves to the other, something in her gut nudges. Curious, but even more so when it doesn’t direct her to one of the drawers or the door leading outside; instead…
Well, what it recommends otherwise simply isn’t possible, or not in her wheelhouse. Mental constructs, internal compasses, and reading the future are all… simple. Little more than imagination and intuition with the tiniest bit of outside help. She’s never managed anything physical.
“But we have powers, now,” she murmurs. Hesitant, she looks down at that exact pant leg, already formed into a cuff on her ankle.
It takes less effort than she thought something like this would require, a cold power like ice water leaping to her hand almost before she finishes the thought. It doesn’t look right, black un-light lined in her favored red pooling in her hand, but with a gesture, it jumps to the white cloth.
Inky as it is, she’s surprised the suit remains pristine as the power flows. In a wash of black and red, the suit forms better to her smaller body, a slimmer and shorter cut. Still white, a splash of color to cut up the monochrome at her throat in the form of a blood red scarf.
Ties are too confining, and a bit of stability won’t hurt her neck any further. The dress shoes, though, stay; heels can’t give her any more presence than she, herself, can, and they’re a mite better at any quick movements she may need.
Always best to be prepared.
—
She wasn’t prepared for this.
How could she be, really? Anything could have been on the other side of that door, and you can’t prevent every potentiality.
Another office, though?
“You never could leave work at work, could you?” Though she’s sure— pretty sure— Damien can’t hear her from wherever he’s sleeping, it’s comforting to pretend he’s right there. Ribbing him for his choices is normal, and goodness knows they both need a bit of normal right now.
She could be imagining it, but the gut feeling turns a bit sour, and she smiles.
“At the very least, you stay organized,” she comments, sitting down in a rather comfortable leather chair. She spins it a bit to reach the large cabinet behind her. “If I were expected to pick up where you left off without your filing, you’d be shoved right back up front.”
She wouldn’t, but he doesn’t need to know that.
The top drawer glides open smoothly, and she flicks through the little tabbed files. It’s her brother’s handwriting, all right, neater than print should be, but the names don’t add up, even when she moves down a drawer.
It’s filled with files labeled with things like permits, receipts, insurance. There’s a book with carefully-printed names and numbers, professions and services neatly beside them. Casting, lighting, photography, carpentry—
Really, it all reads more like something of his, rather than her brother’s. Damien didn’t have much interest in entering show business. Right?
It’s a mystery for later, she reasons, and moves to the next cabinet. She’ll have time to question his decisions once she’s sure he’s done his initial duty.
This cabinet has what she’s looking for, but it’s surprisingly full. Mark’s name, over and over, with addresses, aliases, his colleagues and whatever new friends he’d manage to trick. She’d never put it past him to be so conniving, not anymore, but this… well, it’s almost like Damien couldn’t pin him down.
Her frown deepening, she pulls out information on Mark's whereabouts at the most recent date. It's a far too recent date than she'd prefer, and shocking besides, but the address sounds right. There's a picture of a house, not quite a manor but very large and likely pricey, and prints of other photographs of Mark, himself.
Either he's just woken up or styles have definitely changed in a century, because he looks scruffy. More than even Damien managed to, back in their Place. Simple clothing, a patchy beard, long and ruffled hair-- it's a far cry from the Mark she remembers. That makes it perfect for blending in.
A good disguise for the layperson, but not her, and not her brother. So why, then, does he still live? Damien had seemed to share in her anger before, on board with the quest for revenge; could it be that, despite everything, he can't bring himself to do it? They grew up as brothers, but... well, many things can turn brothers against each other, and they all know that very well by now.
There has to be some other reason. Something that's kept Damien from finally striking, when he has every opportunity to do so. Shoving the pictures back into the folder, she begins to look through the other sections. Projects, payment, the—
“Dames, now, I can’t quite figure out why I have to be—“
The brash voice cuts off in a surprised yelp, and Celine turns to face it, bristling with surprise— then, shock.
For one, something that looks an awful lot like tendrils of her power has the owner of the voice pinned right to the wall. It was born of surprise, an instinct of protection rather than malice.
Then again, when she looks past the pink and curls, notes the shape of the face and the shade of his eyes, she bares her teeth and urges harder. “You.”
“Me!” The man gives her a beaming smile, which quickly turns into a curious look. “Hey, you aren’t Damien. He wouldn’t have me so tight— if you don’t mind..?”
“No.” She doesn’t lessen the pressure, staring daggers at him, but she doesn’t push any harder, either. “How are you here, Wil? Why? What are you doing with my brother?”
“Oh, I’m here and there. Everywhere, really.” He looks closer, and she knows the moment he recognizes her face; the madness leaves his eyes, the mustache drooping ever so slightly. “Cel- Celine… how are you? You haven’t aged a day.”
Once, if he tried to flatter her, she’d have melted. That was a very long time ago. “I suppose I have you to thank. I wouldn’t have a body if you hadn’t provided. My questions, William.”
“William?” Such deep pain in those eyes, such guilt, and then the madness comes back in a tidal wave. “Oh, no, I’m Wilford, pleasure to meet you. I have a script, but Dames won’t let me until I go to a ‘safety seminar’—“ his hands are pinned but somehow he still manages to free them for the quotes,” but I can’t find him. Where is he?”
This isn’t the man she fell in with. Maybe loved, once. He’s just… mad. Of no consequence. With pity, she shoves him towards the door with her tendrils of magic. “Sleeping. Deal with it, yourself.”
She has bigger fish to fry, and nice as their dalliance had been, it wasn’t love. It’s not enough now.
“Alright, stop shoving!” Wilford huffs from the doorframe, straightening out his shirt and bowtie. “Didn’t you have your coffee this morning? Oh, speaking of— the PA should be here by now. Do you know when he might wake up?”
Celine frowns. “PA?”
“Yes, that cute little helper.” He waves a hand, a slightly indulgent smile of his face. “Damie’s awfully fond of them— but don’t tell him I said that, he gets all glitchy.”
“… Right.” She supposes she can understand. This power feels unstable even under her control, and Damien had no experience when he decided to take the reins. “Well, if I find out, I’ll… let you know.”
Out of sorts, she can’t stop the note of affection in her voice. Just a little, for a friend long gone.
When Wilford leaves, she turns back to the open drawer. There’s one last section, and it rivals the one on Mark. Addresses, aliases, and above all else, photographs.
The PA.
Damien is fond. He has a file the size of Mark’s. After much debate, she reaches out to take the first photograph she can and brings it into view.
“… Oh, damn it, Damien.”
—
Celine isn’t one to look on the bright side of things. She never has been, always all too aware of what’s going on under the surface, what things might possibly go wrong.
Out of everything she could have prepared for, her brother’s crush apparently returning from the dead and halting any of their progress was not one of them.
If Mark had picked anyone else in the entire world, anyone at all, he’d have been long dead and they could rest. That idiotic, monstrous, evil asshole just had to pick them.
It makes sense, she thinks idly, a spread of papers across the desk as she tries to triangulate a current position. He was so set on Damien being his villain, why not use the object of his affections as a bit of leverage? It’s practical.
Hell, she did the same thing. They could have used her body, after all, and gotten the same result. Damien’s insistence on checking on his friend— and their rather timely death— was simply a perfect storm.
To be fair… she had expected to keep them in the body a little longer. They were sharp, they could have been of further use, but…
You have to make sacrifices in this life. It was them, or the very power keeping this body intact now. Keeping her brother alive.
They’d be safe in the mirror, just a little spell until everything was dealt with, then she could come back and release their spirit and they’d all be fine.
Dead, sure, but fine.
Who managed to break it, she isn’t sure. It would take considerable power for anyone to override it, but considerable power isn’t in short supply where that house is concerned. It could be Mark— almost certainly is— but, well.
She didn’t choose the DA to read the future with her for no reason.
Regardless, they’re alive and well in the present, palling around with Mark, and Damien won’t do a thing about him while they’re together.
Damn it.
She doesn't mind leaving the DA without him once again-- they're smart and tough, according to Damien's long-winded descriptions of them-- but the very idea sends that little inner voice into a tizzy. Somehow, it manages to aggravate her wounded stomach again, and she grimaces as she presses a hand to the spot.
"Alright, already, I get it. You can't bear it." She heaves a sigh as the pain lessens, straightening up. "But he has to go one way or another. They aren't incapable of being alone, you know."
That gives her pause. Attached as he may be, Damien knows that very well. He’s an optimist, but he isn’t stupid. He would have tried to separate them, almost certainly. The attempts failed, yes, but there were still attempts.
It takes another drawer, but she finds those attempts— and, fortuitously, just what Mark has been up to lately.
That absolutely explains why the DA hasn’t left. Either of their own accord, or through some machination of Mark, they can’t leave him. Ever.
Celine groans to herself. Why must everything be so complicated? If Damien didn’t care so damn much—
Well, he wouldn’t be her Pup, would he?
She needs a plan. She needs people who have interacted with her target. She needs an edge.
As uncomfortable as it might be, given everything that’s happened…
She’s going to have to talk to the PA.
Or, maybe, work her way up to it.
