I am happy to oblige!! We love Kit in this house 🙂↕️I haven't done NSFW HCs in such a long time this was SO fun! I have these separated by pre and post-Asylum. I hope you enjoy, lovely Anon!
MDNI
Warnings: NSFW content, biting, some dom/sub dynamics, AFAB reader, choking(if you really squint), ngl, Idk what else to put here
Pre-Asylum Kit
Kit’s the type who doesn’t rush. So, in the beginning, he takes his time learning your body—your tells, your limits, your preferences. He treats intimacy like something sacred. Every kiss feels like a question he’s asking with his whole soul.
And once he knows you and your body? He’s a different man. Those calloused hands know exactly how to worship your body. After a long day. He’ll back you up against a wall and kiss you until you're breathless, grinding his hips into yours and muttering about how he’s been thinking about you all day.
But no matter what stage of the relationship you’re at, he’s a very tactile lover. Even outside of the bedroom, he’s constantly touching—his hand on your lower back, brushing your fingers, tucking your hair behind your ear. During sex, it translates. Thumbs on your hips, his hands cradling your face when he’s inside you, whispering, “I got you.”
When he gets worked up, Kit’s voice gets lower, thicker—like honey drizzled slow. He calls you “baby,” “darlin’,” or just groans your name like it’s the only word he knows. It’s not rare for him to whisper how beautiful you are, over and over again, between heated kisses and breathy moans.
He’s a little possessive in bed—not in a toxic way, but in a way that says “you’re mine, and I’m going to prove it.” He will not stop until he knows you’re satisfied. Also, expect to be marked with love bites in places only the two of you know about.
Kit is especially affectionate in the mornings—lazy kisses, strong arms pulling you closer under the sheets. If he wakes up hard (and he often does), he’ll start slow, letting you stay half-asleep while he kisses down your neck and rocks into you with whispered praise. “Good morning, baby…” has never sounded sexier.
He’d never want to get you in trouble, but the idea of someone almost catching you drives him wild. He’s taken you in his truck, in the woods behind the gas station, even in the barn while someone was just outside. There’s something about the risk—the way you try to keep quiet while he keeps pushing—that has him obsessed.
Kit enjoys every position, but he loves having you on top, watching you ride him while his hands roam your body. He’s second favorite would be taking you from behind. Bending you over the kitchen counter or pushing your chest against a wall. It always ends up with his arm wrapped around your chest while he whispers sweet and filthy things into your neck.
After sex, Kit’s a talker. Not dirty—just real. He murmurs about how beautiful you are, how lucky he feels, how he can’t wait to build a life with you. Sometimes, he talks about the future: a house, a garden, kids maybe, if you want them. You fall asleep to the rhythm of his heart and dreams spun between his words.
Post-Asylum Kit
Gentle, almost hesitant at first. After everything he’s been through, Kit has to re-learn what it feels like to touch and be touched without fear. The first few times are quiet, a little shaky. He holds you like you’re fragile—like he might break you, or worse, like he’s the one who might shatter. You guide him back to himself with slow, safe touches and soft encouragement.
Once the shakiness fades, it turns into something raw and emotional for Kit. His touch is reverent—like he's not sure he deserves you, but he worships every inch anyway. The deprivation in Briarcliff made him intensely focused on physical connection. With you, he's endlessly patient, but there's always this underlying hunger, like he’s making up for lost time.
You think he was touchy before Briarcliff? Now, you'll be lucky if he ever let's you out of his line of sight. He doesn’t say it out loud, but Kit has a primal fear of losing you.
He adores when you praise him—whether it’s gasping his name, clinging to him, or telling him how good he makes you feel. It breaks something in him, in the best way. He wants to please you like his life depends on it, because deep down, he still doesn’t fully believe he deserves happiness.
On top of the praise, he needs you say your his like he needs air to breathe. There are moments where he holds you too tightly—grinding into you like he’s trying to fuse your bodies. His voice breaks when he says, “Say you’re mine. Say it again.” He needs that power, that certainty—because nothing else feels real.
Kit uses sex not just for pleasure, but for closeness. After Briarcliff, every time he’s with you, it’s an act of reclaiming something. He touches you like he’s proving he’s still human. He’s deeply focused on your pleasure—not out of guilt, but out of reverence. He wants to make you feel cherished, not just wanted.
He makes love like he’s trying to erase the past—but sometimes, in a certain mood—he fucks like he’s trying to punish it. Those nights are different. No foreplay, no teasing. Just raw, desperate need. He growls your name into your skin, leaves handprints on your throat, bite marks on your collarbone, fingerprints on your hips and he doesn’t stop until you’re shaking beneath him, blissed out and breathless.
When it ends, he’ll hold you tighter than ever—face buried in your chest, asking softly if you’re okay, if he was too rough, if you still see him the same. Expect long, grounding baths, soft touches, and whispered confessions of how much he needs you—body and soul.
SYNOPSIS! kit is a true gentleman at heart, and he does what kind men do : he protects the ones he cares about ( based on this req.!! )
WORD COUNT! 4.1k
WARNINGS / TAGS! angst, fluff if you squint hard enough, mature / suggestive themes, briarcliff asylum warnings, sister jude and her punishments + lmk of more if found
NOTES! my man my man my man . all the credits to the devider bellow belong to @/v6que !!
THE RAIN FELL IN RELENTLESS CASCADE, DRUMMING AGAINST THE GLASS WINDOWS OF BRIARCLIFF ASYLUM. The night was clothed in darkness and the only source of provided light was the occasional flash of lightning that illuminated the gothic architecture of the asylum. The heavy rain had changed the surrounding landscape into a dark blur. The expansive green lawn, overgrown and wild, seemed like it came out of a horror story with its ghostly flashes, revealing the twisted forms of ancient trees and the labyrinthine tangle of bushes. The wrought iron gates, their ornate designs now almost swallowed by the storm, groaned softly as they were tossed around by the wind.
Inside, the atmosphere was equally grim. The asylum's corridors, long and narrow, were bathed in a dim, flickering light from the aging fluorescent fixtures that barely pierced the gloom. Each flash of lightning revealed glimpses of the asylum's interior: the scattered, old furniture, the barred windows, and the heavy, locked doors. The harsh light highlighted the grim details of the inside — rusting fixtures, peeling paint, and the long shadows cast by the iron bars on the windows.
The nuns had decided to host one of the famous movie nights. It was a tradition they upheld during every stormy night in an attempt to calm down the residents who would become agitated by the loudness that came with the storm.
The main common room had been transformed for the occasion. The dim, oppressive lighting was softened by the warm, flickering glow of a makeshift projector setup, casting a gentle, almost nostalgic light across the room. The walls, lined with faded, institutional artwork and peeling paint, were obscured by heavy, tattered curtains that had been drawn over the windows to shield the patients' wandering eyes from the storm's fury outside. The dusty curtains hung in uneven folds. The nuns had also arranged a selection of worn, overstuffed chairs and mismatched couches in a semi-circle around the small projector that sat on a makeshift table. The screen was a large, slightly yellowed sheet stretched taut across a wooden frame and its surface bore the scars of countless previous showings.
You sat on one of the overstuffed couches positioned in the back row of the common room, your figure partially hidden by the shadows cast by the dim light of the projector. The couch you occupied was a faded, floral-patterned relic, its cushions soft and sagging from years of use. The upholstery, once vibrant, had long since dulled to a muted palette, its once-bright colors now blended into the overall gloom of the room. Everything was dull here in Briarcliff. Your posture was relaxed because of the warmth the man beside you provided.
Kit Walker, a kind man once you got to know him, was the sanest person in the whole building besides yourself and you were glad to form an alliance with him. Although, there were feelings nestled deep inside you, ones you didn't have to say out loud for him to see and feel. That man had a strong jawline and high cheekbones that gave him a chiseled, almost heroic appearance and that alone gave your knees the right amount of shake to fall for him. You found out he had a natural ability to really listen and offer comfort and he carried himself with a quiet dignity, not seeking validation or praise but simply remaining true to himself despite the circumstances.
Kit Walker was the man of your dreams.
The screen was currently displaying an old, black-and-white film, its grainy images flickering in sync with the erratic flashes of lightning outside but you couldn't force yourself to pay any amount of attention to the supposed entertainment. The film's dramatic scenes, with their exaggerated gestures and artificial emotions, seemed almost absurd compared to the thoughts that were dedicated to the man sitting next to you.
And the same could be said about Kit. The way the occasional light from the projector cast soft highlights across your features, emphasizing the curve of your cheek and the depth of your eyes, made you seem almost ethereal and Kit was losing it. None of the workers could force him to sit on the moldy couch and torture himself with boredom when you sat quietly beside him, distracting him with just simply being there.
He noticed your subtle, distracted glances toward the screen, but your eyes lingered more on him than on the film. Kit could feel the way your eyes followed the play of light and shadow across his face, how you seemed to be drawn to the warmth he provided rather than the outdated drama on the screen. He found himself smiling softly to himself at your distraction with a knowing look in his eyes. You wanted him as badly as he wanted you.
Leaning slightly closer to your body, Kit's voice was low and warm as it hit the side of your face, barely above a whisper to avoid breaking the fragile atmosphere that had settled around the two of you. "You know," he began and a hint of playful amusement appeared in his tone, "we don't really have to stay here if we're not into the movie."
"What do you mean?" you asked in the same tone as him, your voice a gentle murmur that barely competed with the distant hum of the projector. When you exhaled, the warm air hit Kit's face.
Kit's honey-brown irises shimmered in the darkness, and he subtly nodded toward the exit of the dimly lit room, where the storm outside was barely audible against the noise of the film. "I was thinking . . . maybe we could sneak away, find a quieter spot where we can actually do whatever we want. What do you think?"
The suggestion was simple, yet it carried the promise of a more intimate and personal escape from the boredom of the asylum's common room. The thought of stepping away from the dreary atmosphere was an enticing one. Yet, the fear of feeling Sister Jude's sick pleasure held you back. Sister Jude, with her sharp eyes and ever sharper tongue, seemed to delight in catching the patients of the asylum in any moment of weakness or rebellion. Her authority was absolute, an iron hand that loomed over every corner of Briarcliff, and the idea of stepping out of line — even for a brief moment — carried a weighty sense of risk. You could already imagine the way Sister Jude's eyes would narrow in satisfaction, her lips curling into that smug, almost sadistic smile she reserved for moments when she exerted her control.
You still remember what she did to Grace. What she did to Lana.
And yet, the allure of escaping with Kit, even just for a little while, was difficult to resist.
"I don't know, Kit," you whispered in a trembling voice as you voiced your worries to him. "What if we get caught? You know how Sister Jude is. She'd make an example out of us, and I — I don't think I could handle that. I don't want to give her the satisfaction."
He could see the fear in your eyes, the way it held you back, and it only made him more determined to protect you. "[Name]," he said gently, his voice low and reassuring, "nothing's going to happen. I promise you that. We'll be careful, okay? And even if something does happen, even if Sister Jude catches us, I'll take the blame. She won't lay a finger on you."
"Kit..." you began but he cut you off with a slight squeeze of your hand. You didn't question when he took hold of your palm.
"Trust me, [Name]," he murmured, his thumb gently brushing over your knuckles repeatedly. "I won't let her touch you. I'll take the heat if it comes to that. But right now, let's just get out of here, even if it's just for a little while. We deserve that much, don't we?"
There was a warmth in his voice, a quiet strength meant to reassure you in ways nothing else at Briarcliff ever could. Kit was right — both of you did deserve this. And you could use the sweet release from the asylum's cruel grasp.
You took a deep breath, nodding slightly as you made up your mind. "Okay," you whispered into the darkness. Kit could feel the touch of your words against his lips. "Okay, let's go."
His hand was firm and reassuring as he helped you to your feet. Every movement of his was carefully done, as if even the slightest noise could shatter the fragile veil of secrecy he had cast over the both of you. The dim light of the common room flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the floor, but you moved with purpose, slipping quietly through the rows of seats, avoiding the eyes of the staff and the other patients who were too engrossed in the film to notice your departure. Sister Jude should hire more responsible staff.
Once you reached the doorway, Kit paused, glancing back to ensure no one was watching before gently guiding you with a strong hand against your lower back into the darkened corridor beyond. The heavy wooden door closed behind you with a soft creak, and the two of you were finally alone, the distant sound of the movie a only faint hum behind. You moved quickly through the long, lonely corridors of Briarcliff Asylum, footsteps barely audible on the cold, tiled floors. The rain continued its assault on the windows with no sight of stopping. Kit led the way, his grip on your hand never faltering.
As the both of you rounded a corner, the sound of distant voices reached your ears — staff members making their rounds. Kit's fingers tightened his hold on yours, pulling you closer as you pressed yourself against the wall, breaths held in unison. The voices grew louder for a moment, then faded as the staff continued down another corridor, oblivious to the two figures hidden in the shadows. Relief washed over you along with the vivid pictures of Sister Jude's punishment. You needed to find a place to hide, somewhere quiet where you could steal a few moments of peace away from the watchful eyes.
Finally, you reached the heavy metal doors of the kitchen, pushed open just enough to allow a sliver of light to escape into the dark corridor. Kit glanced around to ensure you were alone before gently pulling the door open wider, gesturing for you to slip inside first. He followed right after you.
The kitchen was quiet, dimly lit by a single overhead light that cast a soft glow across the industrial steel countertops and rows of neatly organized utensils. The scent of cleaning supplies mingled with the faint aroma of fresh bread that had long since been cleared away.
And before either of you could think or second-guess, you were drawn together like magnets. Kit leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both tender and filled with urgency. The kiss deepened quickly though, passion flaring between the two of you like a wildfire as everything else faded away — the asylum, the storm, the fear. All that mattered was this moment, this connection. His hands found their way to the small of your back for the second time this evening, pulling you closer as his lips moved against yours with a hunger that matched your own. You responded in kind, slender fingers threading through his hair, tugging him closer as if afraid that letting go would mean losing this fleeting moment of intimacy.
The heat of the kiss spread through you both when Kit's strong hands slid down to the bottom of your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. The feel of your body against his was intoxicating, and he moved with purpose, carrying you to the nearest counter. With a fast and urgent motion, he set you down on the cool steel surface, hands brushing aside utensils and making space for you, painting his hands with flour in the process.
Your heart raced as Kit's hands roamed your body, exploring with both desire and respect. His touch was precise as if he was memorizing every curve, every inch of your skin to remember for the rest of his days. He kissed you again, this time slower, savoring the taste of your lips as his hands moved from your waist to your hips, then slowly up to your back, pulling you closer to his body and hiking your knees up even more, leaving white fingertips in their path.
You responded in kind, hands tracing the sculpted lines of his shoulders, down his chest, feeling the muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt. There was something so raw, so real about the way he touched you — as if this was the first time in a long time he had felt truly alive. Your fingers danced across his skin, exploring the planes of his body with the same amount of desire. Kit's hands slid up your sides and under the hem of your gown, his thumbs brushing against the soft skin just above your underwear, creating a shiver that traveled down your spine. You arched into his touch, breath hitching as you felt the tension coil tighter within you.
"Kit . . . I—" you couldn't finish your sentence, the words lost in a breathless moan as his hands wandered lower, his touch sending waves of pleasure through you.
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. The intensity in his gaze was undeniable, a mixture of raw desire and something deeper, something that made your heart pound even harder. That look — told you how much he wanted you, how much he needed this, how much he needed you — made you tighten your legs around his waist. "I've got you," he whispered, his voice rough. It was a look that made your heart race and your body ache for more.
The door swung open with a suddenness that shattered the intimate bubble you had created, the sound echoing off the cold, sterile walls of the kitchen. Kit froze, his grip on your hips tightening instinctively as you both turned toward the intrusion. The harsh overhead light of the corridor spilled into the room, illuminating the figures standing in the doorway.
A tall, stern-looking man in the uniform of the asylum staff stood there, his eyes narrowing as they fell upon Kit and you. His presence was imposing, his broad shoulders blocking out most of the light from the hallway, but it was the figure behind him that sent a jolt of fear through your chest.
Sister Jude.
She stood in the doorway like a dark omen, her presence dominating the small, dimly lit kitchen. The air around her seemed to chill, as if the very atmosphere cooled from her disapproving gaze. She didn't need to raise her voice to command attention; her mere presence demanded it. The rosary beads hanging from her waist clicked softly as she took a measured step forward, the sound eerie in the tense silence of the room.
The staff member followed the head of this asylum, his eyes flicking between Kit and you, the disdain in his expression unmistakable. "Found them, Sister Jude," he said with a cruel satisfaction. "Just like you suspected."
Kit quickly released you and his hands dropped from your hips to tug at your gown. The least he could do was to save your modesty as much as he could. The man stepped back, positioning himself slightly in front of you as if to shield you from the inevitable wrath of Sister Jude. Your heart pounded in your chest, the warmth of the moment disappearing into the cold reality of the situation just like Kit's hands.
Sister Jude's icy gaze shifted from the staff member to Kit, and then to you, her brown irises narrowing further. "Well, well," she began loudly, her voice echoing in the silent room, cutting through the tension easily. "I always knew you had a penchant for trouble, Mr. Walker, but this . . . This is a new low, even for you." She took a step closer to you, her heels clicking ominously against the tiled floor. "And you, Miss [Last name] . . . I expected better."
The weight of her words pressed down like a leaden shroud, suffocating any remaining trace of the warmth and connection that had filled the room just moments before. It was as if the very walls of Briarcliff had closed in around you both, trapping you in.
Kit stood his ground, though every instinct screamed at him to protect you from the storm that was about to break. His jaw clenched tightly, the muscles in his neck tensing as he fought to maintain his composure. His hands, which had just moments ago been tenderly caressing your skin, now curled into fists at his sides. But beneath that facade, there was also a flicker of fear — not for himself, but for what you might endure at the hands of Sister Jude if his plans failed. He squared his shoulders, drawing himself up to his full height, and locked eyes with the cold woman before him. "It was my idea," Kit declared, his voice firm and unwavering despite the tension that crackled in the air like a live wire. "Leave her out of this." His words were a shield, a desperate attempt to keep his promise, to protect you from the consequences that he feared would be far worse for you than for him.
Sister Jude's eyes flickered with something that you couldn't quite place — an emotion that lingered somewhere between suspicion and a twisted, almost predatory satisfaction. Her thin lips curled into a faint, humorless smile, and the cold glint in her eyes seemed to sharpen, as if she were savoring the moment. She took another slow step forward and her gaze shifted from Kit to you, who stood just behind him, face paler than usual.
"Oh, I have no doubt it was, Mr. Walker," each word was enunciated with deliberate precision, as though she were savoring the power she held over the two of you. "But both of you will be held accountable for this . . . indiscretion."
"I'm the one who's responsible," Kit's voice cut through the oppressive silence with a determined edge. "It was my idea, and I should be the one held accountable. Leave [Name] out of this."
Sister Jude's expression flickered with a moment of surprise, but it quickly settled back into its usual look. Her eyes narrowed as she took in Kit's words, her mind no doubt calculating how best to respond to his unexpected act of bravery. "Very well," she said, her tone clipped and devoid of sympathy. "If you insist on taking the blame, then you will be the one to bear the consequences." The woman turned her attention to the staff member who had followed her into the kitchen. "Go to my office. Fetch the cane. The one I reserve for my favorite patients."
The staff member's brow furrowed slightly, but he didn't hesitate. He gave a curt nod and turned on his heel, disappearing through the door with a purposeful stride. The sound of his footsteps echoed faintly down the corridor as he made his way to retrieve the instrument of punishment.
Sister Jude's gaze returned to Kit and Dahlia, her expression unrelenting. "You've chosen to make this difficult for yourself, Mr. Walker," she said, her voice dripping with a cold satisfaction. "And while I commend your misguided sense of honor, it changes nothing about the punishment that awaits you. And you, miss [Last name], shall watch what happens once stupidity takes over the mind."
Your heart ached at the sight of Kit standing his ground, his body tense with the weight of his decision. You wanted to protest, to beg Sister Jude to reconsider, but the words caught in your throat, choked by the sheer weight of the situation. Instead, you reached out, your hand trembling as you grasped Kit's arm, trying to offer some measure of comfort and support.
Kit looked down at you, his eyes softening just for a moment before he turned his attention back to Sister Jude. "Whatever you're planning, I can take it."
"Your bravery is noted. But bravery will not protect you from the consequences of your actions."
The staff member returned, carrying the cane with a deliberate and solemn expression. The cane was an old-fashioned implement, its polished wood gleaming menacingly under the kitchen's harsh lights. It was a feared symbol of discipline, one that had seen many hands and many uses over the years, and its presence in the room only heightened the sense of dread.
Sister Jude took the cane from the staff member, her fingers tracing its surface with a possessive, almost reverent touch. "This is the cane I reserve for my most . . . memorable patients," she said, her voice low and chilling. "It is reserved for those who require a lesson in obedience. You will stay and watch. This is part of your lesson as well — understanding the consequences of defiance."
Kit's pants were pulled down by the staff member, exposing his bare bottom to the cold air of the kitchen. The sight of his exposed skin, vulnerable and waiting, was a sharp contrast to the determined set of his jaw. He braced himself against the edge of the kitchen counter, his knuckles white as he gripped the surface for support.
The cane was held firmly in her hand, and Sister Jude raised it with a practiced ease, preparing to deliver the first stroke. The sharp whoosh of the cane slicing through the air was followed by a resounding crack as it made contact with Kit's bare skin. The sound was a brutal reminder of the severity of the punishment, and Kit's body tensed, a muffled grunt escaping his lips as the sting of the cane seared into his flesh. The printed redness flared bright against the pale tone of his skin.
Your eyes filled with tears as you watched, heart breaking at the sight of Kit's suffering. The sight of his reddened skin, the way his body flinched with each stroke, was almost too much to bear. Every crack of the cane seemed to echo through your own chest and you felt like throwing up.
The punishment was relentless, each crack of the cane drawing a sharp gasp or low moan from Kit, his breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts. His eyes remained fixed straight ahead, and he tried to maintain his composure, though the strain of the punishment was evident in the tension of his muscles and the way his body shook with each hit. His only concession to the agony was the occasional clenching of his jaw and the muffled sounds that escaped him.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Sister Jude stepped back, her breath even and controlled. The cane was lowered, and she regarded Kit with a look of detached satisfaction, as if the punishment had been a necessary chore rather than an act of cruelty.
Kit's body slumped slightly, his breathing ragged and labored as he tried to regain his composure. His bottom was marked with the angry red welts of the punishment, the skin raw and tender from the relentless strokes of the cane. Your eyes were filled with anguish as you looked at him, the man who had taken the blame upon himself to protect you.
Sister Jude's gaze then turned to you, her expression one of stern disapproval, before she and the staff member exited the kitchen. "You've seen what happens when rules are broken. Let this be a lesson to you."
Your heart raced, pulse pounding in your ears as you rushed to Kit's side. Your movements were frantic, driven by a desperate need to offer him some measure of comfort and relief from the suffering he had endured. Tears streamed down your cheeks, blurring your vision as you approached him, hands trembling more than ever as you reached out to touch him. "Kit, I'm so sorry."
Kit turned his head slightly to look at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of pain and something softer, a flicker of gratitude for your concern. He took a deep, shuddering breath and attempted to straighten up, though his body protested with each movement. "Don't," he said softly, his hand reaching out to drape over your shoulders for support. "It's not your fault. I chose this. And I would do it again."
Summary: "Hi. You came for the ad?" His voice was raspy, slightly surprised. He ran a hand through his hair, as if realizing too late that it was disheveled. You nodded, not fully trusting your voice. "Yes—I… I saw the ad and... I’m interested in the job." Kit took a step back and opened the door wider. "Come in. We can talk better."
Warnings: no use of y/n, dad!kit, nanny!reader, fluffy, no briarcliff
A/N: It's been so, sooo long since I wrote about the kit, so I decided to do something cute, the poor man deserves some happiness (just look at that face, he's basically husband material)
The paper between your fingers was crumpled at the edges from being held so many times. You read the ad once more, as if the words would suddenly change:
Looking for someone to care for two children and help with the house. Immediate work. Interested parties, please come to the address below.
Simple, direct, and with a certain implicit desperation. It was your best chance. You had been in town for just a few days and needed a job, a roof over your head, some stability.
The house was small, modest, but cozy. The front lawn was a bit overgrown, and a tipped-over tricycle near the porch indicated it was indeed a home with children. You took a deep breath before knocking on the door, your heart racing.
The steps on the other side were quick, and when the door opened, you found yourself facing him.
Kit Walker.
The name was in the ad, but you didn’t expect him to be... like this. Brown, messy hair, eyes the same color, deep and somewhat tired, as if carrying more than a man his age should. He looked a few years older than you, yet young enough to be the father of two small children.
"Hi. You came for the ad?" His voice was raspy, slightly surprised. He ran a hand through his hair, as if realizing too late that it was disheveled.
You nodded, not fully trusting your voice.
"Yes—I… I saw the ad and... I’m interested in the job."
Kit took a step back and opened the door wider. "Come in. We can talk better."
You entered, smelling the warmth of wood and coffee, mixed with the unmistakable scent of a house with children: crayons, cookies, and a faint trace of baby cologne.
The living room was simple, with old furniture but well cared for. There were toys scattered here and there, a small blanket thrown over the couch, and some kids' drawings pinned to the wall.
"Well, I don’t want to make this formal or anything," Kit scratched the back of his neck, looking a bit uncomfortable. "To be honest, I need someone as soon as possible. I work all day, and I can’t keep up with everything on my own. The idea is for you to be with the kids, help with the house... those kinds of things."
You nodded. "I can do that."
Kit studied your face for a moment, as if looking for something beyond your answer.
"Do you have experience with children?"
"Not professionally..." You hesitated. "But I’ve taken care of my cousins when they were little. I like kids."
Kit nodded slowly, as if considering your answer, but his gaze was still sharp, evaluating you in a way that made your heart race. He seemed like someone who wanted to trust, needed to trust, but didn’t give that trust easily.
"It’s a full-time job," He crossed his arms, the thin fabric of his shirt stretching slightly across his broad shoulders. "You’d need to be here all day, sometimes at night, depending on my schedule. I work a lot."
You nodded, trying to seem as confident as possible. "That wouldn’t be a problem."
"Good. Because they need stability," Kit rubbed his chin, briefly looking away. "It’s already been hard enough for them."
There was something heavy behind those words, something he didn’t say, but that lingered in the air between you. You wondered what exactly had happened, but didn’t dare to ask.
Kit cleared his throat, refocusing on the conversation. "Can you cook?"
The question came without warning, and you blinked, a little surprised. "Yes. Quite well, actually."
A shadow of relief passed over his face. "Great. I get by, but..." He made a vague gesture, as if already used to eating poorly. "It’d be nice if they could have real food, you know? Not just sandwiches and instant noodles."
You smiled faintly. "I can take care of that."
Kit opened his mouth to say something, but then hesitated, shifting his weight. You noticed how tense he seemed, as if about to ask a question he didn’t know whether he should.
"Can I ask you something?" He narrowed his eyes, curious. "Are you married?"
The question caught you so off guard that it took an extra second to respond. "What? No! No, I’m not married."
Kit relaxed almost imperceptibly, and you couldn’t tell if it was because the answer relieved him or if he just didn’t want to get into trouble. "Sorry. I just... don’t want to hire someone with a jealous husband showing up at my door afterward."
You let out a short laugh, more out of nervousness than anything. "You don’t need to worry about that. No jealous husbands. No husbands, period."
Kit gave a half-smile, but quickly looked away, and it was at that moment that a fleeting thought crossed your mind.
It was sad that a man like him didn’t have a wife.
The thought came as a reflex, and you quickly pushed it away, as if you’d done something wrong. It wasn’t your business. But still... he seemed like someone who deserved it. Someone who loved deeply, who would do anything for those he cared about. A man like him shouldn’t be alone.
Before you could get lost in that thought, a sound echoed through the hallway—small footsteps, followed by excited laughter. Kit didn’t even need to turn around to know what was coming, and the smile that appeared on his lips was so immediate and genuine that something warm spread in your chest.
"DAAAAD!"
Two children appeared in the room, running without hesitation toward Kit. He bent down instantly, opening his arms to receive them. The first to arrive was a boy with light hair and bright brown eyes, who threw himself into his father’s arms with the force of a rocket. Right behind him, a little girl with dark skin and soft curls stopped beside them, eyeing you with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
Kit laughed, running his hands through the boy’s hair before turning to his daughter. "Hey, hey, calm down. You don’t even know her yet."
The two turned to look at you, and you felt as if you were being assessed.
"Who is she?" The little girl asked, her voice small but firm.
"She came for the ad," Kit explained, adjusting Thomas in his lap. "She might take care of you guys while I work."
"Can she tell stories?" Thomas tilted his head, his eyes shining with expectation.
"I can," you answered, smiling.
"Better than Dada?"
Kit scoffed, indignant. "Hey! I’m great at it!"
Thomas looked at his sister, clearly waiting for her opinion. Julia crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes at you before asking, "Can you make pancakes?"
You laughed, crouching down a little to be on her level. "With chocolate chips and strawberry syrup."
Her expression shifted slightly, as if considering your answer. Then she looked at Kit and then back at you, still evaluating.
Kit watched the interaction with a playful gleam in his eyes, as if enjoying seeing how you handled the two.
Finally, Julia nodded, crossing her arms. "I think you can stay."
Thomas agreed with an enthusiastic nod, and Kit let out a low laugh, shaking his head.
Saints, Sinners, and Sleepwalkers | Kit Walker x Reader
Series Masterlist Here
8k words
Expect Disturbing Themes
Chapter 6: Heightened Awareness
Morning always came too early in Briarcliff.
One minute the lights were out.
The next an orderly was banging on doors and shouting for everyone to get moving.
Kit had never gotten used to it.
Didn't think he ever would.
Hoped he’d never have to.
He sat at one of the cafeteria tables, turning his cup between his hands while the room slowly filled with patients. The coffee was terrible and the food wasn't any better.
Across the room, somebody was already arguing with an orderly. A tray clanged somewhere near the kitchen.
Normal morning. Normal for Briarcliff, anyway.
Kit found himself looking toward the doors. Not consciously. Not at first. Just one of those habits he'd picked up.
The same way he'd learned where the orderlies usually stood. Which hallways were busiest.
He looked for her.
The realization hit about the same time he spotted her.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
There you were.
A little slower than most people. A little more careful.Carrying your tray with both hands.
Present.
At least this morning.
Something in his chest loosened.
Funny.
A few months ago he wouldn't have known if you'd shown up at all. Now he found himself checking.
Every day.
You hadn't noticed him yet. Or maybe you had. Sometimes it was hard to tell.
Kit leaned back slightly in his chair.
You spotted him about halfway to the table. Or rather, you spotted the way he suddenly stopped pretending to be interested in his coffee.
The corner of your mouth twitched. Just slightly.
By the time you reached the table, he'd already nudged the chair across from him out with his foot. Not looking at you while he did it. Like it wasn't intentional. Like he hadn't been waiting to do it. Like he didn’t do it every morning.
"Mornin’." His voice was rough with sleep.
You set your tray down.
"Morning."
For a few minutes, neither of you said much.
The cafeteria buzzed around you. Orderlies barking instructions. Patients talking over one another.
Kit stabbed at something that claimed to be eggs. "You think these get worse every day?"
You looked down at your own tray. "They're trying."
That earned a laugh. A real one. Not loud. Just enough to make something warm flicker in your chest.
Kit pointed with his fork. "Now that's optimism."
You rolled your eyes. "That's not optimism."
"It ain't?"
"No." You poked suspiciously at the eggs. "It's more like determination."
That made him laugh harder. For a second, several nearby patients looked over. Neither of you cared.
The conversation drifted after that. Small things. Nothing important.
The weather. A patient who had tried hiding bread in his sleeves again. The radio station that somehow always played the same handful of songs.
Kit found himself watching you while you talked. Not because anything was wrong. The opposite.
You seemed more aware than you'd been in days. Your eyes tracked the room. You responded without as long of pauses. Even your shoulders looked less tense.
Whatever happened in that appointment yesterday...
Maybe it helped.
The thought settled easier than he expected. You deserved something that helped.
Eventually breakfast ended the same way it always did.
Too quickly. Metal scraped against tables. People stood. The room began to empty.
You and Kit moved with the crowd. Falling into step beside one another without really discussing it.
The hallway was busy. Patients being shuffled from one room to another. Orderlies lingering at intersections.
The first day in a while that felt... normal.
A couple orderlies led the small group that gathered. Other patients that knew their routine too.
For a while neither of you spoke. Not because it was awkward. Just because it wasn't necessary. Your shoulder brushed his once when the hallway narrowed. Neither of you commented on it.
There wasn’t a need to.
“Y’beat me there the other day.”
“Huh?” You glanced at him.
“When we got stuck on laundry duty,” Kit said. “You had five minutes on me.”
You frowned slightly. “You were carrying twice as much.”
“That ain't the point.”
“It is if we're counting.”
Kit scoffed. “Now you're changin’ the rules.”
“You're the one who started keeping score.” A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.
“That's ‘cause I was winning.”
“You just said I beat you.”
Kit held his finger up, “Once.”
You rolled your eyes.
Ahead, one of the orderlies barked for a patient to stay with the group.
The line shifted around a corner.
For a few seconds, all you could hear were footsteps and the occasional rattle of keys.
Kit glanced sideways at you.
“You seem better today.”
The words were casual. Too casual. Like he'd been thinking about saying them for a while.
Your smile faded. Not completely. Just enough to notice. “Do I?”
“Yeah.”
You looked ahead again.
The occupational therapy room wasn't far now. You could already see the familiar doors.
“Maybe.”
The answer came easier than it would have yesterday.
Kit nodded once.
Like that was enough. Like he wasn't going to push.
Your lips tugged up.
Then—
“Walker.”
The voice cut clean through the corridor.
The small group slowed.
An orderly stood several yards ahead, clipboard tucked beneath one arm.
Expression blank.
“Dr. Thredson wants to see you.”
For a second, nobody moved.
Then Kit looked toward the orderly.
“Now?”
“Now.”
The answer was immediate.
Your eyes flicked to Kit. His expression shifted. Not annoyed. Not worried. Mostly surprised.
“Guess work'll have to wait.”
The attempt at humor was weak. You knew it. He knew it.
Kit sighed dramatically before stepping out of line. “Save me a spot.”
Then he glanced back at you. Just briefly. Long enough to make sure you were smiling. Long enough to smile back.
The orderly cleared his throat and Kit rolled his eyes.
“Alright, alright. I'm comin'.”
The man didn't respond. Just turned and started walking. Kit fell into step behind him.
The sounds of the group faded as they continued down the hall. Slowly, the scrap of shoes and leaking pipes became the only sound around them. Not one word.
Not that Kit expected conversation. Most orderlies weren't exactly interested in making small talk. Still. The same Briarcliff sounds over and over drove Kit crazy.
His eyes drifted toward the office numbers they passed.
He'd never been called in by Thredson before.
Not yet.
The thought wasn't exactly nerve-wracking.
If anything, it was the opposite.
The man seemed decent enough. Hell, compared to Arden, he seemed downright normal.
Kit shoved his hands into his pockets.
Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe somebody would finally listen.
The accusation still felt ridiculous every time he thought about it.
Bloody Face.
A serial killer.
He almost laughed. If the situation hadn't been so miserable, he probably would've.
The orderly stopped outside a wooden door and Kit's attention snapped back.
A small brass plaque sat beside it.
DR. O. THREDSON
The orderly knocked once.
A voice answered from inside.
“Come in.”
The orderly opened the door.
“Walker.”
Kit took a breath.
Then stepped inside.
The office looked as you’d expected. Bookshelves. A desk. A radio playing some song in the corner.
Nothing about it felt like Briarcliff and that alone made Kit relax a little.
Thredson looked up from the file in front of him.
“Mr. Walker.”
His voice was calm. Professional.
“Please, sit.”
Kit did.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Thredson closed the file. Folded his hands together. And waited.
Kit frowned. “That's it?”
A small smile touched the doctor's mouth. “That's it.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Whatever you'd like.”
Kit stared at him. “You ain't gonna ask questions?”
“I imagine you'll answer the important ones regardless.”
That earned the faintest laugh from Kit. Not because it was funny. Because it was unexpected.
Most doctors came in with conclusions already written. This one seemed content to let him speak. So he did.
“I didn't kill anybody.”
There. Right out of the gate. No point dancing around it. The staff knew why he was here.
The smile faded from Thredson's face. Not judgmental. Attentive.
“I know proving your innocence is important to you.”
“I didn't do it.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Kit leaned forward immediately. “I came home and she was gone.”
The words left him immediately. No hesitation. Like he'd told the story enough times that the beginning always came first.
“Gone?”
“Our house was wrecked.” Kit swallowed. “Dirt all over, furniture overturned, a broken window. Looked like somebody tore through the place.”
“I thought of every stupid thing I could.” The memory still made his stomach twist. “A sudden storm or wild animal, ‘n she ran to the neighbors.”
The thought sounded ridiculous now. At the time, it hadn't.
“Then I found blood.”
For the first time, Thredson's pen paused.
“How much blood?”
“Enough.”
Kit looked away. His jaw tightened.
“Enough that I knew something happened.”
Silence settled between them. Not uncomfortable. But waiting.
“What happened next?”
“The police.” A humorless laugh escaped him. “After that, things got real simple.” He spread his hands. “House torn apart. Wife missing. Husband standin’ in the middle of it.”
His eyes found Thredson's again.
“Guess who they blamed.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Thredson asked:
“Do you believe she's dead?”
The answer came so quickly it almost interrupted him.
“No.”
Thredson's pen paused again.
“Why?”
Kit frowned.
The question irritated him more than it should have. Because everybody always wanted a reason. Something concrete. Something they could write down. He didn’t have that. Not really.
“I don't know.”
The words came out sharper than intended. A muscle jumped in his jaw. Then he exhaled slowly.
“She was my wife.” The office fell quiet. “I know Alma.”
“She’d fight,” his voice lowered slightly. “And she wouldn't leave.”
Not him. Not their home. Not without saying something. Anything.
Thredson watched him carefully.
“And if you're wrong?”
Kit's gaze dropped to the desk. For the first time since he'd started talking, he hesitated. Only for a second.
“I'll believe it when I see her.” His eyes lifted again. “Not before.”
The certainty in his voice surprised even him. Because it wasn't certainty. It was hope. Hope she was alive. Hope that she’d return. Hope that his life could still go back to normal.
And he wasn't ready to let go of that yet.
After that, the words came easier. Not because any of it hurt less. Because for once nobody wasn’t trying to stop him.
Thredson asked questions when they mattered. Then listened.
So Kit talked.
About Alma. About the home they'd built together. About neighbors he'd known his entire life suddenly looking at him differently. About deputies searching through everything he owned. About handcuffs. About interrogation rooms. About repeating the same story so many times he could practically recite it in his sleep.
Most of all, he talked about what came after.
The looks. The whispers. The certainty on other people's faces. Like the decision had already been made. Like the truth didn't matter anymore.
The whole time, Thredson remained quiet. Occasionally making a note. Occasionally asking a question.
Never arguing. Never telling him he was confused. Never telling him he was sick.
This doctor wasn't looking at him the way everyone else did.
At least, it didn't feel like he was.
And that mattered.
When Kit finally ran out of steam, the room fell silent again. His chest felt tight. His throat dry.
“You think I'm crazy too?”
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
For the first time, Thredson leaned back in his chair. Studying him. Considering.
“No.”
The answer came so simply that Kit just blinked.
Thredson adjusted slightly.
“Not in the way Briarcliff uses the word.”
Something in Kit's shoulders loosened. Just a little.
“You believe me?”
Thredson's expression remained neutral.
“I believe that you believe what you're telling me.”
Kit's jaw tightened immediately. There it was. The same answer. Just dressed up prettier.
His eyes dropped to the desk for a second before he looked back up.
“You think I'm makin’ it up?”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
The words came out sharper than intended.
For the first time, something resembling sympathy crossed Thredson's face. Not offense. Not irritation. Just sympathy.
Which somehow annoyed Kit even more.
“I know what happened.” His voice was lower now. Steadier. “I know what I saw.”
“Mr. Walker—”
“No.”
Kit leaned forward. Not aggressive but determined.
“Everybody keeps saying the same damn thing.”
The room fell quiet. The radio still humming softly.
“They look at me like I'm confused.”
His throat tightened.
“Or sick.”
Another breath.
“Or lying.”
The last word came out harder than the others. Because that was the one he hated most. Lying. Like everything he had lost wasn't real. Like he hadn’t loved Alma. Like she wasn’t a person to him.
Across from him, Thredson remained still. Watching. Listening. Waiting for the frustration to burn itself out.
Eventually Kit sat back again. Dragging a hand across his face. Suddenly exhausted. “I'm not asking you to believe every part of it.”
A pause.
“But help me figure out what happened.”
For a moment, Thredson said nothing.
Then he nodded. Slowly. Reasonably. Like he believed Kit had asked for something entirely fair.
"I think that's a worthwhile goal."
The tension in Kit's shoulders eased slightly.
Thredson picked up his pen again. Made a brief note. Then looked back up.
"Can I ask you something unrelated?"
Kit shrugged.
"Sure."
"You seem to have adjusted to Briarcliff better than some patients."
Kit barked out a short laugh.
"That's a hell of a sentence."
A faint smile touched Thredson's face.
"I don't mean happily."
"No kiddin’."
"But most new patients isolate themselves."
Kit frowned. "What's your point?"
"I'm curious how you've managed not to."
Kit quirked a brow. "What d'you mean?"
"Most patients find something." Thredson's pen rested lightly against the page. "Something that helps them endure being here."
Kit thought about it. Then shrugged. "People."
Thredson's pen paused over the page.
"People?"
"Grace, at first." That answer came easy. "She ain't exactly friendly, but she knows how this place works."
A corner of Thredson's mouth twitched. "High praise."
"More than she'd give me."
That earned a brief smile from the doctor.
Kit continued.
"She tells you when you're bein' stupid."
"An admirable quality."
"Depends who you're askin'."
The smile lingered for a second before fading. Thredson made another note.
"Guess I got lucky." Kit said, almost mindlessly.
Thredson tilted his head slightly. “How so?”
Kit looked down at his fingers. “Got Grace, Sleepwalk—”
The word died immediately and Kit winced.
“Sleepwalker?” Thredson asked before Kit could continue.
Kit looked up.
There wasn't judgment in the question.
Just curiosity.
“Old nickname.”
The answer came quickly. Almost dismissively. But Thredson noticed the way his jaw tightened.
“Tryna get out of the habit of sayin’ it.” Kit let out a humorless laugh.
Interest flickered in Thredson’s eyes. “She doesn't like it?”
Kit considered the question. Then shrugged.
“Reminds her of somebody.”
Jimmy.
The name flashed through Thredson's mind immediately.
Interesting.
"Someone important?"
Kit hesitated. Long enough to answer the question without speaking.
“Yeah.”
Thredson nodded once. Like that was all he needed.
"You seem protective of her."
The words were casual. Observational. Not accusatory.
Kit frowned slightly. "Do I?"
Thredson gave a small shrug.
"You notice when she's struggling."
A pause.
"You remember things that upset her."
The doctor's voice remained calm.
Measured.
"Most patients don't pay that much attention to one another."
Kit sat back slightly. Thinking. Because when it was put that way...
Maybe he did.
"I don't know."
The answer came honestly. Kit looked toward the window. Searching for words.
"She..."
His brow furrowed.
"She’s just kinda different."
"Different?" Thredson repeated. “What makes her different?”
The room fell quiet again. Kit leaned back.
The answer should've been easy. But it wasn't.
Because it wasn't just one thing.
It was the way she didn’t expect anything from anyone. The way she remembered little things and forgot others. The way she'd spent months forcing herself to be there for Pepper. The way she'd smile like she wasn't entirely sure she deserved to. The way she'd sit beneath that tree, drawing circles. The way she'd keep trying. Even when it would've been easier not to.
He admired that.
“I dunno,” Kit rubbed a thumb against his palm. “She’s kinda selfless without meaning to be. ‘N I think she’s strong. Smart too.” He pointed at his head. “A lot goin' on, y'know.”
Thredson watched him for a moment. Then made one final note. The scratch of pen against paper seemed unusually loud.
“I think that's all we have time for today.”
Kit stood. The chair legs scraped against the floor.
"Thank you."
The words surprised him a little.
Thredson looked up from his notes.
"For what?"
Kit shrugged.
"Listenin'."
The doctor's expression softened. Or appeared to.
"That's my job, Mr. Walker."
Kit nodded. Then hesitated. There was still one question. The same one he always had.
"If I keep talkin' to you..."
His voice trailed off.
Thredson waited.
Kit looked away briefly. Then forced himself to finish.
"Do you think I got a chance?"
Not freedom. Not acquittal. Not even proving himself right.
Just a chance. A chance that somebody would eventually understand. A chance that somebody would eventually believe him.
Thredson was quiet for a moment.
Then:
"Certainly."
And it was exactly the kind of answer Kit wanted to hear.
The orderly led him back through the familiar halls.
The conversation lingered in Kit's head longer than he expected. Bits and pieces of questions. Answers. The scratch of Thredson's pen. The feeling—however brief—that somebody had finally listened.
By the time they reached Occupational Therapy, the knot between his shoulders had loosened slightly.
The orderly opened the door.
Kit stepped inside.
Immediately, his eyes searched the room. Not consciously. The same way they searched the cafeteria every morning. The same way they searched the yard. Just habit now.
A familiar one.
He found you near the back. Head lowered over your work. Thread looped around your fingers. Focused.
Then his gaze shifted to the empty chair beside you. And for a second, he simply stared. Because he had almost forgotten saying it.
Save me a spot.
Yet there it was. Still empty. Nobody sitting in it. Nobody's work piled on it. Waiting.
Something warm unexpectedly settled in his chest. As though the sight meant more than it should.
Maybe it did.
You looked up and for a moment neither of you did anything.
Then you glanced at the chair. A tiny movement. Barely noticeable. An invitation.
Kit couldn't help smiling.
The feeling caught him off guard.
It shouldn't have.
You'd saved him a seat.
That was all.
A small thing.
The kind of thing people did every day.
Still.
After spending the last hour talking about Alma, about loss, about people disappearing without warning—
The sight of somebody remembering felt different.
Kit shoved the thought aside before it could go anywhere.
Then crossed the room.
You watched him approach. Not obviously. Not enough that anyone else would've noticed. Just enough to confirm he was actually coming back.
Kit dropped into the chair beside you.
"Didn't let anybody take it, huh?"
You glanced at the empty workspace.
Then at him.
"No."
"'Ppreciate it."
A small smile tugged at your mouth.
"You asked."
"Fair."
For a few moments, the only sounds were the scrape of chairs and the rustle of fabric. The familiar rhythm of occupational therapy. Comfortably repetitive.
Kit reached for the pile of linens waiting beside him.
"Y’miss me?"
The question came out so naturally. Yet, it was so unexpected you almost looked up.
Instead, your eyes stayed focus on your working fingers.
"You were gone less than an hour."
"So that's a yes."
"It isn't."
"Sounds like a yes."
You shook your head and Kit grinned.
For a second, neither of you said anything else.
Then:
"How'd it go?"
The question left your mouth before you could stop it. It surprised even you.
Immediately, Kit's grin faded.
Not completely. But more than enough for you to notice.
His hands paused over the fabric. And his attention shifted somewhere else. Back toward the office he'd just left. The conversations he had.
His hands resumed working.
Slowly.
"He listened."
You glanced over.
Kit wasn't smiling anymore.
Not exactly.
But there was something lighter about him.
Like some weight had shifted.
"Actually listened."
The words came out almost surprised.
You looked back down at your work.
"That's good."
"Yeah."
A pause.
"Said I might have a chance."
Your fingers stopped. Only for a second.
"A chance?"
Kit nodded. "At proving I'm not supposed to be here."
The room suddenly felt quieter. Not actually quieter. Just farther away.
You stared at the thread wrapped around your finger. "Oh."
Kit didn't seem to notice anything strange about your response.
Why would he?
To him it was good news. And it was. Maybe the best news he'd gotten since arriving.
"I mean, not tomorrow or anything." He shrugged. "But still."
Your fingers resumed moving. Slowly. Carefully.
"That's good." You said. And you meant it. You really did.
Because if anyone deserved to leave Briarcliff, it was Kit.
But your stomach felt strange.
You focused on the thread between your fingers.
Pull.
Loop.
Pull.
Loop.
The rhythm helped.
Across from you, somebody dropped a basket of linens. A few patients laughed.
You barely heard them. You weren’t drifting, not this time. But your fingers were starting to shake.
"Hey."
The word cut through the noise in your head.
You blinked.
Kit was looking at you, concern creasing his brow.
"What?"
His expression softened slightly. "There you are."
Heat immediately crawled up the back of your neck. You looked down at your work again.
"I was listening."
"Uh-huh."
"I was."
Kit snorted. "You got that look."
"What look?"
"The one where you're about three seconds from forgettin' I'm in the room."
You frowned. "I don't do that."
"You absolutely do that."
You shook your head and Kit chuckled.
It wasn’t long until names started to get called. Chairs scraped, orderlies barked instructions or didn’t speak at all, and patients began filing out of the room.
You and Kit stood at the same time. You both knew where you were heading.
You and Kit stood at the same time.
You both knew where you were heading.
The hallway outside Occupational Therapy was already crowded. Patients shuffled forward in uneven lines. Orderlies lingered near the walls.
For a while neither of you spoke. Kit walked beside you, hands shoved into his pockets. You focused on the floor.
One cracked tile. Then another. Then another.
Voices echoed ahead. A door slammed somewhere down the hall. Normal.
Just normal.
"You sure you're alright?"
You glanced at Kit. He wasn't looking at you. The question sounded almost casual.
Almost.
"Yeah."
"Uh-huh."
"I am."
"You're a terrible liar." He faintly laughed.
"You're one to talk."
That earned a laugh. A real one. Still small. But more than the one before.
Before he could answer, a familiar voice drifted down the hall.
"There you are."
Both of you looked up. Grace was leaning against the wall near the intersection ahead. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. Waiting. Or pretending she wasn't.
"Thought they got rid of you," she told Kit.
"Not that lucky."
Grace rolled her eyes. "Clearly."
Kit grinned. For a moment the three of you fell into step together. An odd little formation. One that would've seemed impossible a couple weeks ago.
Kit’s grin faded slightly. “Talked to the doctor earlier.”
Grace studied him for a second. Then raised an eyebrow. “It went well then?”
"Better than." The admission surprised even him.
Grace noticed. Of course she noticed.
"Huh."
That was all she said. But her eyes narrowed slightly. Considering. Assessing. The way Grace always did. Maybe having that same odd feeling in her stomach that you were.
Grace looked ahead again. "Careful."
"With what?" Kit frowned.
"Getting your hopes up."
"He wasn't like that," Kit scoffed.
Grace's expression didn't change. "Maybe."
The answer carried enough skepticism to make Kit roll his eyes.
Before either of them could continue, the common room came into view. The same collection of worn chairs. Scuffed tables. Patients scattered throughout the room. And that damn record player.
Your eyes found Pepper immediately. Not consciously, just habit.
She was sitting on the floor, puzzle pieces scattered around her. Just like normal.
Something in your shoulders eased. You were already moving before you realized it.
Kit noticed and fell into step behind you.
Grace followed a second later. Still watching Kit. Still thinking.
Pepper looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. The moment she saw you, her face brightened.
"Twirly."
"Hi, Pepper." You couldn't help smiling.
Pepper immediately shifted her puzzle pieces to make room. An invitation you’d never turn down.
Kit dropped into the chair next to you and a moment later Grace took the one across from him. The movement all felt strangely automatic. Thoughtless.
Pepper looked between all three of you. Then tilted her head. Suspicious. Or curious. Or both.
"Why's everybody look funny?"
Kit laughed.
Grace groaned.
“Just a long morning,” You spoke softly. It was easier for everyone.
Pepper nodded with the upmost seriousness before turning her attention back to her puzzle.
For a few moments the only sounds were the muttering of patients and that horrible song on the record player.
Then:
"The south wing’s still the best option."
Grace said it so suddenly that Kit almost laughed. You blinked. Pepper didn't even look up.
"Hello to you too." Kit leaned back in his chair.
Grace ignored him. "The side entrance is impossible."
"We know."
"And the front’s got too many people."
"We know that too."
Grace shot him a look. "Then stop making me repeat myself."
Kit grinned. "Never."
The expression lasted all of three seconds before Grace's glare deepened.
Then she looked back toward you. Not dismissing you this time. Actually looking.
"You ever notice who's posted there?"
For a second, you thought she was joking. Then you realized she wasn't. The question hung in the air. Waiting. On you.
“South is busy,” you murmured, choosing to look at the floor rather than Grace’s piercing eyes.
Grace sat back, like she was unimpressed.
You stared at the worn linoleum.
Thinking. The thought had been sitting in the back of your head for a while now. Ever since Kit started talking about escape. You'd never planned on saying it.
But—
"The west door."
The words came out quietly.
Three heads turned toward you. Even Pepper looked up. You immediately regretted speaking. A familiar heat crept into your face.
"The west door?" Grace repeated.
You nodded once. Slowly. "It's quieter."
"What d'you mean?" Kit leaned forward slightly.
Your fingers picked at one another. Trying not to look at any of them.
"At night." A pause. "I don't think they watch it very much."
Grace's expression shifted. Not agreement. But interest. Actual interest. So you kept going.
"The woods are back there," you swallowed. "Aren't many lights."
The room fell quiet. Grace was looking at you differently now. Not kindly. Not warmly. But seriously. As though she'd just realized you'd been listening to the conversation all along.
Everyone was quiet for a long moment. Grace stared at you.
“No shit.” She muttered.
You blinked. Kit couldn’t help but chuckle, but Grace ignored him entirely.
"The woods." She rubbed a hand across her mouth. Thinking. Actually thinking about it.
Nobody spoke for a second. Then Kit looked at you. Really looked at you.
A different kind of recognition than normal settling across his face.
"You been thinkin' 'bout this?"
Immediately, you wished he hadn't asked. The attention alone made your stomach twist. You looked back down at the floor.
"A little."
"A little?" His tone made it clear he didn't believe that for a second.
"I listen." You shrugged. The motion small.
Grace snorted. "Apparently."
"Twirly notices things." Pepper grinned.
Heat crawled into your face.
You wished all three of them would stop looking at you.
Unfortunately, none of them seemed interested in doing that.
Grace looked out into the room. Thinking again. Rearranging the pieces. Taking it all apart and rebuilding it again a hundred times in her head.
"The woods would give us cover." Nobody interrupted. "The hard part's still the door."
You glanced at her. "They don't watch it much."
"At night."
You nodded and Grace considered that.
"How many staff?"
You frowned. Trying to remember.
"One. Sometimes two."
Grace muttered something under her breath. Already doing the math. "That could work."
Pepper looked between the three of you. Then back to her puzzle. Apparently satisfied that whatever was happening wasn't immediately dangerous.
"The woods would slow people down too." Grace tapped a finger against her knee. "If we got far enough in before they noticed..."
The sentence trailed off. Her eyes shifted. Landing on Kit. Waiting. For once, he hadn't said anything. Not disagreement. Not agreement. Nothing.
"You got a thought?" Grace frowned.
Kit looked up."Huh?"
"The plan."
"Oh." He shrugged. "Maybe."
Grace stared at him. That wasn't an answer. It wasn't even close. "You've got nothin' else to say?"
Kit rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. The motion looked almost sheepish. "Just listenin'."
The silence that followed was brief. But noticeable. Because Kit didn’t usually "just listen." Not when it came to escaping. Not when it came to getting out. You knew that. Grace knew that.
Grace's eyes narrowed, studying him. She glanced at you before looking back at Kit. “That doctor tell you somethin’ we should know?”
Kit blinked. "What?"
"You're quieter." Grace shrugged. "Usually you've got ten opinions by now."
Pepper looked between them, then to you, concern growing on her face. Your hand gently found hers and just like that, she was back to her puzzle.
"The doctor." Grace’s tone flattened. "Did he say somethin’?"
For a moment Kit considered the question. Then shook his head. "No."
A pause.
"He just..." Kit trailed off. Searching for words. "He listened."
Grace's expression didn't change. If anything, it became more skeptical.
"That's it?"
"That's it." Kit shrugged.
Now it was your turn to look at Kit with skepticism. He’d been so ready to tell you that Thredson said he had a chance. So why not Grace?
Kit noticed you. “What?”
“What what?”
“You got that look.”
Grace glanced between the two of you.
“What look?” You asked.
Kit gestured at you. “That one.”
“You told me he said you had a chance...” You frowned.
The words left before you thought about them. Silence. Immediate. Heavy.
Grace's head turned slowly toward Kit. "A chance?"
Kit closed his eyes briefly. "Aw, hell."
Pepper looked up from her puzzle.
Grace folded her arms. "A chance at what, Walker?"
Kit shot you a look. Not angry. Not even frustrated. Just caught.
“Sorry.” Once again, you found the floor very interesting.
“Nah.” Kit sighed. “S'not your fault.”
“Walker.” Grace raised an eyebrow.
"He just said I might have a chance of provin' I don't belong here."
The room fell quiet again. Not because anybody disagreed. Because everybody knew what that meant. Or could mean.
“And you believe him?” Grace scoffed.
Kit frowned. “I didn't say that.”
“You look like you do.”
“I said he listened.”
“Congratulations. He did his job,” Grace rolled her eyes. The words came out sharper than she probably intended. Or maybe exactly as sharp as she intended.
Kit leaned back in his chair.“You weren't there.”
“No,” Grace folded her arms. “I've just been here longer.”
Silence
Kit rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. Frustrated. Mostly with himself.
"I just..." The words came slower this time. "He didn't treat me like I was crazy." Kit looked away. Toward the window. Toward the bars. Toward the world outside.
You looked at him. Really looked at him. The tension in his shoulders. The frustration in his voice. The way he couldn't quite bring himself to look back at any of you.
For a moment, the office flashed through your mind. The sunlight. The radio. Thredson asking questions. Waiting for answers. Listening. Like he wanted to hear them. Like they mattered.
You understood. Maybe a little too much.
Grace noticed. Of course she did. Her eyes flicked between the two of you as she sat forward.
"You agree with him." It wasn't an accusation. Not exactly. More of an observation. An aggressive sort of observation.
Kit glanced at Grace when she spoke, but his attention swiftly redirected to you. And for a moment, you met his eyes. Deep, warm brown, like sea glass.
Now Pepper’s gaze flicked between you two too.
You looked down at your unoccupied hand. “He listens.”
Grace stared at you. Then let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah.” She leaned back in her chair. “Of course he does.”
Kit frowned. “That’s not—”
“Every doctor listens.” Grace cut him off. She paused; her eyes flicked between both of you again. “You’re just supposed to talk.” The words hung there for a moment.
Pepper, sensing the shift, went back to her puzzle a little too quickly.
“They ‘listen’, pretend they’re takin’ down notes,” Grace said, folding her arms. “Nothing changes.”
Kit exhaled through his nose. Not angry. Just… frustrated again. “You weren’t there,” he repeated, softer this time.
But it didn’t land the same way anymore. Because now it wasn’t just Grace questioning him. It was both of you reacting in different ways to the same thing.
“That ain’t what it felt like.” Kit shook his head slightly.
Grace gave a short laugh. “It never feels like it.”
Kit glanced at her again, jaw tightening. “I’m not sayin’ he fixed anything.” A pause. Just long enough to gather himself. “I’m sayin’ he didn’t make me feel like I was already gone.”
Silence followed that. Not dramatic. But thick. Like the air had grown in humidity.
Grace didn’t respond immediately. Even Pepper stopped moving her hand for a second. And you froze.
It wasn’t about trusting anyone for Kit. It was about recognition. Being seen.
You understood that much. Maybe better than you wanted to. Because you were learning what it felt like to be looked at and not dismissed. To be listened to like you mattered. The thought lingered. Uncomfortable.
Familiar.
And for a moment, you couldn’t quite meet Grace’s eyes.
Grace exhaled through her nose. “That’s what they do.” A beat. “Make you feel like you’re not invisible.” Her eyes flicked to Kit. Then to you. “Doesn’t mean they’re helping you.”
Kit’s jaw tightened slightly. “That’s not what I said.”
Grace raised an eyebrow. “Then say what you mean.”
Kit opened his mouth. Closed it again. A breath left him through his nose. “I don’t know what I mean,” he admitted finally.
The honesty landed heavier than an argument would have. Because it wasn’t a defense anymore. It was uncertainty. And Grace didn’t have an easy answer for that.
Silence settled again. Just as heavy as before.
You became very aware of your hands. Of the shifting of puzzle pieces next to you. Of your own breathing.
“I don’t get it,” Grace muttered. Not to anyone in particular. Then, sharper: “Just—don’t get it.”
Kit didn’t respond. Neither did you. For a moment, it felt like the conversation might just… stall there. Break apart.
But softly, Pepper spoke.
“You all look like the broken clock.” Three heads turned toward her. She didn’t stop her puzzle. Just tilted her head slightly. “The one that still moves, but it’s wrong.” A pause. “Too many hands going different ways.” Her voice lowered.
The room went still in a different way now. Less tense. More… aware. Grace looked away first. Kit followed a second later.
You stayed looking at Pepper a moment longer. She wasn’t smiling. But she wasn’t upset either. Just observing. Like she’d said something obvious that no one else had noticed yet.
Then somewhere near the front of the room, a door opened. A voice called a name. Routine returning. Pulling the moment apart without asking permission.
Grace shifted first. “Lunch,” she said flatly.
Kit stood after her. A second slower than usual.
You followed. And Pepper followed you.
Just like that—
The conversation ended the way most things did in Briarcliff. Not resolved. Just… interrupted. Unfinished.
The sound of footsteps filled the hallway again. Not hurried. Not chaotic. Just steady. Routine reclaiming the space.
The four of you kept your distance from the others.
Pepper stayed closest to you as the group moved; fingers still lightly holding your gown for a moment before letting go again.
Kit walked beside you. Grace slightly ahead. For a while, no one spoke. The echoes of the common room conversation still lingered between you, but no longer actively spoken.
Then footsteps slowed somewhere ahead. Not Grace’s. A figure rounded the corner of the corridor. White coat. Hands folded behind his back.
Dr. Arden.
The group didn’t stop, but something in the air shifted immediately. Subtle. Like the hallway itself had tightened.
Arden’s eyes moved first to Grace. A brief glance. Then Kit. Longer. Measuring. And then you. And he paused.
Just for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Enough to register. Enough to be felt.
“Mr. Walker.” Calm voice. No warmth. No hostility either. As if it was observation dressed as courtesy.
Kit gave a short nod. “Doctor.”
Arden’s gaze didn’t stay on him. It drifted again. Back to you. Something faintly unreadable crossed his expression. Not quite interest. Not quite recognition. Something closer to cataloguing.
“Miss Reverie.” The name made the air feel thinner for a moment. Not because it was new. Because of the way he said it. Like it had been there already. Just waiting to be used.
Grace’s steps slowed enough to bring her beside you.
Pepper went still.
Arden’s attention didn’t linger long enough to become a confrontation or conversation. The lion doesn’t waste time on birds.
Instead, his eyes shifted down the hallway again, already moving on. But as he passed, his voice softened—just slightly. Not kinder. Just quieter.
“Still flexible, I trust.”
Arden’s footsteps faded down the hall. Not rushed. Not lingering. Just gone. Like he hadn’t been anything more than part of the corridor noise.
Kit let out a breath beside you. “Guy always talk like that or is it just me?”
There was a hint of humor in it. An attempt. To make it small again. Manageable.
Grace gave a short, unimpressed sound. “Always.”
Pepper shifted slightly closer to your side. A quiet, grounding pressure.
You didn’t respond. At least—not in any way that reached the outside. Because your mind hadn’t followed Kit’s words. It hadn’t followed Grace’s tone either. It was still stuck in the moment before.
The pause. The way Arden had said your name. Like he knew where it belonged. Like it had never really left his mouth.
Your head felt distant. Not sick. Not calm. Just… far away. Too far away to organize properly.
Thoughts tried to form and failed before they became anything solid. Too many edges. Too many directions. You caught fragments but not a one of them connected cleanly.
They just circled. And every time you tried to grab one, it slipped sideways into another.
Kit said something again—softer this time. Your name, maybe. Or a question. You weren’t sure. It didn’t land.
Grace glanced at you once. Then again. Sharper now. “You alright?”
You heard that one. Barely. But you did.
You nodded. A reflex more than an answer. But even that felt delayed. Like your body was somewhere you weren’t. Or maybe you were somewhere it wasn’t.
The hallway moved around you. Feet. Voices. Doors opening somewhere ahead. Lunch. Something normal. Something that could help.
Your eyes drifted, finding Kit without meaning to.
You and Kit. Alone at your table, like every meal.
That could help.
Kit was already beside you again. You hadn’t noticed him moving closer. Or maybe you had, and it hadn’t fully registered yet.
The cafeteria doors swung open ahead and noise spilled out. Trays. Voices. Metal scraping metal. Normal. Loud in a way that almost helped.
Grace went her own way. Pepper, like usual, had to be guided to her table.
You moved through the motions, your body working more on muscle memory than anything else. Get your tray and get to the table.
Kit didn’t pay much attention either. Instead, he was watching you. Not really staring but looking. Observing. Like he was trying to place something that didn’t fit where it usually did.
“You good?” Simple. Low.
You nodded before the question fully settled. “I’m fine.”
Kit didn’t answer right away. He grabbed a tray only after you took one.
“That didn’t look like fine.” The words weren’t accusatory. Just honest.
You glanced at him briefly. Then away again. Because looking at him made it harder to keep the moment contained.
“It was just…” The sentence didn’t form cleanly.
Kit slowed with you. Didn’t push ahead. Didn’t leave the silence for you to fill alone.
“Just what?” That was all he said. Not pressure. Not impatience. Just there. Waiting. And that was worse, in a way. Because there wasn’t anywhere to run from it without making it obvious you were running.
Your grip tightened slightly on the tray. “I don’t know.”
A pause. Not empty. Not giving up. It was uncertainty.
You grew closer to your table, and Kit remained quiet beside you. Patient. He didn’t feel the need to fill the silence or speed you up.
The two of you sat before you came up with any words to say.
Then, quieter than intended, meeker, you spoke.
“He talked to me.”
Kit’s expression shifted. Not surprise. Not quite confusion. Something in between. Like he didn’t fully understand the importance.
“…Arden?”
You nodded once. That was enough.
Kit exhaled through his nose. Slow.
“Yeah.” A beat. Then his voice softened. “What’d he say?”
You hesitated. The chair beneath you suddenly felt colder. It wasn’t really anything. Not when you said it out loud. Not when you broke it into words. You shifted your grip slightly.
“It wasn’t—” You stopped. Because that wasn’t true either.
Kit didn’t rush you. Just slowly picked at his food. Like he was giving the moment space to exist.
“He just said that I’m still… flexible.” You looked at the table.
“Flexible?” Kit frowned.
You nodded once. That familiar tight feeling crept back in, but less sharp now. More distant.
“‘Still flexible, I trust.’”
The words sounded worse when you repeated them.
Kit was quiet for a second. Just looking at you. Trying to place it.
“Like… physically?”
“Well... yeah...” That wasn’t quite right though. Because there was always something more than just your flexibility behind it.
“But...”
A long pause. Too long. You didn’t know the words.
Kit’s brow furrowed and he set his fork down.
“Mentally?”
You didn’t answer right away. Mentally felt clean. Simple.
Whatever words were stuck in your head didn’t feel clean. Or simple.
“…I don’t know.”
Kit’s expression softened, but a crease remained between his brow. He studied you. Waiting now.
And you hated that part—the waiting. It meant you had to decide whether to leave it vague or let it be real.
“It’s not really what he said,” you mumbled. Your fingers were quick to find a loose string on your gown. “He said it like… it meant something.”
Silence.
Kit’s expression changed at that. Still not fully understanding. But recognizing the meaning behind the words, even if he didn’t have the context.
He looked down briefly then back up at you. “You don't look scared.”
You blinked. “What?”
“You looked scared when he showed up,” he shook his head. A pause. “But not now.”
You looked down at the string in your hands. Kit wasn't wrong. The fear had been there. The cold feeling in your stomach. The thousand thoughts. The panic of being noticed again.
But now... Now it was something else. Something harder to explain.
“Then what do I look like?” The question slipped. Not that you had tried fighting it.
Kit studied you again. Long enough that you almost regretted asking.
Then:
“Worried,” his answer came quietly. Certain. Not guessing. Not trying to make you feel better. Just honest. “Worried ‘bout what it means, I guess.”
You nodded. Just once. Slowly.
Because he was right. Of course he was.
The realization should've been frustrating. Instead, it mostly felt unfair.
You weren't entirely sure how he'd gotten so good at that. At looking at you and somehow finding the thing you couldn't quite put into words yourself. Your fingers loosened slightly around the string. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The cafeteria noise filled the space instead. Trays clanging. Shoes scraping. Voices carrying from distant tables. The usual chaos of lunch.
“You do that a lot.” Your voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper.
Kit frowned again. “Do what?”
You glanced up. Then immediately wished you hadn't. Because he was already looking at you. Waiting. Listening. Like he always did.
“Figure things out.”
A corner of Kit's mouth twitched. “I don't think I do.”
“You do.” The answer came quicker than expected. Certain.
Kit blinked. Genuinely caught off guard this time.
“Well,” Kit picked up his fork again. “I'll try bein' less observant.”
You snorted. The sound surprised both of you.
Then Kit grinned. “There it is.”
“Oh, stop.”
“I'm serious.”
“You are not.”
“Y’laughed, though.” A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“It wasn’t a laugh.”
“Oh, close enough!” He argued.
Your lips twitched and you bit the inside of your cheek. “Not close enough.”
“Sure,” Kit groaned and rolled his eyes, but his grin widened.
“It wasn't.” You muttered.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Kit waved a dismissive hand.
You shook your head and rolled your eyes.
The conversation settled after that.
Not because either of you had forgotten Arden. Or Thredson. Or Grace. Or escape. But because for a few minutes, neither of you had to think about them.
Lunch carried on around you. Patients talked. Orderlies shouted. Someone dropped a spoon. Normal. Almost peaceful in it’s own way.
Then a shadow fell across the table.
You looked up.
An orderly stood there. Expression blank. As always. His eyes moved to you.
“Miss Reverie.”
The smile vanished from Kit's face immediately.
“Yeah?” You sat up slightly.
“You're wanted in the chapel.”
For a second, neither of you spoke. The chapel. You weren’t usually sent there.
Kit frowned. “The chapel?”
“That's what I said.” The orderly looked at him. Then looked back at you.
“What for?” Kit's brow furrowed.
The orderly shrugged.
You glanced toward Kit. He was already looking at you. Concern replacing the amusement from moments earlier. Not panic. Just uncertainty. The same uncertainty you felt.
The orderly stepped back.
You glanced across the cafeteria. Pepper was already looking at you. Worry sat plainly on her face. You offered a small nod.
The kind that meant: I'm okay.
Or at least: I'll come back.
Pepper nodded immediately. Like she believed you.
Your eyes shifted as you stood.
Grace was watching you too. But she didn’t look worried, more skeptical. Thoughtful. Assessing. Which somehow felt better than if she had been.
Then you looked at Kit. He was already looking at you.
“You'll be alright?” The question was quiet. Simple.
You nodded. Because what else could you do? You weren’t sure. But neither of you could change that.
The orderly cleared his throat. Waiting.
You turned to him and he began walking. You followed three paces behind.
The cafeteria noise swallowed the moment almost immediately. Trays. Voices. Silverware. Life continuing without permission.
The orderly led you to the door and down the hall.
Saints, Sinners, and Sleepwalkers | Kit Walker x Reader
Series Masterlist Here
8.3k words
Expect Disturbing Themes
Chapter 1: Curiosity is the First Cut
📄 Briarcliff Records (October, 1961 – Last Updated March, 1962)
Patient Name: [REDACTED]
Alias: “Lady Reverie”
Date of Admission: October 13th, 1961
Age: Estimated mid-to-late 20s
Recent Addendum – March 2nd, 1962
Staff Observations:
Patient demonstrates increased periods of lucidity during waking hours. Fugue states have decreased in frequency, though still present. Shows consistent protective behavior toward fellow patient “Pepper.” Frequently observed intervening when Pepper is distressed or targeted by others. Speech still fragmented. Instances of poetic or metaphorical language remain, but content appears more focused. Nighttime episodes remain.
Religious Staff Note:
Unnatural contortions and trance-like movements continue to be interpreted as signs of possible spiritual unrest. The Chaplain’s previous request for private prayer sessions has been approved by administration and is currently awaiting formal scheduling. Staff advised to document any further episodes of religious speech or behavior. – Schedule with Father Howard by end of month?
Attending Staff: Dr. Arthur Arden
Dr. Thredson: Pending evaluation
The air in Sister Jude’s office always smelled faintly of smoke and floor polish. Clinical, but not quite clean. Dr. Oliver Thredson folded his hands neatly in his lap as she spoke, nodding with a tight-lipped expression that suggested agreement, though his mind was already two thoughts ahead.
“She’s not violent,” Jude was saying, thumbing through a thin, dog-eared file. “Not like some of the others. But she’s off. Unsettling.”
“Off?” Thredson echoed politely, already glancing toward the open folder.
“Former sideshow performer. Calls herself Lady Reverie—or did, once. Now she mostly doesn’t talk. Spends most of her time sleepwalking through the halls or twisting herself into a knot under her cot.”
Jude slid the folder toward him.
“She speaks in verse sometimes,” Jude added dryly, lighting a cigarette. “When she speaks at all.”
Thredson scanned the top sheet. Hysteria. Catatonia. Fugue states. A tangle of diagnoses from facilities that probably hadn’t known what to do with her, so they’d passed her along like a cursed relic.
“And yet,” he murmured, mostly to himself, “she still moves.”
He tapped a finger against a line about her nightly contortions. A kind of sleep-dancing. Bodies remembered what the mind forgot. He’d read about cases like this in med school. But none had the strange poetry that trailed behind this one like a ghost.
“She doesn’t cause trouble,” Jude said again, but with that pinched tone she used for anything that bothered her even if it didn’t break the rules. “But she’s magnetic. You’ll see. Other patients are drawn to her like sheep to a wolf with lipstick. That’s the problem.”
Thredson smiled faintly. “Or perhaps… like sheep to a shepherd.”
Jude’s eyes narrowed, cigarette paused just before her lips. “You planning to take a particular interest in her?”
“I plan to observe,” he said smoothly. “That’s all. She’s an intriguing case. And since she’s begun interacting more frequently with the Pinhead girl—”
“Pepper,” Jude corrected, grimacing.
“—Yes. Pepper. Since then, her file notes fewer fugue episodes. That shift alone is worth understanding.”
Jude took a long drag from her cigarette, exhaled toward the window.
“Do what you want,” she muttered. “But don’t come crying to me when she starts climbing the walls and speaking in tongues. Arden says she’s half demon already.”
“Then perhaps it’s time someone asked which half.”
He stood and collected the folder, careful not to show how eager he really was. His fingers itched to open it again. To dissect each phrase. The mind was a map, and she was already presenting the most intriguing detour Briarcliff had offered yet.
Down the hall, the metal doors to Occupational Therapy clicked open.
He would only observe. Quietly. Briefly. Harmlessly.
For now.
They’d put you and Pepper at the same table again. Not out of kindness—just rotation. A shuffle of patients to avoid patterns, they said. But for once, it worked in your favor.
She greeted you with a squeal and a flurry of excited hand-flapping, nearly knocking over the tray of beads the orderly dumped between you. You caught the tray before it spilled, and she beamed like you’d just pulled a rabbit from a hat.
“Twiiirly,” she whispered in sing-song, dragging out the word like it was a secret spell.
You said nothing. Just smiled—small, careful—and nudged a pink bead her way. She gasped, delighted.
It was quiet enough, at first. Just the clink of beads and buttons. The soft rustle of fabric and the faint wheeze of the radiators pushing against another cold morning.
You let yourself watch her. Counted the rhythm of her fingers sorting colors. Matched your breathing to her little hums. She made it easier to be here. She made you easier to be here.
Then something shifted. The sound of shoes—too crisp. Too new. Someone watching.
You didn’t look up right away, but the hairs on your arms prickled. Staff changed often. You didn’t recognize this one.
A clipboard scratched against a sleeve. A murmur between two men. The rustle of papers. You felt it—not like threat, exactly. But like someone testing the weight of a door they might one day unlock.
You moved closer to Pepper. Just a fraction. Her knee bumped yours, and she looked at you with wide, steady trust.
You turned back to the beads. Threaded one. Then another.
Still here. Still with her.
The clink of beads slowed. Across the room, a nurse glanced at her clipboard, then began calling names—one by one, slowly peeling people away like petals off a dying flower.
“Time’s up,” she said flatly. “Sort yourselves out.”
Pepper frowned at her half-finished bracelet, lip wobbling just enough to tug something deep in your chest. You reached over and touched the back of her hand.
“Hey,” you murmured, soft but certain. “We’ll finish it later. I promise.”
Her eyes lifted to yours. You watched her search your face, looking for cracks. You gave her your best smile—even if it didn’t feel like it belonged to you. It worked. She nodded, the way children do when they decide to believe in something.
“No forgetting!”
“I won’t,” you said. “I’m still here, remember?”
She giggled like it was a joke. To her, maybe it was. But around her, you were more awake than you’d ever been since the show disbanded.
You hate it. But you care for her more.
You stood from your chair, offering Pepper one last smile, just as an orderly entered the room. He called your name. You followed without a word, leaving the faint scent of glue and yarn behind. The halls stretched longer than usual, walls tilting ever so slightly inward. Fluorescent lights flickered like they were trying to blink something away.
You didn’t ask where you were going. You never did.
The hydrotherapy room was colder today.
Not by degrees—by feeling. Like the air itself didn’t want you there.
The tub loomed where it always did: claw-footed, rust-kissed, bolted to cracked tiles like an altar made for silence. The water was already waiting—cloudy, off-color. You didn’t want to know what was in it.
The orderly didn’t speak. Just walked you to the tub and began unfastening your gown. The buttons came undone one by one, each tiny pop echoing off the tile like distant thunder. You stared at the grout between floor tiles and tried to stay inside your body.
It didn’t work.
When you stepped out of the gown, you didn’t feel the chill. Your skin did, but you were watching from somewhere behind your own eyes.
Lowered into the tub, your limbs folded like paper. Your back met the basin and the cold climbed in. Restraints clicked shut at your wrists and ankles.
You didn’t fight. You never did.
The water lapped gently at your collarbones. You stared at the ceiling.
Dirt.
Your fingers were in the dirt, kneeling under a sky you couldn’t see. Someone was behind you. Close, but not touching.
"You're always doing that,” a voice said. Soft, amused. Jimmy.
You didn’t turn to look at him. You didn’t need to. You could feel the warmth of him at your back. His presence curled around your shoulders like an old coat.
“Does it mean something?” he asked, crouching beside you.
You shrugged.
“I like it,” he added after a moment. “The circles. Looks like you're making little worlds.”
You traced another loop, slower this time. His hand rested lightly against your spine—warm, grounding. You hadn’t realized how cold you were.
“Maybe I am,” you murmured. You liked the idea of that. Building something. Even if you couldn’t stay in it.
Then the water shifted. Real again. Heavy.
Jimmy was gone.
You were trembling. Bound. Alone.
Your fingers wouldn’t stop twitching.
The restraints came off slower than they went on. The water lapped around your ribs as the orderly muttered something you didn’t hear. You stepped out of the tub, dripping, the floor cold against your feet. He handed you a threadbare towel that didn’t quite reach your knees.
You dried off on instinct. One hand. Then the other. The order in it made your body feel real again.
Your gown was returned to you, slightly damp at the collar. They never waited for you to be fully dry. By the time you were dressed, the chill had settled in your bones.
No words were exchanged. Just a nod. A hand on your back.
The hallway stretched out like something hollowed. You walked it anyway. You always did. Flickering lights. White tile. Turn left, then right.
They didn’t send you back to your room.
“Common room,” the orderly said, jerking his chin toward the double doors.
You didn’t respond. Just walked through them.
The common room was already half-filled. Two patients were locked in a quiet argument by the window. A woman in a fraying nightgown tore pages from a magazine, stacking them neatly on the floor. The same old music playing on repeat.
You looked for Pepper. But you knew she wasn’t here.
You made your way to your usual chair—near the old bookshelf where the encyclopedias were out of order. You sat.
Folded your hands in your lap. Breathed in. Out.
Still damp. Still here.
The low drone of voices filled the room like fog. You let it settle over you. Let it blur the edges just a little—but not too far. Not now. Not yet.
You stared at the rip in your sleeve and counted the stitches until they stopped meaning numbers.
Then switched to counting the flickers of the light above you. Two. Pause. One. Long pause. Then three. You weren’t sure if it had always done that or if you just noticed today.
Then—
Bang.
The hallway door slammed open, loud and fast like it was kicked. You flinched.
A voice—male, raw with panic—echoed in the corridor. “Get your hands off me! I didn’t do anything!”
Footsteps. Two, maybe three sets. Struggling. A thud against the wall. Metal clattered. Someone swore.
You didn’t move. Not really. Just turned your head slightly, like it was someone else’s.
“Another one,” a nurse murmured at the desk.
“Not just anyone,” someone else answered, voice low and tight. “He’s one of them. From the Bloody Face case.”
“No kidding. Thought he’d get the chair.”
“Should’ve. But not yet.”
Their voices drifted off into the rhythm of the day.
The footsteps faded. So did the struggle. A moment later, the common room returned to its usual static rhythm. Cups stacked. Pieces moved. The TV buzzed on.
But something in your chest had changed. Like a key had turned inside you.
Not enough to unlock anything.
But just enough to click.
You looked toward the hallway, where the noise had come from. Nothing there now. Just the closed door.
You didn’t know why it stuck with you.
But it did.
The voices had stopped. The hallway was quiet again. But your thoughts moved differently now—like something had shifted them off their usual tracks. You couldn't name the feeling, exactly. Not fear. Not curiosity. Just… a pressure. A presence. Like someone had walked across your grave and kept going.
Your eyes conveyed your sudden restlessness more than any other part of you. They flitted around the room, as if trying to figure out why your heart was beating a little harder.
Eventually, the bell rang.
Not a real bell—just the old, wheezing chime they used when it was time to shuffle patients from one part of the ward to the next. You’d learned its pitch months ago. Lunch.
Everyone stood in slow ripples. Chairs scraped. Slippers scuffed tile. The usual drift toward the door began.
You stood last.
Not out of rebellion. Just habit.
It gave you time to brush a hand over the carved eye on your chair’s armrest, a ritual you hadn’t bothered to question in weeks. Or maybe months. You weren’t sure.
The hallway was brighter now, though it still hummed too loud. You filed in with the others, trailing just behind a woman who whispered prayers under her breath. You didn’t listen to the words—just the cadence.
Orderlies and nurses led and followed you all to the lunchroom.
Lunch meant noise. Trays. Smells. A hundred kinds of presence pressing down on you at once.
You didn’t mind the blandness of the food anymore. You didn’t taste it, anyway.
Lunch was already halfway served. You sat where you always did—second row from the wall, three seats down from the cart with the chipped plastic utensils.
You didn’t look up when the nurse came by. You didn’t have to. Your tray was always placed in front of you, always the same way—lukewarm, grayish food and a paper cup of water that tasted like rust.
But today—
A pause.
A tray dropped beside yours.
“You’re sitting here,” came the nurse’s voice, brisk, not unkind. Then the tap of her shoes retreating. You felt it before you saw it. The change. A new weight beside you, unfamiliar and too alive.
You looked up.
And there he was.
Someone new.
You didn’t remember most here, but you were sure you’d recognize him.
Messy hair, a scrape darkening on his cheekbone, hands clenched too tight around the edges of his tray like he might bolt or throw it. His eyes met yours.
He didn’t look away.
Neither did you.
Something cracked—just a hairline fracture in the surface of your stillness. Not recognition. Not quite. But a pull.
He opened his mouth, maybe to say something, maybe not.
Nothing came out.
You blinked.
He sat down.
The room carried on around you. Chatter, trays scraping, the clink of plastic forks.
But at your little corner of the table, time hung different.
Something had arrived.
The two of you ate in silence.
You peeled your bread roll slowly, piece by piece, pressing crumbs into your palm without noticing. The man barely touched his food. His spoon clinked once against the bowl of something that used to be soup, then stilled.
He kept glancing your way—quick, uncertain flicks of the eyes, like he wasn’t sure if you were real or just another one of this place’s ghosts.
You didn’t meet his gaze. But you didn’t turn away, either.
A long moment passed.
Then, softly—like he was testing the weight of his own voice—he said,
“Is it always so… quiet in here?”
His words surprised you. Not what he said, but that he said anything at all. Like no one had told him you weren’t… you. Maybe he didn’t care. That would change.
You looked up again.
His eyes were tired. But kind.
He waited.
You blinked.
It had been a long time since anyone asked you a question like they expected you to answer. Like you were still someone who did that sort of thing. Did you know how?
Your lips parted. Then closed again. You looked at your tray—at the pale mush congealing at the edges, at your own trembling fingers.
“…Usually,” you said, voice small and grainy, like a sound unused to daylight.
He nodded, like you’d said something important. Like you’d given more than just a word.
Then, after a moment spent fiddling with his spoon, he said, “I’m Kit.” Not loud. Not proud. Just simple. Honest. Like maybe he wasn’t sure it would matter.
Your eyes flicked to him again, slower this time.
“…Hi.”
That was all. Just that one syllable. But you met his gaze when you said it.
And it was enough.
He smiled, just barely.
You looked away first.
Not out of shyness—but something closer to habit. The quiet had become armor. And this new voice, this boy with soft eyes and scuffed knuckles, had cracked it just by looking at you like you were still there.
You risked a glance across the room.
Pepper sat hunched over her tray, but her eyes were on you. Not on the food. Not on the noise behind her. On you.
She smiled. Big and goofy and proud—like she’d known this would happen. Like maybe she’d waited for it.
Kit followed your gaze.
“She your friend?” he asked gently.
You gave the tiniest nod.
He smiled. “You always this quiet?”
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
The truth sat somewhere between the past and whatever you were now. You’d always been quiet, yes. But not like this. Not the kind of quiet that made your voice strange in your own throat. Not the kind that made people forget you were there.
“…I wasn’t,” you said finally.
And that was true enough for now.
Kit didn’t press. Just nodded, like he understood something unsaid.
The rest of lunch passed in soft sounds—metal against trays, the occasional mutter or clatter. You picked at your food, not out of hunger but habit. He did the same, though he seemed more focused on you than the plate in front of him.
You didn’t speak again.
But you didn’t leave the table either.
For now, that felt like something.
The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t heavy. If anything, it felt… okay..
You took another bite of whatever passed for lunch. Warm, beige, unmemorable. He did the same. The clatter and clink of trays filled the space around you, but in your corner, the world felt muffled.
Then—
A hand closed around your upper arm. Not hard, not cruel—but firm. Familiar.
An orderly. Already turning you away from the table before he spoke.
“Time to go.”
No name. No explanation. No need.
You didn’t resist. You never did.
The spoon slipped from your hand with a quiet clink against plastic as you rose, letting yourself be steered out of the cafeteria.
You didn’t look back.
But you could feel them.
Pepper’s worry. Kit’s confusion.
Their eyes followed you out the lunchroom.
The hallway to Arden’s lab always felt colder than the others. Colder than hydrotherapy, even. Not the biting cold of water—but dry, bone-humming cold, like the air didn’t want to be breathed.
The orderly said nothing as he guided you through the narrow corridor. You knew the path by heart: left at the supply closet, past the small window covered in wire mesh, take a right, down two more doors and—
There.
The one with no label. Just a thin slit of light beneath it.
The orderly knocked once, didn’t wait for an answer, and opened the door.
Inside, it smelled of iron and rubbing alcohol. Too clean, in a way that made your stomach twist. Nothing ever smelled like that unless something wrong had happened—and been wiped away.
Dr. Arden stood at the far end of the room, already in his coat, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. He didn’t look up right away. He never did.
“Leave her,” he said.
The orderly let go of your arm. The door clicked shut behind you.
You stood there. Still.
Arden glanced at you finally. His eyes were pale, washed out, like something left too long in the sun. He wrote something on a clipboard without speaking, then motioned toward the exam chair in the center of the room.
You walked.
The exam chair was hard. Cold. Designed more for compliance than comfort. The light above you buzzed faintly, flickering at the edges. Arden circled behind you, and for a moment, the only sound was the rustle of paper and the metallic squeak of his instruments.
He began his routine.
Blood pressure. Pupil dilation. Reflexes. Cold metal pressing against your skin.
His hands were always precise. Too careful. He touched you like you were a machine—one he didn’t trust, but was obsessed with keeping in working order. You learned not to flinch.
“You’ve been more alert lately,” he said, voice neutral. “More present.”
He tapped the edge of your knee. Your leg twitched.
“And yet, the dissociative episodes continue.”
He didn’t ask. He never asked. Just wrote.
Something clinked into a tray behind you.
“How fortunate,” he murmured. “To study such phenomena in real time.”
He adjusted the angle of your head.
“And your flexibility—still intact, I assume?”
You said nothing.
He smiled—just barely. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“You’ll show me, of course.”
He said it like fact.
Like order.
The silence stretched thin and sharp between you, vibrating like wire.
You didn’t blink. Still here.
But shrinking, inside yourself.
Like a knot pulled tighter, tighter, tighter.
Arden turned away again, scribbling. Something about the way he moved made you feel smaller. Dissected.
He hadn’t touched you improperly. Not today. Not yet. But he looked at you like he was waiting for permission. Or for the rules to change.
They always changed here.
Eventually.
Arden set his clipboard aside. “Stand.”
You obey.
With clinical slowness, he stepped behind you once more. You heard the snap of gloves. The slide of a drawer.
Then the rustle of fabric.
Your gown.
His fingers were at the back, unfastening the buttons one by one. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just methodical.
“You’ll be cooperative,” he said quietly. Not a threat. Not a request. Just… truth, as he saw it.
The gown slipped from your shoulders. Cold air touched your spine like ice. You had never been more grateful for the cotton underwear given to you by the asylum.
“You’ve done this before,” he added. “Hundreds of times, if I had to guess.”
He guided your arm upward, not roughly, but firmly—stretching it behind your head, elbow bent at a sharp angle.
“Hold.”
You did.
His hand adjusted your wrist with the kind of care one might use for taxidermy. Fingers precisely positioned. Palm facing the ceiling. He circled you, pausing to examine the lines your body made.
Click.
A camera. Somewhere behind you. No flash. Just the heavy mechanical sound of the shutter.
He didn’t tell you he was going to take a picture.
He didn’t tell you anything.
“You’ve trained your body to obey,” he said absently, scribbling something down. “Even when your mind… detaches.”
He tilted your chin next. Pulled the opposite arm forward. Bent it across your stomach in a shape you recognized from your old acts. One of the more graceful ones.
You held the position. Not for him. For survival.
Click.
You stared at the ceiling. Counted the cracks. The stains in the paint. Pretended your body was only light and muscle. A shadow someone else was wearing.
“Backbend,” he said simply.
You hesitated—only a fraction.
A mistake.
His fingers wrapped your bicep. Not cruel, but possessive. Steady.
“You’re not here to perform,” he said, his voice dipping. “You’re here to be studied. And I expect consistency.”
Your breath caught as you shifted. Let yourself fold backward. Spine curved. Chest stretched open.
Vulnerable.
Click.
Click.
You stared upside-down at the far wall, heart climbing your throat.
Arden moved closer.
You felt the shape of his gaze—how it narrowed, intensified. How it settled at your sternum like a weight.
“Fascinating,” he muttered. “Even now… the body remembers.”
A touch—flat, clinical, palm to your ribs. He counted your breaths. Said nothing as you trembled.
Still here. Still here. Still here.
But the knot inside you pulled tighter.
And his hand didn’t move.
Arden’s hand trailed lower.
Not hurried. Not hesitant.
From your ribs, down the line of your waist, across your hip. Gloved fingers pressing into the muscle—not groping, but measuring. As if your body were an anatomical model he’d memorized long ago and was now checking for inconsistencies.
He stopped at your thigh.
“Too tense,” he muttered.
His hand adjusted your leg—lifted and rotated it outward, forcing your pelvis to tilt with the movement. Then the other. Folding you inward now, one knee drawn up, one stretched behind, your spine curving into a twist.
A contortionist’s pose.
One you hadn’t used in years.
Click.
The sound made you flinch.
He didn’t notice. Or he didn’t care.
“Muscle memory is remarkable,” he said, more to himself than to you. “It outlasts the mind. Outlasts trauma. Even obedience can be learned in the tissue.”
He stepped back again, examining you like a specimen pinned beneath glass. Something in his expression flickered—not quite desire. Not admiration. Something colder. Sharper.
Something hungry.
“You’ve always made yourself small,” he murmured. “Even now. Tucked into yourself like a prayer.”
He crouched beside you, adjusting the angle of your wrist again. His face too close. His breath smelled like old metal and antiseptic.
“Tell me,” he said softly, as he reached to place your chin just so. “Do you even remember why you do this?”
Click.
The silence after the shutter was deafening.
The final click echoed through the room.
And then—nothing.
Just the hum of the overhead light. The shallow rasp of your own breathing. The drag of Arden’s shoes against the linoleum as he moved back to his tray.
Without the shutter snapping you back, the world started to tilt.
Colors dulled. The cold beneath you seeped deeper into your skin, heavy and anchorless. The sharp edge of awareness—the one you fought to keep—wavered like a candle about to gutter out.
Arden’s voice slipped around you, muffled at the edges.
“Fascinating,” he said, almost tenderly. "The body's betrayal of the mind. The mind's betrayal of itself."
His words were shapes you barely recognized.
Your body stayed folded where he had put it, obedient even in absence.
You felt his hand reposition your arm again—soft, impersonal. Heard the scratch of pen against paper. Distant. Harmless.
You weren't here anymore, not fully.
Not in this room. Not in this body.
Somewhere safer. Somewhere quieter.
Somewhere he couldn’t reach.
At least for now.
You drifted.
No time.
No place.
No you.
When the world stitched itself back together, you were standing.
The rough brush of hands tugged at your gown—rebuttoning, fixing. An orderly’s hands, not Arden’s. The metal tray and instruments blurred into the edges of your vision.
“Move along.” The orderly muttered.
Your legs obeyed before you understood the command.
Out the door, into the hall, the cold trailing you like smoke.
Somewhere above, thunder grumbled low across the ceiling.
The storm had rolled in.
No outdoor time today.
The halls veered left instead of right, leading you back toward the common room.
The common room smelled like bleach and wet wool.
The orderly shoved you inside without ceremony. You stumbled a step, caught yourself, and blinked against the low gray light.
First thing—you looked for Pepper. You always did.
But the corner where she usually sat was empty. No hunched figure, no wild hands playing with whatever they grabbed first. Just a scuffed floor and a humming radiator.
You drifted toward the old bookshelf instead.
You didn’t remember sitting. One moment you were moving, the next, the cracked vinyl chair creaked under you. Your fingers brushed the armrests out of habit, tracing the worn edge where the material had split open years ago.
The music looped, faint and staticky, from the record player shoved against the far wall. The same song that always played. You didn’t remember what it was about, if you ever even knew. It blended into the background long ago.
You stared at the dust haloed around your shoes.
The door creaked again.
Someone new. A shuffle of boots and cuffs and a sharp, questioning voice. A familiar one. Kit.
You didn’t look up—not yet—but you felt him move across the room, a different rhythm than the others. Less slouched. Less beaten.
He headed straight for the record player.
You recognized the mistake before he even touched it.
You shifted, your body moving on reflex, a flicker of urgency stirring in your gut.
You started to rise—
But someone else was faster.
A woman—sharp, pale, her brown hair messy like she hadn't stopped moving for days—cut across the room and caught his wrist just before he could reach the needle.
Her voice was low, fierce, too fast for you to catch the words.
Kit jerked back, confused, but didn’t fight her.
You sank back down before you even realized you’d stood at all.
The record spun on. Outside, the thunder was getting just a touch louder.
You tried not to look. You really did. Your gaze was supposed to stay fixed, empty, the way you’d trained it to. The way you needed it to. But your eyes slid sideways anyway. Drawn to the scene across the room like a moth to a slow-burning flame.
The girl—you knew her, but you couldn’t remember her name—was speaking low and fast. You couldn’t hear all of it over the hum of the record, but you caught the shape of her urgency.
Warnings, probably. Maybe an apology tucked inside it.
Kit leaned in, frowning, his hands half-lifted like he didn’t quite know whether to argue or surrender.
There was something strange about him. Not the way most of them were strange, cracked and hollow from the inside out. Something… newer. Rough-edged. Not worn down yet.
You dropped your gaze back to your lap. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t your business. Nothing here was.
But still—
Still—you found yourself glancing back, quick and secret, just once more.
Kit was nodding now, slowly, like he understood whatever Grace had said. His shoulders, still tense, dropped a little. He shifted awkwardly, scanning the room like he was trying to find somewhere he wouldn't be swallowed whole.
And just for a moment… his eyes caught yours.
You froze.
It was only a second. Maybe less. You looked away first, your heart ticking louder in your ribs than it should have.
It didn’t mean anything. He was new. He was looking at everything.
You pressed your palms flat against your thighs, grounding yourself in the sharp, worn texture of the chair’s fabric. Waiting for the minutes to bleed into each other again.
The storm moved closer. You could feel it. Like a slow, gathering pressure in the walls. A low rumble shivered through the floor under your feet. The old building groaned with it, every window rattling faintly in its frame.
You held your breath without meaning to. Somewhere deep inside, some old instinct warned: Brace yourself.
The next crash came without warning— A crack of thunder so loud it rattled the cheap light fixtures overhead, peeling a scream from one of the patients across the room. She shot up from her chair, wailing, hands flailing wildly at nothing.
The music crackled on in the background, cheerful and tinny and wrong. A nurse shouted something. Two orderlies crossed the room in five long strides, closing in on the woman.
You flinched when the chair she kicked over clattered hard against the floor.
Kit looked up too—half-standing from his seat like he wasn’t sure whether to help or stay out of the way. The woman touched his arm and said something under her breath, firm and quick, and he sank back down reluctantly.
The woman’s screams pitched higher. Another crash of thunder. You squeezed your hands into fists in your lap to keep them from trembling.
The orderlies grabbed her roughly, dragging her struggling toward the door.
One of her shoes came off in the scuffle, spinning across the floor before slapping to a stop near the old piano.
The common room felt bigger and emptier when they were gone. Everyone pretending not to notice. Everyone shrinking inward.
You stayed still. Small. Ears pricked to the sound of the girl speaking in low tones to Kit. You didn't mean to listen. But your mind clung to noise, lately, like it was a rope keeping you tethered to the world. You weren’t sure why. You weren’t sure you wanted to know why.
“Don’t bother,” She was saying, her voice crisp and dry. “You’ll get used to it. Or you’ll stop caring. One or the other.”
Kit murmured something you couldn’t catch. You heard the scrape of his chair shifting against the floor. When you dared a glance, quick and careful, you caught him looking back at you.
Not at her. At you.
The look wasn’t sharp or mocking, the way new arrivals sometimes were. It was curious. Quiet. Like he was trying to understand something he didn’t have words for yet.
Your breath hitched, barely. A tiny jolt under your ribs. You dropped your gaze fast, hands knotting tighter in your lap.
She didn’t seem to notice. She just kept talking, something about the storm, about the routine here, about surviving.
You stared hard at the floorboards. But a part of you—the part that hadn't been completely crushed down yet—still felt Kit’s gaze. Still flickering and uncertain, like a flame struggling in a storm.
The storm outside rumbled again, rattling the old windows in their frames. You barely noticed the sound now, too focused on not focusing, trying to blend into the worn fabric of the chair. Kit and the woman’s voices blurred into the low drone of the common room’s usual noise.
Then—A sudden scuffle of footsteps near the door.
You turned your head automatically.
Pepper.
She was being herded into the room by an orderly, but the moment they let her go, she lit up like a lamp. Without hesitation, she beelined across the common room, weaving past shuffling bodies and sagging couches.
Straight to you.
No words. No questions. She simply plopped herself down at your side, so close her shoulder brushed yours. Like she’d been there the whole time. Like nothing bad could ever touch you while she sat guard.
You blinked, feeling the faintest, strangest flutter in your chest. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips.
Pepper smiled wide, a little crooked from the missing teeth she still hadn't stopped being proud of. She tucked herself even closer, humming something low under her breath—a half-forgotten tune from another life.
Across the room, you caught Kit looking again. Not staring. Not rude. Just... noticing.
You glanced away first.
Pepper leaned her head against your arm, humming for a moment longer before she spoke—soft and sing-song, like sharing a secret with a doll. “You talked at lunch,” she said, her voice tilting up like a question even though it wasn’t one.
“Talked to the new boy.”
You stiffened slightly, but Pepper only giggled quietly, like it was funny.
“Not scared,” she added, patting your hand once with her small, worn fingers. “Good.”
Her smile stretched wide again, proud in that way only Pepper could be—proud of you for doing something as simple as answering a few questions.
You always believed Pepper was more perceptive than she let on, knew more than she let others believe. This was definitely sinking a nail in that coffin.
The thought tightened something low in your chest.
It had felt like nothing at the time. A few words, a breath of conversation. But to Pepper, it was a lighthouse flickering on in the dark. A sign you were still in there somewhere, even if you barely recognized yourself most days.
You didn't know if that made you feel lighter or heavier.
Pepper curled closer, content just to be near you. Her trust was something you hadn’t earned lately, not really—but she gave it to you anyway, same as she always had. Unconditional.
You kept your gaze forward, trying to ignore the prickle behind your eyes. Trying to ignore the way Kit’s voice still echoed faintly across the room, low and warm, even if it wasn’t meant for you anymore.
The afternoon stretched on, heavy and slow. The record player hiccupped in its endless loop of warped music, thunder grumbling low against the walls.
You stayed still. So did Pepper, her head nodding drowsily against your shoulder, her small fingers absently twisting the edge of your sleeve.
Across the room, Kit had stopped talking with that woman. The newness of his arrival clung to him—awkward, restless. But he stayed where he was, tossing glances now and then like he was still figuring out the rules. He was.
Maybe you were, too.
A crash of thunder rattled the windows again. Somewhere near the stairwell, a patient shrieked—a high, broken sound—and the orderlies moved fast, their heavy steps pounding toward the noise.
You didn’t flinch. Neither did Pepper.
It wasn’t your business. It never was.
The hands of the old clock ticked forward, scraping toward the next hour.
Soon enough, a pair of orderlies appeared at the threshold. One of them jerked his chin at you—impatient, bored. You recognized the signal. Pepper stirred beside you but didn’t fight when you untangled from her. She just watched, wide-eyed, hugging herself as you stood.
The orderlies didn’t bother with words. They didn’t have to. You were expected to follow, and you did.
One last glance at the common room: Pepper’s small figure tucked against the window, Kit’s curious gaze lingering from across the room. You lowered your eyes and turned away.
The hallway beyond felt heavier somehow. Observation. Thirty minutes of being watched through glass you couldn’t see behind, locked alone with yourself and the hum of your own blood in your ears. They said it was for your safety.
They always said that.
The door clanged shut behind you. Heavy and final.
The observation room was empty except for a metal chair bolted to the floor. No windows. Only a dull grate whispering stale air into the corners. Somewhere beyond the mirrored glass, you knew they were watching.
You sat where you always sat: cross-legged on the ground, hands folded in your lap.
Good.
Obedient.
Easy to leave alone.
The storm still grumbled through the bones of the building, low and constant. But in here, it might as well have been a whole other world. You let your mind drift. It was easy. Too easy. Like a scab you’d been trained not to pick, but your fingers knew the motion by heart. The walls blurred. The hum of Briarcliff’s old veins faded.
Something else crept in.
Wooden floorboards. The smell of sweat and greasepaint. A canvas tent breathing heavy in the night air.
In a shadowed corner backstage at the freak show. You were small again, curled against a crate, heart hammering against your ribs.
Voices echoed, angry and slurred:
"—goddamn useless, you hear me—"
A thud.
A sharp grunt.
The crack of knuckles on bone.
You tried to press yourself smaller, invisible, but you saw it anyway— Dell towering over Jimmy, his fists wild, red blooming across Jimmy’s cheek.
You didn’t remember why. You only knew it happened. It always happened.
Your hands clenched against your skirt. Your breath snagged in your throat. You wanted to move. To help. But you were too scared. Too useless.
Like always.
The memory buckled, tearing itself in half—and you slammed back into yourself.
Observation room. Briarcliff. Now.
You gasped without sound, chest heaving once, twice. Your gown clung damp to your back. You stared at your hands, trembling and raw, and you knew with a cold, alien certainty:
You hadn’t remembered that before. But it wasn’t new. It wasn’t a lie.
It was real. And it had always been waiting.
The door creaked open without ceremony.
An orderly’s shadow filled the frame. You rose without being told, feet silent against the floor. Your body moved on muscle memory alone—out into the hall, down past the peeling walls, toward the dining area where the faint smell of boiled potatoes and burnt meat clung to the air.
Dinner. Another piece of the clockwork routine.
The room buzzed with low, unfocused noise—cutlery scraping metal trays, murmured arguments too slurred to matter. You slipped into your usual seat at the end of the row, back to the wall. A habit, not a comfort.
A tray clattered beside yours. The same as lunch.
You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The air shifted. Lighter. Less... heavy.
Still, you glanced. Still, there he was.
Kit.
He looked better than he had earlier—less rattled, but still frayed at the edges. His hair was damp, like he’d been shoved through a rushed cleanup. His tray held the same sad helping of food as yours: gray meatloaf, a few limp peas, mashed potatoes that looked more like paste.
For a minute, neither of you spoke. The clatter and hum of the cafeteria filled the space between.
You pushed your peas into a corner of the tray with the edge of your fork, not really tasting the food.
Kit tapped his fork once against his tray. Not loud. Just enough to get your attention without pulling it. "Hey," he said, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.
You glanced at him, wary. Not because it was him. Because you were used to silence meaning safety. Talking got you noticed. Getting noticed got you hurt.
But Kit didn’t seem dangerous. He looked tired. Frayed around the edges in a way you recognized too well.
"Grace said you been here a while," he said, quieter now. His accent softened the words, rounded them out like river stones. "Long enough to know how this place runs."
You blinked. Your fork paused halfway to your mouth. They talked about… you?
He gave a little shrug, almost sheepish. "Figure I oughta stick close to someone who’s survived it."
Something stirred in your chest. Not quite warmth. Not quite trust. Something more like... the first flutter of movement after being frozen too long.
You forced yourself to look back down at your tray. "I don’t talk much," you said—barely a whisper, barely more than truth.
Kit huffed out a soft laugh through his nose, like he wasn’t offended. Like he understood. "That’s alright," he said. "I talk enough for the both of us."
The words slid into you like a needle. Small. Sharp. Unstoppable.
For a heartbeat, you weren't sitting in the Briarcliff cafeteria. You were somewhere else—somewhere warmer, dimmer. A canvas tent lit by bare bulbs. The smell of sawdust and smoke.
And him.
Jimmy, flashing that lopsided grin you’d always pretended not to love, teasing you the same way. "‘S'okay, doll. I talk enough for the both of us." His voice, roughened by laughter and cigarettes and hope.
It hit so fast you barely had time to register it. A blink. A flicker. Gone.
You sucked in a slow breath through your nose, grounding yourself back into the present—the sour stink of mashed potatoes, the buzz of the fluorescents, the low rumble of thunder outside.
Your hands had clenched tight around your fork without you realizing. Kit didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t push. He just sat there beside you, easy and quiet.
Like he wasn’t in any rush to figure you out.
Another crack of thunder rattled the windows high above. Neither of you flinched. You were already used to worse.
He scooped up some mashed potatoes, made a face, and put the fork back down. "Jesus," he muttered, "what is this?"
A twitch almost—almost—tugged at your mouth. Not quite a smile. Something broken and half-remembered.
Kit caught it. You knew he did, because he smiled a little in return. Not the smile you were used to seeing from people here. Not the kind that meant danger. Just... tired and human.
For a few minutes, you ate in silence. Side by side. A strange kind of peace, fragile as spun glass.
The clock above the door ticked louder with every second. Each beat chipped away at the fragile bubble you sat inside, reminding you that nothing here stayed soft for long.
Around you, the cafeteria thinned. Trays scraped over metal counters, chairs scraped back. The heavy shuffle of bodies herded toward the next part of the night—the part where everything got quieter, darker, harder. Orderlies clearing out patients group by group.
Lights out.
An orderly’s bark echoed down the hall, sharp enough to make a few heads jerk up.
You rose when Kit did, a second behind him, moving like a shadow. His tray clattered onto the return cart. Yours followed. No words. Just motion.
You could feel Kit glance back once as you trailed behind the line of patients, could feel the quiet question of it—like maybe he wasn’t ready to let the thin thread of something between you snap just yet.
You kept your eyes on the floor.
The halls narrowed the deeper you went, swallowing the noise until there was only the thunder rumbling overhead and the scuff of slippered feet against cracked tile.
Your room was the same as always. A bed, grey sheets, and a window barred and curtained against the storm. The stale air clung to your skin, heavy with old fear.
The orderly gave a grunted order you barely heard. You moved on instinct, letting them shove some pills into your mouth before climbing into your bed, turning your face toward the wall. Fabric rustled around you as the others settled. A final flicker of light as the overheads snapped off.
Darkness.
You fall into your routine with ease. Reciting your names as you tap. Three quick taps. Break.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Elsa.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Ma Petite.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Paul.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Ethel.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Eve.
Tap Tap Tap. Desiree.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Pepper.
Tap. Tap. Tap. A pause. A breath held too long.
"Jimmy—"
Your fingers froze mid-tap. The word hung there, raw and unfinished, like an open wound.
The air shifted. The thin mattress beneath you seemed to heave once, then settle wrong, off-balance. The walls bled out at the edges, gray smearing into black. Your hand, still poised in the air, forgot gravity.
Something inside you slipped.
And you were falling.
The floor was rough under your knees. The air smelled like whiskey and sweat and old anger. You were crouched in front of him.
Jimmy.
His lip was split, the blood already drying rusty at the corner of his mouth. A bruise was blooming across his cheekbone, ugly and deep purple. One of his hands cradled his ribs, careful like they were broken.
You held a damp cloth in shaking fingers, dabbing gently at his face. Your other hand kept fluttering, unsure whether to touch his hair, his arm, something steadier. He was breathing hard—half from pain, half from rage he couldn't spit out yet.
"You gotta just..." Your voice barely rose above a whisper. "You gotta just let things go sometimes, Jimmy."
The cloth slipped from your hand. He caught your wrist—gently—and gave it a squeeze.
His eyes were glassy, wet at the edges, furious and hurting and helpless all at once. "When he's yellin' at you," he rasped, "I'm never lettin' it go."
Your breath caught. Something twisted sharp and sweet behind your ribs.
He meant it. He always meant it.
The world around you blurred again, the walls bleeding back to grey, the ground tilting—and you felt yourself slipping, the memory clinging like cobwebs to your skin.
The mattress pressed cold against your palms. You blinked hard. Once. Twice. The constant Briarcliff white noise The sour smell of bleach. The rattling pipes. The heavy dark of night pressing against the barred windows.
You were lying on your side. Hands curled close to your chest. Breathing shallow, like you’d been running.
Your cheeks were damp. You touched your face with clumsy fingers—salt and heat. Tears. You hadn’t even felt them fall.
The memory still clung to you, half-faded but sharp enough to bleed.
Jimmy. The fight. Dell’s fists. The shouting you couldn’t hear.
And you—there but not there.
You remembered now. You'd drifted. In the middle of it all, you had slipped away. Your body had stayed, frozen and helpless, while your mind fled somewhere safer. That’s why you hadn’t remembered. Not because it wasn’t important. Because it had been too much.
You shut your eyes tight, trying to hold the pieces together.
Outside your door, a nurse’s heels clicked against the tile. The night rolled on, indifferent.
You curled tighter into yourself, whispering old names against the noise.
Saints, Sinners, and Sleepwalkers | Kit Walker x Reader
Series Masterlist Here
7k words
Expect Disturbing Themes
Chapter 5: Patterns of Attachment
The knock at the door was sharp. No hesitation, no warning. Just three hard raps against the glass pane of Thredson’s office, followed by the door creaking open before he could answer.
Arden didn’t wait for an invitation.
He stepped inside, crisp and cold in both demeanor and posture, a file clenched tightly in one gloved hand.
Oliver looked up from his notes, the faintest smile already curling at his lips. “Arthur. To what do I owe the—?”
“You altered one of my patient files,” Arden cut in, lifting the folder like evidence in a courtroom. “Without authorization.”
Oliver blinked once. Then leaned back in his chair with that practiced calm he wore like a second skin. “If you’re referring to the—”
“I am,” Arden snapped, lifting the file slightly. “And while the Church may have welcomed your position here, do not forget—you are not her attending physician. I am.”
Oliver gave a small shrug, folding his hands in his lap. “And yet your treatment approach was clearly outdated. She was misdiagnosed. I made a note.”
“You rewrote half the damn chart,” Arden hissed. He was still standing—he hadn’t even closed the door behind him—and his voice stayed quiet only out of necessity. “You overruled multiple reports. Adjusted treament orders. And you’re not even trying to hide it.”
Oliver raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m not ashamed of doing what’s best for her.”
That earned a sharp exhale from Arden—something dangerously close to laughter. He stepped forward once, his grip on the file tightening.
“You’re overstepping,” he said, voice low and clipped.
Oliver tilted his head, still calm, but there was a flicker of interest behind his eyes now. “She’s not responding to your methods. You’ve seen it. Catatonia, dissociation, complete withdrawal. What you call treatment, I call stagnation.”
Arden’s jaw tightened. “You think you’re the first outsider to walk in here thinking they’ve ‘discovered’ something special? You’re not. You’re just the latest fool trying to play savior.”
Oliver’s smile returned—thinner this time. Sharper. “Maybe I’m not the first,” he said, voice light. “But I might be the last. Especially if I’m right about her.”
Arden’s eyes narrowed. “Right about what?”
Oliver leaned in slightly—not with warmth, but calculation. Like he was offering a diagnosis, not a confidence. “Her mind. The trauma that split it. She’s not schizophrenic. Not possessed. She’s protecting something.”
A pause.
“And if I can reach that part of her…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
Arden’s voice went cold. “She’s not your experiment, Thredson.”
Oliver stood, slow and deliberate. Unshaken. “No,” he said. “She’s a person. And that’s something I don’t think you’ve ever quite understood.”
The silence that followed was brittle. Taut. A single breath would’ve shattered it like glass.
Arden took a step forward.
“You seem awfully invested in one patient,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “Is this truly about diagnosis—or are you just looking for something else?”
Oliver’s smile lingered a moment too long before it slipped. Not fully—just enough for the air to shift. The slight narrowing of his eyes. The tick of his jaw beneath calm restraint.
“Careful,” he said, quieter now. Not a threat. Not exactly. “You’re toeing the line between suspicion and slander.”
Arden only lifted an eyebrow. “Am I?”
“She’s not stable,” Oliver continued, regaining his poise. “But she’s not a lost cause either. You write her off like she’s a slab of spoiled meat, but I’ve seen it. She’s responsive when approached correctly.”
“Responsive,” Arden echoed, voice laced with disdain. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Oliver’s fingers curled at his side before relaxing. “Her condition is the result of long-term trauma. Not hysteria. Not demonic possession. And certainly not a need for any of the treatments you’ve assigned.”
Arden tilted his head slightly, watching him now as if dissecting him with his eyes alone. “You’re speaking awfully personally, Oliver.”
Silence stretched between them. Not awkward—weighted.
Then Oliver sat back down, smoothing the front of his jacket like settling a mask back into place. “I’m invested in the truth. Nothing more.”
“Of course,” Arden scoffed, dropping the file onto the desk. “Well. If she ends up in worse condition under your care, I’ll be sure to let the Monsignor know exactly who’s responsible.”
Arden turned and the door opened with a slow groan, then clicked shut behind him.
For a moment, the room was silent again.
Oliver didn’t move. Just stared at the folder on his desk.
Then—calmly, quietly—he reached out and turned it toward him.
And opened it again.
The day crawled on in its usual rhythm—meals, silence, supervision. Patients were moved from room to room like pieces on a board no one was playing to win. Nothing seemed urgent on the surface, but something had shifted beneath it. A cold current threading its way through the halls, silent and slow.
Oliver returned to his rounds like nothing had happened. Arden disappeared into the east wing, muttering to a nurse about equipment repairs and noncompliant orders. Staff walked a little faster. The air smelled faintly of bleach.
By the afternoon, the ward had settled into a dull hush.
The door to his office clicked open. Pepper was led in by a nurse—gently, almost apologetically. Her steps were small, cautious, but her eyes flicked curiously around the room, settling on the man seated behind the desk.
Oliver stood, smoothing down his tie in a practiced motion. “Pepper, is it?” he said, voice light and professional. “Please, come sit. There’s no need to be nervous.”
She glanced at the chair, then at him, then slowly moved to sit. Her hands stayed folded in her lap, twitching now and then.
He retrieved a file from his desk and opened it with deliberate precision. “This is just a simple check-in,” he began. “No poking, no needles. I just want to talk.”
Pepper didn’t respond. Her eyes were on a spot on the floor now, lips pressed tightly together.
Quietly, he made a note.
“Will you speak with me, Pepper?” he asked after a moment.
Still no answer.
Oliver leaned back slightly, watching her. The room was quiet enough that the clock ticking on the wall felt invasive.
Then, with a soft exhale, he closed the file and set it aside.
“Well,” he said, his tone softening. “You remind me of my little sister. She didn’t like doctors either. Especially ones who ask too many questions.”
That made her eyes lift—just a little.
He smiled, gently. “That’s better. See? No tricks here. Just two people talking.”
Pepper’s eyes hovered on his face now. Still cautious, but present.
He leaned forward just slightly, elbows on the desk, his voice lowering to something gentler. “Do you have any friends here, Pepper?”
She nodded, a quick, sharp little motion.
“Who’s your best friend?” he asked, pen poised above his notes but not moving yet.
Pepper’s face lit up with the smallest smile. “Twirly.”
Oliver blinked. “Twirly?”
Pepper nodded again, more certain this time. “She bends. Like this,” She lifted her arms, mimicking an exaggerated arch. “Pretty.”
“And how long have you known her?” he asked. “Is she someone you met here?”
Pepper shook her head. “Nuh-uh, with Miss Elsa.”
He made a small, thoughtful note.
“You were together before Briarcliff?”
She hesitated—then gave a slow, sad nod. “It was going all wrong. He took Twirly and she never came back.”
Oliver paused. Slowly, he looked up at Pepper. “He took her?”
Her fingers twisted into her gown. “Jimmy was mad. It was the biggest fight they ever had,” she sniffled but didn’t cry. Just blinked hard and kept talking, voice soft and flat, like it had been said too many times in her head already. “After that… everyone knew somethin’ was wrong, but no one but me seemed to care.”
Oliver tilted his head slightly. This was more than expected. “This man who took her… was it Jimmy?”
Pepper shook her head, lips pressing into a thin line. “Dell.” The word came out like a stone dropped in water. Heavy. Certain. “He said he was helping. But he didn’t ask nobody. Just—" She mimed a grabbing motion with her hands. “—poof. Gone.”
Oliver quickly scribbled something in his notes. “And Jimmy?” he asked, keeping his tone careful, almost gentle. “He fought with Dell?”
Pepper nodded again. “Yelled so loud the mirrors cracked.” She blinked. “Not really. Just thought they did.”
Her fingers found a loose thread at her sleeve. “Jimmy said she was family. That Dell didn’t get to decide things.” She wrinkled her nose. “But Dell always thought he could. ‘Cause he’s big and loud and mean.”
Oliver's pen slowed.
“Do you think she knew what was happening?” he asked.
Pepper didn’t answer right away.
“I think she knew she couldn’t stop it.”
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. The pen tapped once against the page. “Has ‘Twirly’ always had these episodes?”
She tilted her head.
“When it seems like she’s not even in the room,” he clarified, “When she goes away.”
“When her eyes go quiet,” Pepper corrected softly, nodding. “It started before she joined Miss Elsa. I have to hug her real tight to get her back.”
Oliver’s lips slowly curled into a smile. “You sound like a good friend.”
Pepper perked up slightly at that, shoulders straightening.
He glanced at his notes again. “Do you know what made her that way? Was there something bad that happened?”
Pepper’s smile faded. She didn’t speak for a while, just shifted in her seat, picking at her thumb.
He waited—carefully neutral. Then, gently: “You can tell me. It might help her.”
Pepper’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Twirly didn’t talk ‘bout it much. Only to Jimmy. He used to say the world was unfair to her before she was even a freak.”
“Did she like Jimmy?”
She nodded.
He didn’t press. Not yet. Instead, he softened further. “And how do you think she feels about you?”
Pepper blinked at him, confused.
He gently cleared his throat, “I mean—if she were here, sitting where you are—what would she say about you?”
Pepper smiled again. Brighter this time. “She loves me. Always.”
That was enough for now.
Oliver made another note, then folded his hands on the desk. “Thank you, Pepper. You’ve helped me understand a lot today.”
She looked pleased.
But as the nurse arrived to lead her out, she glanced back once at him. The kind smile he wore hadn’t changed.
Still, something lingered in her eyes. Not fear—not yet. But the smallest trace of doubt.
Oliver waited until the door clicked softly shut behind Pepper before turning back to his desk. The kind smile he’d worn dissolved at once, his jaw loosening, shoulders settling into a posture that was colder, truer. The performance was over.
He uncapped his pen with a slow, deliberate motion and pulled the notepad closer. His handwriting was precise—tight, controlled, almost elegant in its austerity.
Subject: “Pepper” (Evaluation re: Patient ███)
— Displays strong emotional attachment to Subject ███.
— Repeated use of nickname “Twirly” history predates institutionalization.
— Confirms shared time in traveling performance group—“Miss Elsa” & “Freaks” (note: find official name from archives).
— Cognitive assessment inconsistent. Childlike, but responses imply greater awareness than previously documented.
— Protective instincts notable. Could be exploited for leverage.
— Appears unaware of deeper triggers in Subject ███’s condition. No direct reference to trauma mentioned, though implied.
— When prompted about dissociation episodes, described as “when her eyes go quiet.” Language imprecise, but emotionally resonant.
He paused, tapping his pen once, twice, against the margin.
Conclusion: While limited in clinical vocabulary, Pepper’s insights are emotionally reliable. Relationship with Subject ███ is exploitable. Use with caution—risk of emotional retaliation from ███ if perceived threat to Pepper arises. Further observation necessary. Consider introduction of mild stressor to evaluate protective response.
He closed the folder with a soft snap and leaned back in his chair, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The mask of gentleness no longer weighed on him; in the quiet, his voice was almost affectionate.
“She’ll come to me,” he murmured, savoring the words. “They always do, eventually.”
Leaning forward again, Oliver clicked his pen. At the upper corner of the page, he pressed the tip to paper and, with a little too much pressure, scrawled a single word. The ink dug deep into the fibers of the page, black and final.
Jimmy.
Heat from large stage lights bathed your skin. Sequins scratched against your arms. The audiences’ bated breath filled the tent. Then, the music started. Quiet and soft at first. A mix of elegance and haunt.
Your arms pulled up, fabric stretching around your shoulders. One leg stretched out, your foot dragging against the stage. Your muscles flexed and stretched until they were burning as your body twisted and folded.
People oo’d and aw’d. Some leered at you while others cringed and grimaced.
But you didn’t see them. Didn’t hear them. You only heard the beating of your heart and each breath you took.
The tent blurred at the edges. Lights streaked and warped. The gasps of the crowd warped into something like waves crashing against your skull. You folded yourself tighter, bone against bone, skin biting skin, until the ache in your body was the only tether left.
And then—
The tent was gone.
A flicker. A blink. The world snapped cold and sterile. Linoleum under your cheek. The hum of fluorescent lights. A faint cough from somewhere across the room.
You weren’t on the stage anymore. You were in Observation.
And your body was wrong—twisted, folded, bent tight against itself.
It wasn’t supposed to be like that. You never moved during observation, you’d been practicing since Pepper came back into your life.
Were you getting worse? Taking steps back? Why? How could you ever protect her if—
A voice cut in, sharp and impatient.
You flinched, looking up too fast. An orderly stood in the doorway, annoyance etched across his face. You hadn’t heard the door open. Had he been standing there? You weren’t even sure what was said.
You shook it off. You were good at that.
Slowly, you stood, careful with your aching joints and protesting muscles.
The orderly didn’t speak or look at you again. Simply turned and began walking. You followed, a careful three paces behind. Your feet dragged against the floor creating a sound that was pricking at your ears.
He stopped at your room and pushed the door open with a shove of his shoulder. The hinges gave a groan that seemed to stretch long after he’d let go. You stepped inside. The door shut.
Click.
The lock slid into place. Too sharp. Too final.
The fluorescent light hummed overhead, constant and thin, like a wire tightening against bone. You tried not to listen, but it crawled deeper the longer it went on. Somewhere down the hall a tray clattered—metal on tile, then voices, a laugh, a muffled curse. It all pressed through the walls.
Your breath caught. Too loud. You pressed your lips together, tried to breathe quieter, but the sound only grew inside your head. Your pulse joined it, thick and pounding, crowding out the space behind your eyes.
The hum, the slam, the laugh, the click of the door replaying in your skull.
You pressed your hands over your ears. The hum grew sharper. You let go. Now the hallway voices pressed closer. No escape. Every sound louder than the last.
You closed your eyes, but the noises came with you.
You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the floor, knees pulled in tight. The wool of your gown scratched against your skin. Another sound. Another thing you couldn’t turn off.
You pressed your feet flat to the floor.
Cold. Solid. Real.
You focused on it, counted your breaths the way you’d taught yourself to do. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Slow. Careful.
One.
Two.
Three.
The hum of the light didn’t fade.
You tried again. Named the room instead. Walls. Bed. Door. Sink. Cross. You traced each thing with your eyes, forcing your gaze to linger, to stick.
Your hands trembled in your lap.
They weren’t resting the way you’d left them. Your fingers had curled inward, wrists angled wrong, pulled too close to your chest. You stared at them, willing them to relax.
Move, you told them.
Just straighten. Just be still.
They didn’t.
A tight, ugly fear settled in your stomach. Not for yourself, that part came later, if at all, but for Pepper. For the way she leaned into you. For how she looked for you in every room.
You can’t slip, you thought. Not like this. If you fall into it once, it’ll never end. You can’t.
You forced your hands flat against the floor. The tile was cold enough to sting. You held them there, palms burning, until the shaking slowed.
Your breathing never quite steadied.
The sounds stayed too loud. The light stayed too bright. Time stretched thin and strange, pulling at you.
You stayed there like that until the noise dulled into something far away. Until you could stand again without swaying.
It wasn’t perfect. Or good. But it was better. It was passable.
Kit woke before the bell.
That wasn’t unusual. Briarcliff had a way of training your body to stay half-alert, even in sleep. He lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, listening to the building breathe — pipes knocking, someone coughing down the hall, the distant squeal of a cart being pushed too early.
When the bell finally shrieked, he was already sitting up.
Breakfast came and went the same way it always did. Lines. Trays. Noise that bounced off the walls until it felt like it lived in your skull. Kit scanned the room out of habit, eyes catching on the usual landmarks.
Pepper first.
She was across the room at her usual table, legs swinging under her chair, completely absorbed in her food. She looked fine. Happy, even.
Then her.
She was already seated where she always sat, head down, shoulders drawn in just a little tighter than usual.
Kit slowed a step.
Something was off. Not big. Not obvious. Just… wrong in the way you noticed when a familiar sound changed pitch.
She didn’t look up when he approached.
“You okay?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
She nodded, quick and sharp, like she wanted the question gone more than she wanted to answer it.
Kit didn’t sit right away.
She was off. Not distant or gone, but tight. Tense. Like when someone touches you with frozen hands. Her fingers were curled under the edge of the table, knuckles pale.
“Sleep alright?”
She hummed. Quiet and clipped.
Kit sat, but his attention stayed on her. He watched the way she moved—careful, measured. Like she was afraid of doing the wrong thing by accident. Like her body didn’t quite trust itself.
He’d seen the drifting. That blank, faraway look. This wasn’t that. But he couldn’t place what it was.
Across the room, Pepper laughed suddenly at something no one else seemed to notice, the sound carrying sharp and bright over the dull hum of the hall.
Her head lifted just a fraction at that. Not much. Just enough to check.
Kit followed her gaze. Pepper was still smiling, a half-eaten piece of toast clutched in her hands.
When he looked back, her eyes had already dropped to the table again.
Like that was all she needed. Just to make sure.
Kit felt something twist low in his chest.
She didn’t notice him watching. Or maybe she did and didn’t know what to do with it. Or didn’t care. Or maybe she was growing used to it. Either way, it left him sitting there with the quiet certainty that whatever was happening in her head wasn’t good.
And whatever it was, she wasn’t going to say it out loud.
Not yet.
Everything that came after breakfast was blurry. Every time Kit thought he’d get to see someone he actually knew, they just... weren’t there. Something felt so odd about today. More so than normal.
The hallway smelled faintly of bleach and wet wool. Same as always. Same choking mix that settled in the back of Kit’s throat no matter how long he stayed in this place.
Orderlies shuffled patients in every direction. Shoes scraped tile. Someone farther down the hall muttered prayers under their breath.
Kit didn’t want to admit it, but he was starting to think God didn’t answer prayers.
A woman laughed suddenly somewhere nearby — sharp, cracked, wrong. Another patient started crying almost immediately after, the sounds overlapping until Kit couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
Briarcliff had a way of making every noise feel trapped.
“Mr. Walker.”
Kit glanced up.
Sister Mary Eunice stood near the end of the corridor, hands folded neatly in front of her habit. Her smile appeared quickly, almost automatically, though it never quite settled right on her face.
“Outside time,” she said gently. “This way.”
Kit pushed himself off the wall he'd been leaning against and followed without arguing. Sister Mary Eunice wasn’t cruel the way some of the others were. Nervous, maybe. Too eager to please. But not cruel.
At least not yet.
The heels of her shoes clicked softly against the tile as she led the small group forward. She hummed under her breath — something low and church-like Kit didn’t recognize.
They passed the day room.
She wasn’t there.
Neither was Grace.
That strange feeling in his chest tightened another notch.
Sister Mary Eunice unlocked the back door and pushed it open. Cold air rushed inside immediately, crisp and damp and real enough to make Kit breathe deeper without meaning to.
His eyes scanned the dying grass.
The cold air bit at his bruised cheek. Damp grass bent beneath wandering feet, patients drifting in slow circles beneath the gray afternoon sky. A few sat on benches near the fence. Others smoked silently under the watch of the orderlies.
Then he saw her.
Beneath the tree.
Same spot as always. Finger drawing shapes into the dirt.
Something in his chest loosened a little at the sight of her sitting there, knees drawn up slightly, shoulders tucked in against the breeze. She looked small from this far away. Still. Too still.
Kit started toward her without thinking much about it.
Halfway across the yard, movement near the staff steps caught his attention.
A man stood near the doorway in a dark coat, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other held a clipboard loosely against his side. A doctor, probably. Briarcliff had plenty of them wandering around pretending they were doing something useful.
Kit recognized him vaguely. Probably one of those psychiatrists he was meant to have an appointment with. He’d seen him in the halls once or twice. Quiet type. Clean-cut. Didn’t carry himself like Arden did. Less swagger. More watching.
And he was watching now.
Not the yard.
Her.
Kit slowed almost without realizing it.
The doctor’s attention lingered too long to be casual. His expression didn’t give much away—calm, thoughtful maybe—but his eyes rarely left the tree.
Or the girl sitting beneath it.
For a second, something uneasy crawled up the back of Kit’s neck.
Then a patient nearby started shouting about snakes in the grass, breaking the moment apart. An orderly barked back. The doctor glanced away briefly, attention shifting toward the commotion like nothing had happened at all.
Kit frowned faintly.
Maybe he was imagining things.
Wouldn’t be the first time this place got under his skin.
He kept walking.
She hadn’t changed much since breakfast. Her hands rested near her lap, fingers flexing faintly against the fabric of her gown like she didn’t realize she was doing it. Her gaze fixed somewhere near the roots of the tree.
Not gone.
But close.
He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, you shifted slightly to make room for him, though there was already plenty of space beneath the tree.
You were used to it now. Sometime after getting outside, after you’d already begun tracing shapes into the dirt, you’d hear his heavy footsteps approaching. Usually wait for him say something just to make sure it was him. But today you just wanted him to be sitting beside you already. It was comforting. The routine, him, the certainty of it.
He sat beside you with a quiet groan, stretching one leg out into the grass. For a while, neither of you spoke. The yard buzzed softly around you—distant chatter, the squeak of the back gate, wind dragging dead leaves across the ground.
Closer now, Kit could see the exhaustion sitting under your skin. The faint stiffness in your posture. Briarcliff made everyone tense, still; this was different. He had hoped you just hadn’t slept well, but really, he knew better.
“You been out here long?” he asked.
You shrugged. “I think so.”
Think.
Not know.
Kit noticed that too.
He leaned back against the trunk, staring out toward the fence line. “Used to hate sittin’ still,” he admitted after a minute. “Back home, if I stayed in one place too long, my mama’d find somethin’ for me to fix.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the tugging at your lips. You glanced his way, those brown eyes looking back at you.
“Anything with parts.” He huffed a quiet laugh, like he knew what you were thinking without you asking. “Tractors mostly. Radios sometimes if I got lucky enough to get my hands on one.” His gaze averted to the ground as his own index finger joined yours in the dirt. “Wasn’t always good at it.”
A beat of silence. “But you liked it.”
“Yeah.” His voice softened some. “Liked figuring out how things worked. Felt good when you could take somethin’ busted apart and put it back together.”
The words settled quietly between you. Something about them made your chest ache. The normalcy. Imagining what his life was like before he got here made it ache.
Kit didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did and kept going anyway.
“Had a friend who used to get mad at me,” he continued. “Said I’d spend hours messing with junk nobody cared about.”
Your fingers stilled as you looked up at him. “Did it bother you?”
“Nah.” He moved his hand from the ground to pick a lose thread at his knee. “Guess I always figured if somethin’ was broken, that didn’t mean you gotta throw it away.”
Your gaze dropped after that.
To your hands. To the dirt. To the roots twisting beneath the tree.
Kit watched your expression shift—subtle enough most people probably wouldn’t catch it. But he was learning your silences. Learning you.
His voice grew quieter.
“What about you?” he asked. “What’s somethin’ you liked before all this.”
You were still for a long moment.
Then, your fingers began drawing circles again. “I used to climb trees.”
“Yeah...” Kit’s face softened. “Yeah, I remember you tellin’ me that before.”
“Oh,” You stopped again, looking up from your hand, though not at him. You searched your mind for the conversation and found only static.
How many moments had vanished without you even realizing they mattered? How many conversations were you in that you couldn’t even think of?
“What about somethin’ from the Freakshow?” His voice pulled you from your thoughts.
You looked at him for a beat, your eyes settling on his small, but encouraging smile.
“I liked when Pepper would laugh.” You murmured, looking down at the partially draw shape that your hand still hovered over.
Kit smiled a little at that. “I think you still like that.”
“Yeah, but...” The corners of your lips turned up. “She snorted. Every time. Like... like a...” You trailed off, the old sound replaying in your head. Then, you mimicked it.
The sound surprised him enough that he laughed. Not as controlled as usual. Not loud enough to be at you. That made you laugh, too.
Kit noticed the tension leave your shoulders for the first time all day.
The sound faded slowly between you.
Not awkward. Not empty either. Just quiet again.
But lighter now.
Kit glanced over at you, still catching traces of that rare smile lingering at the corners of your mouth. It looked strange on you—not wrong. Just unfamiliar, like something that hadn’t been used in a long time.
He liked it.
Happy always sounded like something you hadn’t been in a long time. And now? Every once in a while he got proof that he was bringing some of that back.
Across the yard, an orderly shouted for a few names to line up near the doors.
The moment cracked apart immediately.
Patients began shuffling across the grass, some muttering complaints under their breath while others moved automatically at the first command. Somewhere near the fence, a woman started arguing loudly with a nurse about staying outside another five minutes.
You were already pulling your hands back from the dirt.
Kit noticed how quickly you folded back into yourself once the shouting started. Your shoulders tightened again. Your gaze dropped. Like whatever brief softness had surfaced beneath the tree was something fragile enough to hide the second the world came rushing back in.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
A pause.
Then a small nod.
You stood carefully, brushing loose dirt from your palms against the thin fabric of your gown. Your joints still looked stiff when you moved. Kit frowned faintly, but stood too.
Neither of you said much as you started toward the building together.
Dead leaves crunched beneath your shoes. The closer you got to the doors, the louder Briarcliff seemed to become again—the clang of metal, raised voices from somewhere deeper inside, the low mechanical hum that never fully stopped.
You slowed once near the steps.
Kit looked over at you instinctively, slowing to a stop.
For a second, it almost seemed like you wanted to say something.
But whatever it was stayed caught somewhere behind your teeth.
Instead, he asked, “See you at dinner?”
Your eyes flicked up to his.
Then you gave a small nod. “Yeah.”
Simple as that.
An orderly pushed the door open, and the warmth of the building spilled out carrying the familiar smell of bleach and damp wool.
You hesitated only a second before stepping inside.
Kit lingered near the steps after the door shut behind you, staring at the spot where you disappeared.
“Well.”
Grace’s voice cut in from behind him.
Kit looked over his shoulder sharply, almost guilty, though he couldn’t have said why.
She was leaning against the brick wall near the side steps, arms crossed tight against the cold. A cigarette smoldered between her fingers, though she wasn’t really smoking it anymore. Just letting it burn.
Grace tilted her head slightly toward the closed door. “You gonna keep starin’ at it,” she asked, “should I get you a chair?”
Kit rolled his eyes faintly, looking away. “Shut up.”
That only made the corner of her mouth twitch.
Interesting.
Not angry.
Amused.
Grace pushed off the wall slowly and stepped closer. “Didn’t know Briarcliff romance was part of your grand escape plan.”
“Ain’t like that.”
“Mmhm.”
Kit shoved his hands into his pockets, jaw tightening slightly. “You got somethin’ you actually wanna say?”
Grace studied him for a second too long before answering.
“You look for her first now.”
That landed harder than he expected.
His expression shifted just enough to confirm it.
Grace noticed.
Of course she did.
“Forgot about Alma already?” she asked finally. Not cruel exactly. But not soft either.
Kit’s face hardened immediately.
Grace sighed through her nose, rubbing the cigarette out against the brick beside her. “Relax, I’m not accusing you of anything.” Her gaze flicked briefly toward the yard. “I just think you’re getting attached.”
“She needs somebody lookin’ out for her.”
Grace gave him a long look. “That what this is?”
Kit opened his mouth.
Stopped.
Because the truth was, he didn’t entirely know anymore.
Grace saw that too.
And suddenly some of the teasing faded from her expression, replaced by something more complicated. Not jealousy. Concern maybe. Frustration.
“You keep doing this,” she muttered.
“Doin’ what?”
“Trying to save people.” She folded her arms again. “That eats people alive, Kit. And the second you start thinking you can carry everybody out with you…” She shook her head faintly. “That’s when it gets dangerous.”
Kit looked back toward the doors.
“She ain’t dangerous.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
The cold wind kicked up between them for a moment, dragging brittle leaves across the yard.
Grace’s voice softened just slightly after that.
“I’m not saying don’t care about her.” She glanced toward the building too. “God knows somebody should.”
Then her eyes settled back on him.
“I’m saying Briarcliff notices things.”
That made him look at her again.
But he didn’t respond. Couldn’t. And this was not the conversation he wanted to have.
“When’d you get out here anyways?” Kit crossed his arms over his chest. “Normally have to wait another few minutes for you.”
“Came from ‘round front,” Grace said like it was nothing. “And you’re changin’ the subject.”
Kit exhaled through his nose.
Grace tilted her head slightly, studying him again. “You know I’m right.”
“She’s had a rough couple days.”
“So’s everybody in here.”
“That ain’t the same.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed just slightly at that. Then she looked back toward the building doors.
“You keep doing this thing where you start collecting people.”
Kit frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means first it was Pepper.” She ticked it off with her fingers. “Then her. Couple days ago you tried convincing me Shelley should come too.”
Kit shrugged faintly. “Thought she’d be helpful.”
Grace barked out a short laugh. “Helpful?”
“She knows the building better than most people in here.”
“Yeah, and she’s fucked every orderly in it.”
“She ain’t wrong about everything.”
“That’s not the point.”
Kit’s jaw tightened again.
Grace stepped a little closer, lowering her voice. “You can’t bring everybody when we leave.”
“I ain’t tryin’ to.”
“Aren’t you?”
The question sat between them.
Kit looked back toward the doors again without meaning to. “What’s wrong with not wanting people left behind?”
She looked away, toward the fence line.
“What’s wrong,” she muttered, “is people panic.”
Kit stayed quiet.
“They get scared, hesitate, double back.” Her jaw tightened faintly. “They make stupid decisions and the more people around, the more likely that’ll happen.”
He chewed the inside of his lip.
“That happen to you before?”
Grace scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Everyone’s got a story like that.”
“Where is she?”
Jimmy’s voice cut through the midway sharp enough to turn heads.
Behind him, people were beginning to notice the shouting. A few performers lingered near the tents, uncertain. The twins stood half-hidden near the curtain entrance whispering to each other. Elsa remained farther back beneath the tent lights, tense and watchful but unmoving.
Dell slammed the car door shut harder than necessary.
“For Christ’s sake, Jimmy, lower your voice.”
“Where is she?”
Dell exhaled heavily through his nose like the question itself exhausted him. “She’s in the car.”
Jimmy froze.
Then immediately shoved past him toward the backseat.
The inside of the car was dim, lit only by weak yellow midway lights. You sat curled against the door, shoulders folded inward too tightly, one hand limp in your lap.
Your eyes were open.
But far away.
Wrong.
Jimmy’s stomach dropped.
He reached for the handle immediately.
Locked.
The sharp rattle of it made his expression twist. He yanked harder, like force alone might undo it. “Open the damn door.”
Behind him, Dell didn’t move. “She’s fine.”
“The hell she is.” Jimmy hit the window once with the flat of his palm before crouching lower, trying to catch your eyes through the glass. “Hey.”
His voice changed instantly. Softer now. Frightened.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
Your gaze shifted faintly toward him at the sound, delayed and unfocused.
Behind him, footsteps approached quickly through the gravel.
Paul.
He stopped beside the open car door, his expression tightening the moment he saw you.
“She’s dissociating,” he said sharply.
Dell rolled his eyes. “She had another episode. That’s all.”
Paul ignored him completely, keeping his attention on you instead. “How long’s she been like this?”
“Long enough,” Dell muttered.
Jimmy looked ready to tear him apart.
“She doesn’t even know where she is right now.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” Dell snapped back. “Customers are staring every damn night. Pepper gets upset, the audience gets nervous, and suddenly nobody remembers why they paid to come here in the first place.”
Paul’s jaw hardened.
“So your solution was what? Throw her in a car while she can barely respond?”
Dell stepped forward defensively. “She needs real help.”
“She needs somebody not taking advantage of an episode,” Paul shot back.
That drew more attention.
Murmurs spread quietly through the troupe now. Uneasy. Fractured.
Inside the car, your fingers twitched weakly against your dress at the rising voices.
Jimmy noticed immediately. He tried wrenching open the door again, as if he thought he could get in with just his hands.
Dell scoffed. “You can’t help her, Jimmy.”
Jimmy turned on him so fast the tension in the air snapped tight.
“You don’t know a damn thing about her.”
Dell folded his arms. “I know she’s getting worse.”
The words hung ugly in the night air.
Paul glanced toward Elsa briefly, like he expected her to step in.
She didn’t.
Nobody did.
Because nobody knew how anymore.
Everything had already been splintering for weeks—arguments, disappearing money, bad crowds, people turning on each other in quiet little ways that grew louder every day.
This was just another crack.
Only this time, you were trapped inside it.
Jimmy pressed his hands against the window now, trying to catch your gaze again.
“Sweetheart.” Softer. Careful. “Look at me.”
For one terrible second, it almost worked.
Recognition flickered faintly across your face.
Then Dell slammed his hand against the roof of the car.
The bang split the midway.
You flinched violently, folding tighter into yourself.
Gone.
Jimmy snapped.
He grabbed Dell by the front of his shirt, slamming him backward against the car.
“You did that on purpose.”
“Get off me.”
“You knew she was slipping!”
“She was already gone!” Dell barked back. “That’s the goddamn problem!”
The observation room door groaned open.
The sound hit first.
Then the light.
Harsh fluorescent white spilled across your vision as your body jerked hard enough to make your shoulder ache. For one disoriented second, you still expected to hear shouting. Gravel beneath tires. Jimmy’s voice.
Instead there was only Briarcliff.
Buzzing lights.
Shuffling shoes.
The smell of bleach.
Your breathing came unevenly as you blinked against the room. Your cheeks felt cold. Damp. A stray tear falling onto your hand.
An orderly stood in the doorway waiting impatiently.
“You done?” he muttered.
You looked down.
Your body had folded strangely against itself sometime during observation—one arm twisted tight against your stomach, fingers stiff from being curled too long. Pain crackled through your joints as you slowly forced yourself upright.
The orderly sighed loudly while you struggled.
Once you stepped outside and turned the corner, you saw him.
Dr. Thredson, clipboard in hand.
He offered a small smile when your eyes found him. Not warm. Not cruel either.
Interested.
Like he’d just seen something worth remembering.
“Rough afternoon?” he asked gently.
The question made heat crawl beneath your skin.
Because he said it so casually.
Like he hadn’t seen everything.
The orderly muttered something under his breath and continued down the hall before you could process it.
You stayed near the doorway a moment longer, arms tight around yourself.
The world still felt slightly tilted.
Observation always left you strange afterward, but this time felt worse. Your skin buzzed. Your thoughts wouldn’t settle properly. Fragments of memory still clung like cobwebs behind your eyes.
Jimmy yelling.
The slam of a hand against metal.
That awful feeling of disappearing while someone begged you not to.
“You’re shaking.”
Dr. Thredson’s voice pulled you back hard enough to make your stomach twist.
You hadn’t realized he’d stepped closer.
Not too close.
But closer.
“I’m fine,” you said automatically.
A lie built from habit.
His eyes flicked briefly toward your hands before returning to your face. “I didn’t say you weren’t.”
That caught you off guard.
Most people at Briarcliff decided things for you before you spoke.
Crazy.
Violent.
Unwell.
Gone.
But he said it differently. Calmly. Like he was waiting to see what you’d do.
It unsettled you more than yelling would have.
“You were in observation a long time today,” he said.
You shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t remember most of it.”
The admission slipped out before you could stop it.
Immediately, regret curled in your stomach.
But Thredson only nodded once, thoughtful rather than surprised.
“That happens often?”
Your jaw tightened.
There it was.
The real question.
Not concern.
Curiosity.
You knew that look.
Performers learned early when people were looking at them versus studying them.
Still—
He hadn’t touched you. Hadn’t cornered you. Hadn’t spoken to you like you were stupid.
That alone made the conversation harder to leave.
“I’m tired,” you murmured instead.
Something unreadable flickered briefly across his face before smoothing away again.
“Of course you are.”
Gentle.
Too gentle for Briarcliff.
He stepped aside then, giving you room to pass down the hallway.
You moved past him carefully, arms still tight around yourself.
Then:
“Miss Reverie.”
You winced at the name.
“I’ll be seeing you again soon,” Thredson said.
His tone remained calm. Professional. Like discussing the weather.
Still, something about it made your shoulders tense.
You gave a small nod without looking back.
Then continued down the hall, the fluorescent lights buzzing louder than before while the feeling of his attention lingered between your shoulder blades all the way to your room.
Hydrotherapy sessions to ease muscular strain and induce calm Observed counterproductive response during recent hydrotherapy session. Patient exhibits dissociative retreat with preserved coordinated muscular response. Recommend reevaluation of hydrotherapy and further psychiatric assessment.
Temporary isolation recommended for patient and staff safety Temporary separation from high-stimulation environments recommended for patient stability and staff management.
Increase frequency of observation during dissociative episodes.
Monitor patient response to autobiographical memory recollection.
Document interactions with identified stabilizing relationships.
Monitor effects of current medication regimen on memory retention, dissociative episodes, and therapeutic engagement.
Further evaluation recommended.
|
Religious Staff Note:
Chaplaincy consultation scheduled with Father Howard.
Attending Physician (Primary): Dr. Oliver Thredson
Supervising Physician: Dr. Arthur Arden
The common room buzzed softly around you.
Not loud enough to be chaos. Not quiet enough to think.
A radio crackled somewhere near the nurses’ station, the music warped faintly beneath static. Someone nearby laughed too hard at something that wasn’t funny. Cards slapped against a table in uneven bursts. Shoes scraped tile. The overhead lights hummed constantly, sharp and electrical.
Your normal chair was gone. So, you sat curled into the corner of the couch furthest from the television and its endless static.
The fabric beneath your fingers scratched rough against your skin.
Stay here.
Your thumb pressed slowly into the seam of the cushion. In. Out. In. Out. The rhythm helped a little. Something solid. Something real.
Across the room, two patients argued quietly over a puzzle missing pieces. A nurse flipped through a magazine without actually reading it. Somebody was humming under their breath again. Same three notes. Over and over.
Your eyes drifted toward the windows.
Rain tapped softly against the glass.
You counted the drops for a while.
Lost count.
Started again.
You swallowed hard.
Your fingers had begun tracing shapes against the couch cushion without you realizing it—small looping circles, over and over until the pattern started repeating itself.
A grounding trick.
Or maybe just another habit.
You weren’t sure anymore.
The room tilted strangely for half a second when someone dropped a book nearby.
Your shoulders jerked instinctively.
Too fast.
Too sharp.
A few people looked over.
You immediately stared back down at your hands.
Stay here.
The phrase repeated silently now.
Stay here. Stay here. Stay here.
But your body felt wrong today.
Too light one second.
Too heavy the next.
Like your mind kept stepping a few feet outside itself before stumbling back in again.
You hated this part.
Not the forgetting.
The waiting.
Waiting to realize another piece of time had vanished without asking permission first.
Your jaw tightened.
Pepper needed you here.
That thought anchored harder than anything else managed to.
Not yourself.
Not Briarcliff.
Pepper.
Your nails dug lightly into your palm until the sting steadied your breathing again.
Then—
“You do that a lot.”
The voice startled you enough that your head lifted immediately.
Grace stood near the arm of the couch, one shoulder leaning lazily against the wall. Like she’d been there longer than you realized.
Watching.
Your stomach twisted faintly.
“Do what?” you asked quietly.
Grace’s eyes flicked toward your hands.
“Leave.”
Oh.
You didn’t know how to respond. Couldn’t really.
She was right.
Grace studied your face for another second before pushing off the wall. She moved closer, but not enough to crowd you. Careful. Measured.
“How often do you get like this?” she asked.
Your fingers curled tighter against your palm. “Like what?”
“Far away.”
The words landed too easily.
You looked down again instead of answering.
Grace huffed quietly through her nose, like she had already expected that response. “Kit thinks you’re tougher than you look.”
That made your eyes flick upward.
Not because of the compliment.
Because of the way she said Kit.
This conversation wasn’t really about you.
It was about him.
“What do you think?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Grace tilted her head slightly. “I think you’ve survived this place longer than most people would.”
Not an answer.
You noticed that.
“But surviving ain’t the same thing as getting out.”
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Your stomach tightened faintly as Grace glanced toward the nurses’ station before lowering her voice.
“If something happened,” she said carefully, “could you run?”
You blinked.
“I mean really run.” Her eyes stayed fixed on you now. Sharp. Assessing. “Not freeze. Not drift off somewhere. Not panic.”
Your throat went dry.
“If we have to fight, can you fight?”
Somewhere nearby, someone laughed again. The radio crackled. Rain tapped steadily against the windows.
“If the plan fails, can you think on your feet?”
You could feel your pulse in your wrists.
Grace watched every second of your silence.
Then:
“Can you?” she repeated.
Your first instinct was embarrassment.
The second was anger.
Not loud anger. Not explosive. Not even really at her.
Just that quiet humiliation of realizing someone had looked at you and immediately seen weakness.
But...
Was she wrong?
“I don’t know,” you admitted softly.
Grace nodded once like she appreciated the honesty more than the answer itself.
“That’s a problem.”
Your jaw tightened.
“For you?” you asked.
“For everybody.”
The words stung more than they should have.
Grace must’ve noticed, because some of the hardness in her face eased slightly after a second.
“I’m not trying to be cruel,” she said.
You looked away toward the rain-streaked windows.
“You think Kit talks too much,” you murmured.
A faint smile tugged briefly at one corner of Grace’s mouth. “Yeah. He does.”
Despite yourself, your lips twitched faintly too.
Then her expression flattened again.
“But he’s serious ‘bout getting out.”
The humor vanished just as quickly.
“And serious people get killed when they start thinking with their heart instead of their head.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
Not because Grace sounded cruel.
Because she sounded practical.
The worst part was that you couldn’t even blame her for asking.
You’d lost conversations.
Lost hours.
Lost pieces of yourself so quietly you only noticed after they were already gone.
Sometimes they were pieces you never even had.
And lately you were getting bad again.
The thought settled heavy in your stomach.
Would you get him hurt? Caught? Killed?
The room suddenly felt too warm.
Your eyes dropped back to your hands before Grace could read anything else on your face.
You thought about Kit beneath the tree. Him laughing. Talking about fixing broken things like they were still worth keeping.
You thought about him calling you “sleepwalker.”
Thought about how much interest he took in you. Not only your life, but you. Just as you are.
And for one horrible second, you pictured him running while you froze.
Pictured him turning back for you.
Pictured blood on the floor because he hesitated.
Your throat tightened hard enough to ache.
Grace spoke again, quieter now.
“This place makes people weak if you let it.”
You swallowed once, “Yeah.”
Softly. Not defensive. Not angry.
Just tired.
Because it did.
They did.
And somewhere deep down, you were beginning to fear Briarcliff was winning.
Grace watched you for a long moment after that.
Not exactly cold.
Just thinking.
The common room carried on around you like nothing had happened. A patient near the window started singing softly to himself. Someone else complained about missing cards. And that damn song on repeat.
Your hands stayed folded tightly in your lap.
Grace finally sighed through her nose and leaned back against the wall again.
“I’m not trying to scare you,” she said.
You didn’t answer.
Her gaze drifted briefly toward the nurses’ station before returning to you. “People like to pretend hope’s enough.” A small shake of her head. “It ain’t.”
Something in her voice had changed slightly.
Not softer.
Just tired in a way you recognized.
“You think I like talking like this?” she asked quietly. “I don’t.”
Your eyes lifted toward her again.
She looked a way you had never seen from her. Less guarded. Not open, per se. But closer to human than sharp edges and suspicion.
“People like each other,” she continued. “They get attached. Then something goes wrong and suddenly nobody’s thinkin’ straight anymore.”
The words pressed strangely against your ribs. She wasn’t really talking about people. She hadn’t been. She was talking about Kit. Maybe herself too.
Grace crossed her arms tighter. “Kit already trusts you.”
Your stomach tightened faintly.
“That means I need to know if I can.”
The honesty of it caught you more off guard than the interrogation had.
You looked down at your hands again.
The truth sat ugly and heavy in your chest: you didn’t know if she could.
Didn’t know if Kit should.
Silence stretched between you again.
Then, quietly:
“I used to be better.”
Grace frowned slightly. “At what?”
“Staying here.”
You tapped two fingers lightly against your knee. As if grounding yourself without thinking.
“I’ve been losing things,” Your voice stayed low and careful. “Conversations and... stuff.” A pause. “More than before.”
Grace studied you carefully after that.
Not pitying.
Assessing.
But no longer dismissive either.
“That because of this place,” she asked, “or were you like that before?”
The question settled heavily between you.
Your fingers stilled against your knee.
For a second, you almost said nothing again.
That would’ve been easier.
But something about the way Grace was looking at you now—not cruel, not careful either—made the words slip out before you could stop them.
“I was worse before Briarcliff.”
Grace stayed quiet.
You swallowed once.
“The years before here...” Your voice thinned slightly. “Sometimes I’d lose weeks and months.” A faint shake of your head. “People would talk to me and it was like I never even heard them. Sometimes I’d wake up somewhere different, not knowing how I got there.”
The common room blurred softly at the edges for a second before settling again.
You forced yourself to keep going.
“When Pepper got brought here...” Your throat tightened. “I started trying harder.”
Her brows furrowed. “Trying what?”
“To stay.”
Simple answer.
Honest one.
You stared down at your hands.
“I practiced.” A humorless little breath escaped you. “Grounding. Counting things. Holding onto conversations.” Your fingers curled slightly. “I got better.”
At least, you thought you did.
“Pepper needed me to.”
The words came out almost automatic.
Like that alone explained everything.
Grace’s expression shifted subtly after that, like she was listening differently now.
Maybe it did explain things.
And then, quieter:
“I don’t know why I’m getting bad again.”
Again, Grace was quiet for a while after that.
Not uncomfortable quiet.
Thinking quiet.
The kind that settled like four feet of snow after a blizzard.
The common room felt oddly quiet now. Like it felt the silence between the two of you.
You kept your eyes on your hands.
Grace finally spoke.
“This place wears people down on purpose.”
You looked up slightly.
“They drug you, isolate you, treat you like an animal long enough...” She shrugged faintly. “Eventually people stop fighting to stay themselves. They stop caring.”
Something about hearing someone else say it made your chest ache.
Because you’ve seen it happen. Because you’d felt it. Every day.
Grace studied your expression for another second before adding, quieter this time:
“But the fact you noticed means you’re still here.”
The words caught somewhere deep inside you.
Not comforting.
Not exactly.
But they were different than the others.
You didn’t realize how badly you’d needed someone to say that until now.
It made your heart pound.
Grace pushed herself off the wall before the silence could turn heavy again. “Doesn’t mean you get to stop trying, though.”
There she was again.
Sharp edges. Practical. Controlled.
But not cruel. Not really.
You nodded once.
“I know.”
Grace looked at you, but it was different this time. It was assessment, more so consideration.
Like she had written you off yet.
And that meant something.
Occupational therapy was quieter in the afternoons.
Pencils scraped across paper in uneven rhythms while orderlies paced between tables pretending to supervise. Rain tapped faintly against the high windows, turning the light gray and flat.
Kit sat heavily into the chair across from Pepper, rolling the stiffness from one shoulder as he glanced at the papers scattered across the table.
Pepper barely noticed him sit down.
Her pencil moved in slow loops across the page.
Circle after circle after circle.
Not drawing anything.
Just repeating the shape until the paper had started to tear beneath the pressure.
Kit watched for a second before speaking.
“You get that from Twirly?”
Pepper looked up immediately at the nickname.
Then nodded.
“It reminds me of her.”
The words made something tighten in Kit’s chest.
Pepper looked back down and traced another circle carefully over the last.
“She’s been getting bad again.”
Kit’s brow furrowed slightly. “What makes you say that?”
Pepper shrugged one shoulder.
“Her eyes go quiet more.”
That phrase again.
Not asleep. Not gone.
Quiet.
Kit leaned back slightly in his chair. Getting worse?
The thought sat wrong, ringing around in his head.
How hadn’t he noticed that?
Pepper suddenly stopped drawing.
“The nice doctor asked about her.”
Kit looked up.
Something in his expression must’ve shifted because Pepper blinked.
“The one with the soft voice,” she added. “He said he wants to help Twirly stay here.”
A cold feeling settled slowly into Kit’s stomach.
Because somehow, that didn’t sound right at all.
Kit’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“The nice doctor?” he repeated carefully.
Pepper nodded, still turning the pencil slowly between her fingers.
“The one with the soft voice.”
A face surfaced in Kit’s mind.
The man from yesterday. Clipboard in hand. Watching the yard like he was looking for something specific.
Watching her.
Kit leaned forward a little, grabbing a pencil off the table. “Black hair?”
Pepper brightened instantly. “Yeah! Him.”
Something uneasy curled tighter in Kit’s stomach.
He tried not to show it.
“What’d he want?”
Pepper shrugged. “Just talked.”
“That all?”
“Mhm.” She traced another circle absentmindedly near the edge of the page. “He asked about Twirly. Asked if she always gets quiet like that.”
He frowned.
“And you told him?”
Pepper looked confused by the question. “He’s a doctor.”
Simple answer.
Matter-of-fact.
Not defensive.
Just obvious to her.
“He listens better than the others,” she added after a second, voice softer now. “Doesn’t yell.”
That hit harder than Kit expected.
Because around Briarcliff, not yelling probably did feel like kindness.
Pepper’s pencil moved across the paper again.
“He looked sad when I talked about her.”
Kit doubted that.
But Pepper said it with such certainty he didn’t argue.
Instead he glanced down at the page between them.
Circles layered over circles until they almost looked like bruises pressed into the paper.
His jaw tightened faintly.
“What’s his name?” he asked.
Pepper tilted her head.
Then smiled a little.
“Doctor Thredson.”
Pepper’s smile faded just a little as she looked back down at the paper.
“He’s nicer than the others,” she said quietly.
Then, after a pause:
“But Miss Elsa used to smile like that too when she wanted somethin’.”
Kit didn't know what to say.
He didn't have to.
Pepper continued drawing circles, layering graphite over graphite.
“He watches people when they ain’t looking.”
Kit’s brow furrowed faintly.
Pepper shrugged one shoulder.
“Like how you watch Twirly.”
Kit went still.
Not dramatic.
Not enough that anyone across the room would notice.
But Pepper did.
His fingers tightened once around the dull pencil in his hand before loosening again.
The occupational therapy room suddenly felt louder than before. Pencils scraping paper. Chairs dragging across tile. An orderly coughing somewhere behind him.
Pepper kept drawing like she hadn’t just said something that lodged directly into his ribs.
Like you watch Twirly.
Kit stared down at the circles covering her paper.
One inside another.
Over and over.
His jaw worked faintly.
“I ain’t—” he started automatically.
Then stopped.
Because he didn’t actually know how to finish that sentence.
Pepper finally looked up at him again.
Not suspicious.
Just curious.
Kit didn’t know how to respond.
Because he had been watching her.
But not like that.
Not how people were watched in Briarcliff.
Not the way doctors stared through patients instead of at them. Not the way orderlies monitored movements like waiting for someone to snap.
That wasn’t what this was.
He watched because sometimes she looked lost before she realized it.
Because sometimes her hands shook when the room got too loud.
Because sometimes her eyes drifted somewhere far away and he hated how nobody else seemed to notice when it happened.
Or maybe they noticed and just didn’t care.
Pepper kept looking at him patiently, waiting.
Kit rubbed his thumb against the side of the pencil.
“She just...” He exhaled quietly through his nose. “Ain’t nobody lookin’ out for her in here.”
Pepper’s expression softened immediately.
“’cept you,” she said.
That one hit him harder than he expected.
Because he still wasn’t sure when that had become true.
Neither of them spoke for a few beats.
“He asked what brings her back when she goes away.” Pepper said.
Kit’s eyes lifted immediately.
“What?”
Pepper shrugged lightly, still tracing the pencil along the edge of the paper.
“When her eyes go quiet.” She glanced toward him. “The doctor wanted to know what helps.”
Something cold settled slowly into Kit’s stomach.
Pepper continued before he could respond.
“I told him hugs usually work.”
Kit’s jaw tightened faintly.
Not because Pepper had done anything wrong.
Because the conversation suddenly felt too personal.
Too interested.
Doctors here usually didn’t care enough to ask questions like that.
They sedated people. Restrained them. Dragged them room to room.
They didn’t try to understand them.
Which meant this Doctor Thredson either cared far too much—
—or wanted something.
And Kit wasn’t sure which possibility bothered him more.
The common room had grown quieter.
Not truly quiet.
Briarcliff never was.
But quieter in the way storms sometimes calmed before getting worse.
The radio had gone to static again. Rain still tapped softly against the windows. A few patients wandered aimlessly between chairs while others sat slumped half-asleep beneath the dull hum of fluorescent lights.
Grace was gone.
You weren’t sure when she’d left.
Your fingers traced slowly against the seam of your skirt. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Grounding.
Trying to.
Your eyes lingered on the rain crawling down the glass.
One drop splitting into two.
Then four.
Then gone.
The room softened around the edges again.
Voices blurred.
The static from the radio stretched long and hollow in your ears until it almost sounded like distant applause—
The loud clearing of a throat.
You flinched hard enough your arm knocked against the arm of the couch.
Sister Jude stood over you.
Her expression tightened faintly at the reaction.
Not sympathy.
Assessment.
“Come with me.”
Your throat felt dry. The staff taking you somewhere was never good, but when it was Sister Jude? Even worse.
For you, at least.
Routine changes were rarely good here. The thought made your stomach twist.
Sister Jude turned sharply, expecting you to follow.
You stood quickly and moved after her, careful not to fall too far behind as her heels clicked crisply against the tile.
The hallway felt colder than the common room.
Or maybe you were colder now.
“You have another appointment with Dr. Thredson,” Jude said without looking at you. “He requested the session be moved forward.”
Something uneasy shifted low in your stomach.
You kept your eyes fixed ahead.
“Oh.”
Jude’s gaze flicked toward you briefly then away again.
“He seems to have taken quite an interest in your case.”
The words made your shoulders tense instinctively.
Not because of what she said.
Because of how she said it.
Like interest itself was dangerous.
“He thinks you’re special.”
Your chest tightened faintly.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
You remembered the way Thredson watched during hydrotherapy.
Your first session with him.
The voice.
The questions.
At the time you thought it was routine for him.
Special.
The word sat wrong inside you.
Special patients got watched more closely.
Taken away into private rooms for things most of the staff didn’t even know.
Experimented on.
It happened to you once with Arden. It had finally slowed down.
You swallowed once.
“I’m not,” you said quietly.
Sister Jude’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
“No,” she said after a moment. “Most likely not.”
But she didn’t sound convinced.
You swallowed once.
Sister Jude noticed.
“Dr. Thredson is considered very promising in his field,” she said crisply. “You should be grateful someone is willing to invest time in your treatment.”
Treatment.
The word scraped strangely against your ribs.
Jude slowed briefly near the end of the hallway, turning toward a heavy wooden door.
“And I would advise you,” she added sharply, “not to mistake professional attention for kindness.”
It felt like a weight had been placed on your chest.
Because the truth was, you hadn’t known what to mistake it for.
Sister Jude stopped outside the office door.
You hadn’t realized how tense your shoulders were until she knocked twice against the wood and the sound made your pulse jump.
“Your appointment,” she said flatly through the door.
A beat passed.
Then:
“Come in.” Dr. Thredson’s voice was smooth as warm honey.
Sister Jude opened the door without another word.
The office smelled faintly of coffee and paper instead of bleach.
It shouldn’t have felt different from the rest of Briarcliff.
But it did.
The lamps cast softer light than the fluorescents outside. A radio hummed low somewhere in the corner, barely loud enough to know that it wasn’t that same song in the common room.
Carefully arranged comfort.
It was odd.
But welcomed.
“Thank you, Sister Jude.”
Thredson stood as you entered.
Polite.
Calm.
His dark eyes settled on you immediately, attentive enough that it almost felt rehearsed.
Jude left without responding. The door shut firmly behind you.
And suddenly the room felt much smaller.
“I appreciate you coming,” Thredson said gently.
That made something tighten—just slightly—in your chest.
You weren't sure why.
Slowly, you lowered yourself into the chair across from his desk.
The cushions sank beneath your weight.
Too soft.
The room felt too warm.
Too quiet.
Like it was trying very hard not to be Briarcliff.
Thredson sat down across from you and opened a folder.
Your folder.
The sight of it made your stomach twist.
His eyes flicked briefly over the page before returning to you.
“How have you been since we last spoke?”
The question sounded simple.
You knew better.
You looked down at your hands.
“Fine.”
A lie.
Not a very good one.
But he didn't challenge it. Didn't even acknowledge it.
Maybe he expected that.
“Observation has been difficult lately.” He folded his hands together atop the desk.
Your fingers froze.
Just for a second.
Then resumed picking lightly at the seam of your gown.
“You've been watching.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them. You used to never talk. Now you felt like you had trouble stopping.
A small smile touched the corner of his mouth.
“That's part of my job.”
You weren't sure if that made you feel better or worse.
Silence settled briefly between you.
Not necessarily uncomfortable.
Intentional.
Like he was waiting to see what you would do with it.
Eventually, he spoke again.
“You seem tired.”
Your shoulders stiffened. It wasn't an accusation. And that somehow made it harder.
“Most people are.”
“That's true,” his agreement came easily. No argument. No correction. “Most people aren't worried about getting worse.”
Your eyes lifted before you could stop them.
Immediately, you regretted it.
Because he noticed. Of course he did.
That too was part of his job.
Thredson's expression didn't change.
But something sharpened behind his eyes.
Interest.
“You are worried,” he said quietly.
It wasn’t a question.
You looked away first.
The sun was bright against the window, golden rays skimming your skin.
The radio continued humming a song that you weren’t familiar with.
You focused on that instead.
The beat. The rhythm. The melody.
The rasp of the singer’s voice.
Anything except the feeling of being understood too quickly.
After a long moment, you nodded.
Just once.
Just slightly.
Thredson leaned back in his chair.
Not triumphant.
But patient.
As though this tiny admission mattered far more than it should.
“Tell me why.”
And there it is.
The first real door he asks you to open.
You stared at the thread you’d been picking at.
For a moment, you thought about lying again.
Saying you didn't know.
Saying it wasn't important.
But he would know.
"I lose things."
The words sounded strange once they were out.
Thredson didn't interrupt.
"Time." Your fingers twisted together. "Conversations."
You swallowed.
"Sometimes memories."
His expression softened.
Like he understood.
Like he wanted to listen.
Somehow that made it easier.
"I used to notice when it happened."
Your voice had gone quieter now.
"Now sometimes I don't."
A pause.
"I forget I've forgotten."
Your throat burned and stomach twisted up with regret.
The words were out now.
Too late to take back.
You stared at your hands, suddenly wishing you had said nothing at all.
Wishing you had kept your mouth shut.
The radio hummed softly in the corner.
The singer's voice blurred into the background again.
You focused on the loose thread beneath your thumb instead.
Anything except looking up.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then:
"That sounds exhausting."
Your fingers stopped moving.
Completely.
The loose thread slipped from between your fingertips.
For a second, you forgot about the radio.
Forgot about the sunlight spilling across the floor.
Forgot about the file sitting open on his desk.
The words hit harder than they should have.
Not because they were kind.
Because they were true.
Exhausting.
You spent so much time trying to stay.
Trying to remember.
Trying to notice when pieces went missing.
Trying to make sure Pepper never had to wonder where you'd gone.
Trying to be present.
Trying.
The effort never stopped.
Nobody had ever said it out loud before.
Your throat tightened.
Slowly, you looked up.
Thredson didn't look triumphant.
Didn't look curious.
If anything, he looked concerned.
"You shouldn't have to carry that by yourself."
Something in your chest tightened unexpectedly.
You weren't sure whether to laugh.
Or leave.
Or say thank you.
None of those felt right.
So you said nothing at all.
"When did you start noticing it getting worse?"
You frowned.
The question sounded simple.
It wasn't.
Your fingers found the seam of your gown again.
When did you start noticing it getting worse?
The radio hummed softly somewhere behind him.
You thought about arriving to Briarcliff.
The common room.
Observation.
Arden’s interest.
The tree.
Pepper.
The memories that seemed to be finding their way back more often now.
None of it felt like the beginning.
Not really.
You swallowed.
"I don't know."
Thredson waited.
No interruption.
No correction.
Just that same steady patience.
"I guess..."
Your brow furrowed.
"I guess around when Kit came around."
The words sounded wrong as soon as you said them.
Not wrong.
Just incomplete.
Like there was something important missing from the explanation.
Thredson remained quiet.
Listening.
"Mr. Walker."
You nodded.
"He sits with me sometimes."
Sometimes.
The understatement almost made you smile.
"He asks questions."
Your gaze drifted toward the window.
The sunlight had shifted again.
"I remember things more when he asks."
The admission came before you could stop it.
Your stomach tightened immediately afterward.
Thredson's eyes sharpened ever so slightly.
"Things from before?"
You nodded.
"The Freak Show."
Pepper.
Jimmy.
The stage.
Things you spent years trying not to think about.
Or couldn't.
You weren't always sure which.
Your thumb rubbed against the seam again.
"Maybe remembering more is making it worse."
Silence settled.
Not the uncomfortable kind.
The kind that made you think too much.
Then:
"You spend a great deal of time with Mr. Walker."
You blinked.
The observation caught you off guard.
"A little."
One corner of Thredson's mouth twitched.
Not quite a smile.
"A little." He repeated.
Heat crept into your face before you understood why.
You looked away.
"He talks to me."
The moment the words left your mouth, you wished they hadn't.
Because they sounded childish.
Stupid.
Like you were trying to justify something.
Thredson didn't laugh.
Didn't dismiss it.
He simply tilted his head slightly.
"And most people don't?"
The question was gentle.
Almost casual.
Which somehow made it harder to answer.
Because the truth was embarrassingly simple.
Most people talked around you.
About you.
At you.
Kit talked to you. With you.
Your gaze dropped back to your hands.
The seam of the gown. The loose thread.
"I don't know." Your voice came out quieter than before. "It feels different."
The admission settled heavily between you.
Different.
Not better.
Not worse.
Just...
Different.
You struggled to find words for it.
Most people eventually stopped asking questions when you couldn't answer them.
Or they answered for you.
Or they decided whatever was wrong with you was too complicated to bother understanding.
Kit didn't seem to do that.
He just...
Stayed.
The thought made your heart pound.
Across from you, Thredson remained silent.
Listening.
Waiting.
You were beginning to suspect that he was very good at it.
"He remembers things I tell him."
You frowned slightly.
Or maybe that wasn't quite right.
"I mean..." Your fingers twisted together. "He listens."
The moment the words left your mouth, they felt important somehow.
You weren't entirely sure why.
Thredson watched you for a moment.
Then:
"Do you think being listened to makes it easier to remember?"
You blinked.
The question caught you off guard.
Your first instinct was to say no.
Because those things didn't seem related.
One was memory.
The other was...
Something else.
Your brows knit together. Thinking.
The radio continued its soft hum from the corner.
You thought about the tree.
About circles drawn into the dirt.
About Kit asking questions and then actually waiting for the answer.
Even when the answer took a while.
Even when you forgot what you were saying halfway through.
Your fingers tightened together.
"I don't know."
A pause.
Then:
"Maybe."
The word came out small.
Uncertain.
Thredson didn't rush to fill the silence.
Didn't tell you whether you were right or wrong.
You found yourself continuing anyway.
"Most people don't wait."
Your eyes dropped back to your lap.
"They decide what I mean before I say it."
The admission surprised you.
You weren't sure where it came from.
Or why you'd said it.
But once it was out, you couldn't take it back.
For a moment, the room was quiet.
Then Thredson nodded once.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to show he'd heard you.
"And Mr. Walker waits."
Not a question.
An observation.
A simple one.
Yet somehow it felt like he'd noticed something you hadn't.
"Earlier you said things seemed to get worse around the time Mr. Walker entered your life."
He adjusted just slightly in his chair.
"Yet you describe him as someone who helps you stay present."
You frowned.
It sounded silly when he said it.
Contradictory.
You just hadn't known how to explain it.
Your fingers found the seam of your gown again.
"I think..."
The words stalled.
You looked down.
Then tried again.
"I think I notice it more."
Thredson remained silent.
Listening.
Waiting.
You hated how much easier his patience made talking.
You swallowed.
"Before..."
Your brow furrowed.
"Before, I'd lose time and not think about it."
The radio turned to static.
"Or I'd realize hours later and just..."
You shrugged.
"Keep going."
There wasn't much else to do.
You couldn't get the time back.
You couldn't remember what you forgot.
So eventually you learned not to dwell on it.
"Now I notice."
Your voice had gone quieter.
You stared at your hands.
"Because people notice."
People.
Not just Kit.
Pepper.
Grace.
Even yourself.
More than before.
A long pause followed.
Then:
"When I forget something now..."
Your throat tightened.
"I... I care."
The static in the radio seemed to settle rather than fade.
Thredson didn’t speak immediately.
His gaze stayed on you—steady, unreadable in a way that didn’t feel unkind.
Then, carefully:
“You care.”
Not a question.
A reflection.
Like he was testing the shape of the words in the air between you.
You hesitated.
Your fingers tightened in your lap again, like you were only just realizing you’d said something you weren’t supposed to say.
Thredson didn’t press.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly.
“When you say you care…” he continued gently, “what exactly are you afraid of losing?”
The question landed differently than the others.
Not broad.
Not abstract.
Specific.
Your throat tightened slightly before you could stop it.
Because suddenly it wasn’t about memory anymore.
It wasn’t even about “getting worse.”
It was about what breaking meant now.
Thredson’s voice stayed calm.
Measured.
“Aside from your time,” he added quietly, “what feels most at risk when you notice these gaps?”
The room felt still again.
Not empty.
Focused.
Like everything in it had narrowed down to that single point he’d just placed in front of you.
The question sat between you for a moment.
He didn’t move to fill the silence.
Just waited.
Your throat felt tight again.
“I don’t know,” you said quietly at first.
A pause.
Then, more carefully:
“I think I just… don’t like not remembering.”
Your fingers pressed together in your lap.
“When I can’t tell what happened.”
You swallowed.
“It feels wrong.”
Not dramatic.
Not emotional in an obvious way.
Just… unsettled.
Like something out of place that you can’t quite fix.
Your gaze stayed down.
Thredson didn’t respond immediately.
Instead, he studied you for a moment longer—like he was organizing what you’d said into something usable.
Then he nodded once.
Slowly.
“I see.”
Not dismissive.
Not approving.
Just… noted.
The word sat quietly in the space between you.
“You’re not alone in that feeling,” he added after a beat. “Disturbance in continuity can be deeply unsettling.”
A pause.
Then, more gently:
“But it’s also something we can work with.”
He reached forward slightly, closing your file partway without fully shutting it.
A subtle end to the focus.
“For now,” he said, voice easing back into something more procedural, “I think that’s enough for today.”
Your stomach tightened faintly at the shift.
Not because he was cold. Because he wasn’t.
He looked back up at you.
“And I’d like you to notice something for me before next time.”
The tone remained calm. Almost casual.
“Specifically,” he continued, “whether those moments feel more frequent when you’re with certain people.”
A brief pause. The faintest emphasis on the last word.
Then:
“We’ll continue this soon.”
Not a dismissal. Not a release. A continuation.
You nodded faintly.
The words “we’ll continue this soon” lingered longer than they should have. Then you stood. The chair made a soft sound against the floor as you pushed it back.
Thredson rose as well, professional again in an instant.
He opened the door for you.
“Thank you for your time,” he said gently. Not cold. Not distant. Carefully measured.
You stepped into the hallway. The light outside felt sharper than it had before. Behind you, the door closed softly. Click. And then you were gone.
Thredson remained standing for a moment after the door shut. The room felt different without her in it. Not empty. Just… less structured.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, then turned back to his desk. The file lay open where it had been the entire session. He didn’t sit immediately. Instead, he picked up his pen. Paused. Then began to write.
Clinical Notes — Patient ███
Subject demonstrates increasing difficulty maintaining temporal continuity. Self-reporting “loss of time,” “missing conversations,” and “inability to track events.”
A pause. The pen hovered slightly before continuing.
Strong emotional response when discussing memory disruption.
Another line. Shorter. More precise.
Notable attachment indicators present.
He paused again. Then added:
Subject associates improvement in recall with interaction involving Patient Kit Walker.
The pen stopped. For a moment, he simply looked at the line. Then, without changing expression, he underlined it once. Not heavily. Just enough to mark it.
He set the pen down carefully. And finally sat. His gaze drifted briefly toward the closed door. Then back to the file.
“Interesting,” he said quietly to himself.
Not pleased. Not concerned. Just certain it was becoming more coherent.
The smell of bleach stung your nose the second you had stepped into the hall. The orderly that had been waiting for you said nothing, just began walking. You followed, a careful three steps behind.
Your shoes scraped the floor with each step. The rhythm made you think about that song again. Whatever one had been playing before the static. It began playing in your head. Rhythm, beat, melody, the raspy voice.
Noise from the cafeteria disrupted it. Dinner must’ve started while you were gone. It was loud. Trays scraping. Voices echoing. Silverware striking metal plates. Normal Briarcliff noise.
After the quiet of Thredson's office, it felt almost overwhelming.
The staff’s faces look more irritated than normal. Or maybe they always looked like that and you just... never noticed.
You moved through the normal motions that ended with a tray in your hands and you walking towards the table.
Kit was already there, mindlessly moving the slop on his tray with his fork.
Looking at him made your heart beat a little faster.
So, you looked away.
The empty seat beside him suddenly seemed much farther away than it should have.
Still, your feet carried you there. Routine. The certainty of it.
You sat down carefully, setting your tray onto the table. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You picked at the food. The food picked back.
Across from you, Kit watched. Not openly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But enough. You could feel it.
"You're late." His voice was casual. Trying to sound casual.
You nodded, "Yeah." That was all. No explanation.
Your fork dragged through the potatoes. Or whatever passed for potatoes. The silence stretched.
Kit's brow furrowed slightly. Not because you were late. Because normally you would've said something else. An excuse. A story. A shrug. Something.
Instead, you were staring at your tray like it held all the answers.
"Everything alright?"
There it was. The question he'd been trying not to ask.
It should have been an easy answer. You almost laughed. Because you didn't know. Your fork scraped lightly against the tray.
Part of you felt lighter. Like something had finally been set down after carrying it for too long. The pressure in your chest wasn't quite as sharp as it had been that morning. The constant buzzing in the back of your mind felt quieter. For now.
But another part of you felt exposed. Raw.
Like someone had peeled back a layer you normally kept hidden and left it there for the world to see.
You kept hearing yourself talk. Hearing the words after they'd already left your mouth.
I care.
Your stomach twisted. Not because they weren't true. Because they were. And now someone else knew it.
You stared down at your tray. The potatoes. The gray meat. The bent spoon.
Anything but him. Anything but those warm brown eyes that always seemed to notice too much.
"I think so." The answer came out softer than intended.
Honest. As honest as you could manage. Because you weren't entirely sure what was wrong in you. Or what was right.
“I think so.”
The answer should've reassured him. It didn't.
Kit watched you push food around your tray. The same way he'd watched you draw circles beneath the tree. Absent-minded. Like part of your attention was somewhere else.
His brow knit slightly. Maybe nobody else would've noticed. Hell, maybe a few weeks ago he wouldn't have noticed. But he'd gotten used to you.
The little things. The way your eyes usually wandered around the room when you talked. The way your fingers moved when you were thinking. The pauses before answering questions.
This felt different. Not really worse. Just... Different.
You hadn't looked at him once since sitting down. Not really.
And every time he looked away, he caught his eyes drifting right back. Checking. Making sure you were still there. Still listening. Still present.
The thought made something uneasy settle in his stomach.
Across the table, you continued staring at your tray.
Kit glanced toward the orderlies moving through the cafeteria. Then toward the doors. Then back to you.
Late. Quiet. Distracted.
His jaw tightened faintly.
"Where were you?" The question was gentle. Not accusing. Just worried. And maybe a little more curious than before.
You finally looked up. Only for a second.
"Appointment." Then your gaze dropped back to your tray.
Kit's fork stopped moving. "Yeah?"
You nodded. The potatoes became fascinating once more. "With Dr. Thredson."
Kit could’ve guessed that. The doctor from the yard. The one watching. The one Pepper kept talking about.
"How'd that go?"
You hesitated.
The answer should've been easy.
It wasn't.
Your head was beginning to hurt.
That sounds exhausting.
The words echoed back before you could stop them.
You rubbed your thumb against the edge of the tray. "He asked questions."
Kit huffed a quiet laugh. "That's usually what doctors do."
The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. Just barely. "Yeah."
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then:
"He listened," The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Kit blinked. Then gave a small nod, "That's good."
You looked up.
His expression was genuine. No teasing. No skepticism. Just relief. Like that was the answer he'd been hoping for.
"You seemed pretty nervous before."
Your fingers paused against the tray.
"I was."
"Yeah." Kit nodded slowly.
He could understand that. Hell, he'd been nervous talking to doctors before. Especially in a place like this.
"Did it help?"
The question was simple. Honest. And somehow harder to answer than the others.
You thought about the office. The sunlight. The radio.
The way Thredson had sat there patiently while you searched for words.
You thought about how exposed you'd felt. How relieved. How uncomfortable. How understood. All at once.
"I... think so." The answer came slowly. But it was true.
Kit's shoulders loosened slightly. Not enough that most people would notice. But enough that you did.
"Good."
Just that. Good.
No questions about what you'd discussed. No digging. No trying to pry information out of you.
Just relief that you weren't coming back looking frightened.
The conversation drifted after that. Nothing important. Nothing heavy. Just enough to fill the space between bites of terrible food.
The cafeteria remained loud around you. Orderlies shouting. Trays scraping. Someone laughing too loudly from across the room.
You glanced up.
Kit was looking at you.
You could still see remnants of concern etched between his eyebrows.
But still, he smiled at you. Small. Crooked.
The kind of smile that seemed to appear before he even realized he was doing it.
For a second, you just stared. Then the corner of your own mouth lifted. Not much. But enough.
The concern didn't leave his face, but his eyes softened.
And something in your chest loosened.
Maybe Thredson was right. Maybe being listened to helped. Maybe being seen did too.
The cafeteria remained loud around you. But, you didn't really mind.
