seen from Türkiye
seen from Australia
seen from Yemen
seen from United States
seen from Yemen
seen from India
seen from Tunisia
seen from China
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Last one for a little while. This chapter is the first part of a two parter and I for one am ultra excited about it. Hopefully you guys will be too. Either way, its here now :)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I'm re-writing this piece from scratch! Whoo! Thought I would post the first (new) chapter here because I need to get back to posting my writing here on my blog... something I am often too lazy to do, lol.
Summary: Feelings are ships in bottles, waiting for when the cork is one day loosened.
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Cassie has been thinking a lot about the ocean, recently.
She thinks about ships in bottles, vessels down-sized and encapsulated entirely in glass. She considers what it might be like to be that ship, placed in a container that is much too small and from which there is no escape. They are built piece by tiny piece, within this microcosm, this bottle, with meticulous care. It is a labor of love, building a ship within a bottle, and it cannot be undone. Not unless you are ready to destroy what you have so carefully crafted, and yourself, in the process.
Cassie thinks that she is much like the bottle. In this elaborate metaphor she is the bottle and her feelings are the ship. Her thoughts are the rigging, her happiness the sails, contentment the planks and rivets. The unspoken, the unfathomed, are the wild plants that grow unchecked in every corner untended, taking over with time.
The ship will never reach the water, but it hardly matters because the bottle will shatter long before it has the chance.
Cassie thinks a lot about possibilities. What ifs and what may come. She thinks, frequently, on the right words and phrases to communicate precisely what she means. She thinks about ships in bottles, and about how terrifying it is to be the ship no matter how much you adore the hand that creates.
She isn't thinking any of that right now.
It's difficult to breathe. Her chest aches.
She thinks she might be dying. She must be. She's never experienced it before, death, but this has to be what it's like. Her lungs refuse to intake any air, and her insides feel as though they're being turned inside out. She's coughing, hacking, heaving, as if she has a terminal illness...
No, that must be it. She's simply sick. Perhaps she's picked up a bug, or has caught a particularly bad case of the flu. The Gulch does get especially cold in the winter, with piles of snow that slowly accumulate on the ground through the entirety of the season and ice that coats the branches of the ancient evergreens in the forest, and all those freezing temperatures greatly increased the likelihood of getting sick.
It isn't at all uncommon for a common cold or something similar to pass amongst the seven of them over the course of several days, and Cassie had seen Bob coughing like this just a couple days ago. So, perhaps it was, simply, a cold.
Hopefully with some well-planned rest and a few bowls of soup, she'd be able to recover from it quickly. She was far too busy to have the time to be sick, after all.
---------------
Compton was terribly worried. It was becoming rather late into the morning and still he had not seen Cassie. He supposed it was possible she'd simply chosen to sleep in later than usual, but it was odd for him to be awake before her all the same. Usually she'd greet him in the kitchen and they'd drink tea, discussing their plans for the coming day.
She must be very tired then, Compton thought. He let the front door creak open, then shut again as he entered the house. He tried very hard to be thoughtful, taking the care to step softly and slowly as he made his way around the kitchen. He put the kettle out to heat on the stove, fussing over it quietly, but he paused immediately as soon as he heard coughing from further in the house. He made a mental note to bring a cup of tea to Cassie as soon as he was done brewing the pot (hot tea was an excellent way to soothe an irritated throat, after all) but the continued sound of coughing was enough to concern him.
Instead of going back to minding the tea Compton shuffled quickly through the hallway, making his way toward the bedroom at the back of the house.
The door eased open, and Compton stepped into the room. He could see Cassie seated on the side of the bed, honey-comb patterned quilt pulled around her shoulders and head in her hands as she tried to catch her breath.
“Cassie, are you alright?” He asked gently.
“Oh, Compton! Sorry, I didn’t notice you came in.” Cassie smiled at him, or at least tried to. As things stood it looked more like a grimace, and she winced after a moment, hand moving to hover over her chest. Her voice was scratchy and hoarse, and she sounded like she was in a great deal of pain that she was working valiantly to mask.
She glanced over at the clock on her bedside, squinting her eyes as she stared at it blearily. “Uh, what time is it?”
Compton didn’t need to look, but his gaze followed that same direction anyway. The red numbers glowed brightly in the half dark since the curtains were, shockingly, all drawn closed. She never left the curtains closed. “It’s nearly noon.”
Cassie’s eyes widened and her eyebrows shot upward. “Oh no, I am so sorry. We had that meeting today, right?” She scrambled to her feet immediately, rushing over to her closet to procure her sandals, the ones she could slip on quickly and fasten properly as she walked. Compton watched as she darted to and fro, looking for a pencil here or a notebook there. She stuffed whatever she thought she needed in a cloth shoulderbag Compton had seen her use many, many times before, and she was on her way towards the door before Compton could even properly process what was going on. Compton wasn’t shocked per se, seeing as her specialty was multi-tasking and therefore also efficiency, but her sudden vibrancy was a far cry from what he’d seen even moments before. He stared a bit.
Cassie tapped him on the shoulder as she passed, still fastening one sandal strap while she stepped into the hall. “C’mon, Compton. Let’s go before I make us any later.”
Compton fell into step beside his best friend. He handed her the cup of tea before they reached the kitchen, and she smiled appreciatively before taking it by the handle. She sipped at it as they walked through the house. Compton noticed the disorder of the bookshelves once more when they passed through the main interior, but he didn’t mention it. Cassie was still talking, after all, and the last thing Compton ever wanted to be was inconsiderate.
“We’ll never hear the end of it from Otto if we aren’t on time. Or, I won’t, at least. He’s seemed to have taken a liking to you, so I’m sure you’ll be fine. But if I’m even five minutes off I’ll likely have to deal with him calling me Tardy Cassie or the like for a whole week, or until he tires of it at any rate. But, naturally, if Otto and Bob both show up high as a kite we aren’t supposed to mention it.” She laughed at that, which quickly devolved into a full blown coughing fit that made her stop in her tracks.
Compton felt a great deal of concern bubbling up within him, and he turned his full attention toward her. “Are you sick?” He asked, watching for the signs of a conclusion he’s suspected since he first saw her today.
There was a short but stark moment where she considered lying to him. He could see it in her face, the quiet conflict that rested there.
She wanted to offer him reassurance regardless of whether it was true or not, because she didn’t want him to worry about her. She never wanted any of the others to worry about her, but especially not Compton. They’ve talked about it before, though, her wanting to protect him in this way– and he’d been quite clear it never helped. He was worried already, so there was no point in trying to avoid that now, and empty reassurances tended to have the opposite effect for him, anyway. He’ll just worry more, wondering what she wasn’t telling him. Catastrophizing, imagining all of the worst possibilities.
They both understood and accepted that complete honesty was best.
Cassie huffed out a quiet breath, then nodded. “Possibly, yes.” The grass leading to Cassie’s home soon transitioned into large grit gravel, a mix of smooth pebbles and rough rocks that were a tad uncomfortable underfoot. It kept the ground from becoming terribly muddy when it rained, however, making it a fair trade. The sun was bright and shining, their shadows short and stubby as they continued cutting through the Gulch toward the Heptadome. They could see the glass by now, shining and glittering in the light.
Cassie spoke quieter, just in case anyone was around to listen. “But there really is nothing for you to be concerned about. I’ve been sick before, and I’m sure I’ll be sick again… life is a long time, after all.” When that does little to relieve the worry Compton was feeling, Cassie added, “I will be perfectly fine.”
“Maybe we should go back? If you aren’t feeling well it might be best for you to stay home.”
“Don’t be silly, Boolie."
"I could stay with you? I don't think missing one meeting will be much of an issue…"
"I'm not missing this over a silly cough."
"I don't mean to be pushy, but I think you need rest."
"Boolie, I need rest about as much as I need–"
“Hey you two! We were worried you might have gotten lost on the way!” Helmut waved cheerfully as soon as he caught sight of them, which was still quite a distance from the Heptadome proper. He jogged over to them, grinning in that way he does, bright as strobe lights, and threw his arms around their shoulders as he walked with them. “We sure woulda missed you guys. Glad you could make it!”
"We wouldn't miss it for the world," Cassie replied, maybe a tad exaggerative, but Helmut's grin grew at the statement, and it was worth it in the end.
"Heck yeah! Otto was super excited this morning. Something about bottles. Haven't been able to get the details out of him just yet, but everyone is really hyped."
"And here I was, just about to ask what the shenanigans of the day might be."
Helmut chuckled, but before he could properly respond all three of them got a face full of smoke that was currently wafting out from the front of the Heptadome. They couldn't actually see inside because the entire doorway was filled with… an unidentified gas leaking out, swirling in the air, colored a light purple that became blue that became green, so on and so forth, before dissipating into the open air of the surrounding Gulch. Helmut and Compton cough a bit on the fumes, the former of the two waving a hand in front of his face to try to clear some of it. Cassie, who's eyes have begun to water, barely managed not to choke on the tainted air.
"Is this… smoke…?" Compton's eyes widened. "Is someone burning something?"
Helmut shook his head. "Nah. This stuff has been coming out of whatever Otto's working on for a while now. It wasn't this bad before though."
Cassie started to cough again, body wracking coughs that made her chest hurt.
"Yo, Cass, are you good?"
"I'm fine." She was tearing up, now. The ache that had settled in her chest, ripping and tearing and rending, felt something like sadness in its most visceral form. She wanted to curl into a tiny ball and cry and she had no idea why.
"Cassie–"
"Can someone clear this up, please?"
"Hey, Otto! What's going on in there?" Helmut called inside. "Are you making poison with your chemistry set?" He joked.
There was a call shot back after a moment, preceded by a scoff. "No, not today! This test is perfectly harmless to the human body. Mostly. As far as I can tell. Why are you asking?"
"Whatever you're making in there is messing with Cassie real bad."
Cassie hissed softly, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her palm. She placed a hand at the crook of Helmut's elbow to get his attention. "Don't tell him that," She practically pleaded.
"Why not? It's true, right?"
"You truly do not understand how obnoxious he can get."
"Did you tell her that that's just the price we scientists must pay? If she's not up for pushing things forward, then why even try?"
"No, I didn't!" Helmut shouted back.
"Alright! Tell her that, then."
A new voice chimed in. "Come now. Don't you think you're being a little unreasonable?"
"We've been over this countless times," Otto replied. "No one has to participate who doesn't want to."
"Well I think you should be a little more lenient." It took Cassie a minute to notice it was Lucy speaking, but as soon as she did she could easily picture the teasing smile she was likely wearing now.
"Ford, back me up here!"
"Don't pull me into this. I'm going to go get the fan."
It took a few minutes, maybe five, for Ford to find a fan but soon after the space began to clear. The fumes clogging the space mainly dissipated with help from the fan, and once it was mostly gone they could see Otto standing in the middle of the Heptadome in front of a long table, covered in a series of beakers, bottles and tubes connecting them all. A few rounded bottles, filled to the brim with liquid, were lined up in a row on the table, and Otto held one filled with a blue liquid in his hand. Each one of them had their own trail of colored vapor, rising slowly from their openings.
Ford was still minding the fan, turning it further toward the door. He walked over to the table and stood next to Otto once he was done.
Bob was nowhere to be found, but that had become a common and repeating occurrence recently. If asked, Bob's excuse was almost always invariably working with his plants, but it started to fall a bit flat after a while. Cassie had been meaning to ask him what was really going on, but had her own concerns at the moment.
"Now that that whole debacle's been handled can we finally get to the reason we're all here?" Otto held up the bottle in his hand with a wide grin. "Who wants to test my newest creation first?"
No one raised their hand. After a few beats of silence Helmut raised his.
"I wanted to ask a question. Was it safe to sit in here with all that… stuff in the air? Because I think we've already been in here two hours."
Ford nodded in agreement.
Otto just laughed. "That is the question, isn't it? Anyway–"
"Hey, Cassie!" She turned, startled by the call though it was relatively quiet. Lucy was smiling at her, patting the cushion next to her. "You should sit next to me!"
"Oh, really? Are you sure?"
"Of course I am. C'mon." She patted the cushion a couple more times for good measure, then turned back to Otto. She was obviously expecting Cassie to sit.
Cassie sat down next to Lucy, tucking her legs under her, hands in her lap. The ache in her chest had settled down into something of an itch, small and easily ignored, so she decided to do just that; ignore it. With that in mind, she turned her full attention back to Otto, who was still in the midst of explaining.
“--What if I told you it was possible to emulate the essence of any known emotion through the use of psitanium and a slurry of synthetic compounds?”
“Any emotion?”
“Within reason, but, yes, that is what I’m saying.”
Helmut hummed in thought. “What about uh… homesickness?”
“No, that’s too specific. Tamp that down more to general hopelessness and that’s closer to the ballpark.” Otto picked up a different bottle, this one a pale green that glowed like it was toxic. “Want to guess what this one is?”
“Radiation poisoning,” Helmut suggested with a laugh. “Yeah, that one is one hundred percent Radiation Poisoning.”
“I see someone's taken Bob’s position as resident heckler.”
“Somebody’s gotta keep you in check,” Ford said.
“Instead of being researchers you should all become comedians.” Otto rolled his eyes. “Alright, everybody take a bottle. Let’s see how well this stuff works.”
Lucy leaned toward Cassie, whispering to her. “I believe things are about to get interesting.”
She was very close, for a moment, close enough to make Cassie inexplicably nervous– close enough that she could count her lashes, if she so chose, and she could see the golden flecks in her green eyes. Cassie tried to swallow back that odd sensation that was twining its way through her chest once more, something like itching moss tugging at her heartstrings. She reminded herself to do some research on viruses or illnesses that cause… heartburn, perhaps… once this was all over.
Before she could think of a proper reply, a bottle was being shoved into her hands. A lavender purple liquid swirled inside, gleaming just barely even in the bright light streaming through the Heptadome’s glass.
The others held identical bottles, each of a different shade. Lucy was entirely transfixed by the pink liquid in hers, watching it swirl and swirl around like a storm in a bottle as she held it up to the light.
The blue bottle remained on the table, near to Otto but still untouched thus far.
Ford picked up a pencil, scribbling something into the margins of the notebook he was holding.
"I think that makes us ready to get started." Otto announced. "Right, Cruller?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
Compton stared at his bottle with an apprehensive look. After a while longer of just staring at it, he raised his hand.
"Yeah, Compton?" Otto asked.
"Um. Is this… safe?"
"Of course it is. Probably."
The silence stretched on.
"Yeah, I'm with Compton on this one," Helmut pointed at the bottle in his own hand, the same noxious green one from earlier, and made a face. "I'm not taking this unless you do it, too."
"I'm observing–" Otto began to protest, but Ford cut him off.
"I'm the one making the observations. You're just standing around watching." He picked up the blue bottle with a smirk and shoved it into Otto's hands. "C'mon, you made it, you can test it. Bottoms up."
Otto sighed, but acquiesced. "Fine. Luckily for you all I'm taking one for the team. This one is by far the worst."
"You're our hero, Toto," Lucy teased, and all the others, besides Otto at least, laughed.
"So, are we all just going to stare at each other and not drink this or what?" Helmut looked around at all the faces around him. None of them looked all that excited about their individual bottles. Compton was still watching his like it was a feral animal that might bite him.
Cassie tried not to look at hers all that deeply.
Distilled emotions. The concept was… worrisome.
"Okay, that's enough stalling." Ford held up a hand, holding up five fingers. "I'm going to count down to five and everyone is going to drink theirs at the same time."
Ford lowered a finger for each second. Five. Four. Three. Two. At the end of the five seconds, they each took a sip. The difference in time could only have been a few seconds, but as it turned out a lot could happen in that time.
At first, nothing happened at all. Lucy drank hers first, and she mentioned that it tasted sweet, like plums, and wasn't that just lovely. Helmut was second, and he had nothing to say about the flavor, but his mouth puckered up and that was saying more than enough. Compton only took a sip of his, quick and hesitant, and then flinched as if he had burnt his tongue.
Otto didn't react at all, initially, downing a fourth of the bottle and then pondering about potency after the fact.
Cassie drank hers, but all she could note beyond a slight citrusy taste was the way the pit in her stomach grew wider.
Nothing really happened at first, but it didn't take it long to come into full effect.
Everyone stared when Compton, mild-mannered Compton, started to shout in rage.
Cassie didn't think she'd ever seen Otto cry, either, but he suddenly broke out into tears, abruptly, without warning. He was wailing loudly, and Cassie was startled by the sound. A sweeping dread fell over her, like a wave, and she cringed away, shuddering.
"--Why are you being so inconsiderate! You can't treat people like that! I won't be treated like that!"
Bang! There was a crash, and someone was shouting even louder. Cassie yelped and cowered, and it took her a long, long while to realize it was Compton's voice that was making all the noise. And it was just noise to her, a terrifying, frightening noise. She had no idea how or why, but somehow that noise was going to hurt her.
"Take a chill pill already dude. Geez." Helmut scoffed, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling.
"I'm trying. I'm trying my best. I keep working harder but will I ever be good enough? What if I'm never able to prove that I'm worth something?" Otto sobbed between words. "Has anything I've done amounted to anything?"
"--Lab rats?! Is that all we are to you?!--"
Ford held his hands up, eyes wide. "Hey, I'm just the guy with the clipboard!"
"Am I a failure?" Otto blubbered.
"That's so gross." Helmut said, sticking his tongue out with a disgusted face. "Are you crying, man?"
Cassie was afraid. Scared that Helmut would judge her and Otto would never stop crying and that guy with the clipboard was surely out to get her. She was terrified of not meeting expectations and being hated and being discarded, and that guy, Ford, was staring at her and sneering and jotting down words and she feared what he might be writing. Dread settled in the back of her mind and along her spine and sunk deep into her flesh, and she couldn't hear because she was so afraid.
Compton ranted and raved, storming out with steps that felt like miniature earthquakes, and Cassie found she was afraid of his anger, too. Otto's vulnerability was too intense and too acute– frightening in its own right. Helmut's judgment was piercing, sharp and almost painful.
Ford was still writing with the scratch of graphite on paper and she dreaded finding out what it said.
She curled into a ball, forehead against her knees and arms around her shins, anything to block out everything else. Still her thoughts ran rampant, coming up with dozens of horrifying scenarios with which to torment her.
She had no idea how much time had passed, but she felt a tap on her shoulder. Cassie scrambled away as fast as she could, chest heaving as she stared at the would have been, possible assailant.
Lucy looked back at her, head tilted to the side. There was a small, lopsided smile tugging at her mouth, and her expression was… soft. Incredibly affectionate.
Cassie gaped at her.
"Are you okay? You look really frightened," Her voice was soothing and gentle.
Cassie swallowed hard, still trembling. A thought came, a fear she'd shoved as far down as she could, unbidden and entirely unwanted; She'll never feel the same way.
She will never care for you. Not in the way you want.
"I– I–" She couldn't get a word out. Her teeth were clattering. “I… don’t know. Everything is so…” She didn’t know how to describe the feeling, but it was like her entire world was caving in and she was caught in the center of it, terrified of being crushed. “I’m scared,” She whispered, finally, her voice tiny.
A look of determination crossed Lucy’s face, and she didn’t hesitate even for a second before pulling Cassie fully into her arms. She put her chin on Cassie’s shoulder and reached her hand up to cradle the back of her head, supporting her, hugging her tight. “It’s okay, honey. You’re going to be okay, I promise. I know things can be frightening sometimes, especially when you don’t always know what’s going to happen, but I’m here for you right now.”
Something in Cassie’s chest absolutely ached to the point of hurting, tearing, bursting. Another thought came, clear within the haze of fear, unexpected and yet all too easy to predict; Tell her you love her.
“Whatever it is that’s scaring you, I promise I won’t let it hurt you. I would never let anything hurt you. I'm here for you.”
It took Cassie a while to process that fully. Once she did she was left speechless. Cassie didn’t say anything, instead just hiding her face against Lucy’s shoulder, holding on to her even tighter (falling just that little bit more in love.) Lucy brushed a hand over her hair, looking down at her with an expression Cassie was far too overwhelmed to even attempt to notice or identify.
Ford noticed, however. He jotted down a note on the page, closed the book with the pencil wedged inside as a bookmark, and went back to observing.
It took ten more minutes for the effects to wear off, at which point the remaining five of them sat in dead, utter silence. Cassie finally felt like she could breath, for a moment, at least, because then she noticed Lucy was still holding her. She didn't know how to broach the subject without it giving the wrong impression, so she said nothing.
Tell her.
She said nothing. Breathing felt like thorns in her lungs, aching, tearing but she attributed it to the after effects of the distilled emotion compounded by illness and didn't give it another thought.
Otto cleared his throat, took hold of the table leg next to him and pulled himself to his feet. He was eerily quiet.
Helmut glanced around the room then hummed to himself, making a pop sound with his mouth. "Wowza. That was something, huh?" His grin was sheepish, but soon grew wide and amused. "Is it Friday, because that sure was Freaky!"
Lucy was the first one to laugh, bright and unrestrained, absolutely tickled by Helmut's apparent wit. The others joined after a minute or so, and the tense atmosphere was shattered like glass in the heat.
Ford tapped his pencil against his cheek. "So, I think we can all agree that would have been better one at a time."
"Yup," Helmut agreed. "We didn’t dodge that bullet."
"Now we know for next time."
"Hey, where's Compton?"
"He left…" Ford said. "You were kind of giving him a look and I think it ticked him off? He'll probably be back soon, though. The effects should have worn off for him too by now."
"Ah man… I hope I didn't say anything too mean to him." Helmut was already getting to his feet. "I'm going to go find him. Which direction did he go?"
Ford pointed to the side entrance that opened out onto a path that eventually led to the Psychoisolation Chamber.
"Got it." Helmut started jogging in that direction.
"Hey, check up on Flower Boy while you're at it," Otto called after him, voice still a little strained. He certainly sounded as though he'd been crying. "I haven't seen him for two days straight."
Helmut saluted with a nod, but then he stopped with his hand on the top of the doorframe, a grin on his face. "Yeah… Otto, are you sure he isn't avoiding you?"
"Of course not. I'm a f-cking delight. Now get going." Otto shooed him. Helmut grinned yet again, laughing, and made his way out of the Heptadome.
Lucy looked down at Cassie. She still spoke softly, quietly, but it now seemed to be more about not scaring her off as opposed to anything else. “Are you feeling better now?”
"I think so. Thank you for helping me calm down." Cassie noticed that Lucy was holding her hand. She must have taken it while Cassie was spiraling into her chasm of downright debilitating terror.
It all felt rather silly, now. The sun was shining. It was a warm, mid-winter afternoon.
The world was not ending. It wasn't.
"Anytime," Lucy said with a smile. "I'm here whenever you need me."
It was a silly desire, but some part of Cassie hoped she’d never let go. Of course, Cassie glanced at Ford and then away from him just as quickly, face hot with something akin to shame, and she knew she’d have to. But for this moment she chose to bask in what was practically like the all-encompassing warmth of the sun, even if just for a few, short, selfish fractions of time.
And she admitted to herself, right here and now, that Lucy had her heart. She always would.
She did not admit to the way her heart ached at the thought.
---------------
Later that evening, long after the effects had worn off, Ford went to speak to Otto.
As soon as Otto saw him he offered yet another sheepish grin, crossed his arms over his chest, and heaved a great big sigh. “Yeah, yeah, not my best moment I know.”
“I’m not here to talk about that,” Ford said, taking a seat on the edge of Otto’s workbench.
“Really? I was sure you would want to tease me at least a bit.” He shrugged, and he picked his screwdriver back up, continuing to tinker with the handheld device in his hands. “Okay, shoot. What is it you do want to know? And before you say you don’t I can tell when you’ve got something on your mind.”
“What was in that bottle I gave Lucy? I know what all the others were already, but I’m not sure about that one.”
Otto didn’t give much of a response. “That was the mild stuff, just like I told you. Why does it matter?”
“Can't you just answer the question?”
“Don’t get your mustache in a twist, alright. It’s uh… you know, the pink one.”
“That tells me nothing.”
“You don’t think of emotions as colors? Is this not obvious? Sadness is blue, anger is red, revulsion or disgust is green, so on and so forth.” Otto paused, waiting to see if this concept was going to click with Ford. When it didn’t, Otto just sighed. “Really Ford? This is so much easier to talk about with Helmut.”
Otto put down his screwdriver and the device, before spinning around in his chair so he could look directly at Ford. “The bottle you gave Lucy was Love, which was one of the one’s I debated making at all for the record, because, honestly, what are the real world, practical applications for something like that?”
“Right, but depression on demand is going to be super useful.”
“Shut up, Cruller.” Otto shot back instantly. “I’m not the one who had someone making lovey-dovey eyes at me for an hour and still couldn’t figure out what the emotion behind them was supposed to be.”
Ford punched Otto in the arm with a laugh. “Oh really? How would you know? You spent the whole time bawling your eyes out!”
“Suuuure. But you were completely lucid. So what’s your excuse, hotshot?”
Ford balled up a piece of paper and chucked it at Otto, hitting him square in his forehead. Otto threw it back but missed by a long shot.
“Who’s the hotshot now? Oh, yeah, not you.”
Otto snatched the notebook from Ford. “You’re hilarious. Whatever." He flipped it open to the latest page. "At least tell me you took good notes?”
“What do you think I am? Unprofessional?”
Otto raised an eyebrow and said nothing.
Ford glowered at him, but then he nodded. “Yeah, I made sure to document everything. I know how this works.”
“Great." Otto flipped a few pages, skimming Ford's messy, sprawling handwriting, before closing the notebook and tossing it back to Ford. "We should go over the data tomorrow and then start compiling conclusions."
"Sure." Ford opened the notebook again, re-reading his last observation.
Most of what he'd seen was entirely, or at least mostly, expected. Compton's anger and Helmut's disgust were par for the course. It was odd seeing Otto so dejected but it was, again, something they'd planned for.
What he hadn't expected was the way Lucy looked at Cassie. He recognized it for what it was, now.
Love.
The only real question was why she was trying to hide it in the first place.
Why hadn't she told him?
He'd have to ask her when he got the chance.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
It's me, coming at you guys again with silly Psychonauts content. This time including Gristol, crazy I know.
@britishsass helped out a ton on this one by beta-reading for me. Just want them to know they're appreciated!
Anyway, if you want to read this one here on tumblr.com, it's below the cut.
Anyone who knows the Psychic 7 must know one, simple, undeniable fact. They're a unit, a family, and no one hurts one of their own and gets away with it.
Gristol, unfortunately, is just now learning this.
-------------
It's in no way a coordinated effort. They didn't sit down together and discuss what to do, didn't talk it out and decide this was the best course of action. It's a consensus they come to independently of each other, though they're conclusions are all ironically similar. Perhaps because they are all similarly angry.
Surprisingly it's Otto, who drops by first. He levitates himself up to the Psychisolation Chamber, this one empty besides for the barest essentials, and a single, lonely man. Already, Otto can hear the whiffs of a repeated, humming tune, a childish sort of anthem. He drags a nearby chair to his side as he walks up to the door of the Chamber, and peers inside. There lies Gristol Malik, past heir to the throne of Grulovia, recent mole in the Psychonauts, naysayer, laid out on his sheet less mattress glazed eyed as if he's caught a bad case of death.
Otto waves, smiling, once Gristol looks up and finally notices him. The ex-prince scowls at the man, pausing abruptly in his humming. Instead of addressing Otto he glares back at the floor once more, not even bothering to sit up.
"That's fine," Otto replies with mirth, "You don't have to talk to me. I'm sure you're a fine listener." He pauses as he positions the chair still floating at his side, so he's seated directly in front of the chamber's locked door. He folds his hands over his knees, crossed with one foot kicking, and grins. "How are you holding up? The chamber's comfy?"
There's a noise from the chamber, sounding like a tray hitting the floor. Gristol huffs. "I refuse to eat this rubbish you all call food," He says, after a long pause, slightly muffled through the walls. He sounds like he's about to gear up to make a demanding request for better conditions. Otto cuts him off before he gets the chance.
"That's fine. Eat, don't eat. It's your choice."
Gristol says indignantly, "I won't stand for-"
"Are you sure we couldn't make the chamber more comfortable?" Otto stands up, peering through the eye-slot once more, "It's already soundproof, waterproof, and air tight, but surely there's something we can do to make this easier for you–" his tone never shifts from it's amiable, conversational lilt, but his eyes narrow, glinting in a way that gives Gristol pause.
Otto taps his chin in thought. "I don't know, I mean, it's already perfect for what it's designed for. You can't hear anyone, even if they're screaming at the top of their lungs, and they can't hear you. The walls are reinforced psitanium steel, so no one could possibly break in and hurt you" –and you certainly can't break out.
"No one ever comes up here, anyhow, so you'd get plenty of me time. It's perfect! What more could you ask for?"
Gristol stares up at Otto with wide eyes, once he recognizes this is sounding mighty similar to a threat. He shivers at the thought of being trapped alone, here. "Wait– wait a second. Who the h*ll are you? Where's my usual attendant?"
"All you need to know is that I'm the man who can make certain you never get out of that cage. I can keep you stuck in there for the next decade, before making you conveniently and coincidentally disappear, if I so choose," He's still smiling quite amicably, continuing to whisper the next part. "So I suggest you watch yourself, Mr. Malik. You wouldn't want to make me any angrier than you already have."
"What the–"
"I think that's enough from you, my good man." His voice drips with weaponized hospitality. He glances at the camera behind them, noting the red record light, and turns back to Gristol, who is at this point sitting bolt upright, and wide-eyed. Otto claps his hands together in a dramatic show. "Now, you said something about food?" He asks, in his normal, booming voice. "Great, we'll get right on that. Thank you for your time, Mr. Malik. I think this was a valuable discussion."
Otto promptly collects his chair, bars the eye-slot, and leaves.
---------------
Ford is the next one to stop by, and he is, by all metrics, considerably less friendly. Gristol wakes up to the sound of pounding on the chamber's door, terribly loud and terribly insistent.
"Hey, I'm trying to sleep!" Gristol snaps, and he jumps up to his feet, kicking his sheets off of him with both legs, before stomping over to the entrance. Ford is still pounding the side of his fist on the top of the door when Gristol has gotten close enough to be able to kick it. He yelps in pain, and stumbles back, before screaming in a voice that's half a cry, "Who dares to disturb the future Gzar of Grulovia at such a godawful time of night!"
Ford snatches the slot open, glaring down at Gristol as if he'd rather like to reach in through the gap and strangle him. The old man's scraggly mustache jumps as he frowns. Gristol gasps, shock leaving him speechless for a second. He points at Ford Cruller with a shaky finger, "It's you!" He shouts, shrill.
He subconsciously starts to recede into himself, stepping backwards.
"It's 3 in the afternoon, you dimwit," Is what Cruller tells Gristol harshly, instead of addressing his more than obvious statement.
"You! You-! You ruined everything!"
"Please, everything about that convulted ploy of yours was stupid. No one had to ruin it for you, it was doomed to failure."
"If you and your psychic buffoons hadn't–"
"Now that's enough!" Ford says with a growl. "Don't make me come in there."
"Stupid fortune tellers, ruining everything." Gristol continues to grumble like a child.
He comes at Gristol like a rocket, figuratively speaking, because of course he does. This was one of the many ways Ford was trying to make amends for his many, many mistakes, so he doesn't pull any punches.
"Now you listen here; you can be as scared, as small minded, as stupid as you choose. I don't give a single iota of a single f*ck about you, and you need to understand that. Hate psychics for all I care, makes no difference to me. But if you try to hurt one of mine again? Any of them? ...If you even look at Lucy the wrong way? There will be hell to pay."
"She…" Gristol suddenly remembers his earlier encounter with Otto, and points accusingly at Ford. "No, he put you up to this, didn't he?"
"What? No. I'm doing this of my own volition." Ford waves his hand dismissively. "Lots of people around here think you can change, think you've got a chance of making something better of yourself. They think you can try. I think it's a load of rubbish. Being better means knowing you've done something wrong, that you've hurt people, and you know no such thing." Ford shakes his head. "You are going to fall back to old habits, because you still believe the same terrible lies. I'm here to let you know that when you do f*ck up, if you do f*ck up, I'm going to be right there, ready to dunk your face in the gosh darn flame. I'm here to let you know that I'm coming for you."
Gristol laughs, a foolish choice, really. "What's an old man like you going to do?"
Ford laughs, but it's less amused and more somber. He swiftly teleports into the chamber with Gristol, just long enough to smack him in the back of the head, before teleporting away. "Gah!" Gristol is left standing in silence, nursing a bump just above his neckline, wondering if the old man might be coming back for round two.
He doesn't, but Gristol was convinced he would.
--------------
His next visitors consist of a thick-bearded older man, and his lawfully wedded brain-in-a-ball. Bob Zanotto frowns, halfway down the walkway to the Psychoisolation chamber, and whispers to the sloshing brain orb in his arms, "Hey, you sure about this? There's still repairs on the Feel Mobile we could be doing, ya know, if this is too much?"
Helmut nudges against Bob's forearm. "Course I am. C'mon, for Lucy!"
Bob walks up to the chamber, Helmut's brain still cradled in his arms. Gristol puts down his fork, throws it to the floor, really, pushing his lunch tray away, and strains to look at them.
"Who are you?" Gristol hisses. "Why am I suddenly getting so many visitors? I want to be left alone!"
"You don't remember us? You know, from that out of control water-tornado you caused?" Helmut asks.
"We were the ones trying to avert that whole mess." Bob scowls, and hugs his husband's brain a little tighter to his chest. "We were doing great before you showed up, by the way."
"It was only… what, a week ago?"
"Two weeks, Honeybear."
"Time gets really funky sometimes. Must be the brain juices."
"Are you going to answer my question?" Gristol asks, becoming increasingly frustrated.
"Oh, sure!" Helmut chirps, "My name's Helmut. I'm the guy who was piloting your body for a while, while you were absent. And the handsome hunk who's holding me right now is my lovey-hubby, Bob."
Bob blushes, and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "We're getting sidetracked here, Helmut. We came here for a specific reason, right?"
"Yeah, yeah, right! Would you like to do the honors or should I?"
Bob deposits Helmut's brain back on the floor, watching with no lack of fondness as the orb his husband is in starts zipping around. "I'll handle this," Bob replies.
"What are you going to do that hasn't already been done?" Gristol asks.
Bob's upper lip curls upward into a disgusted snarl. "Gah, I can't believe I almost kissed that."
Helmut rolls side to side, occasionally knudging against Bob's ankles. "I bet you're glad you listened to me now, huh, Bobbybear."
Bob smiles faintly at that.
Bob turns back to Gristol. "Grulovia was bad enough the first time around. Your old man, let's just say he got what he deserved."
"You won't get any disagreement from me on that front," Gristol says.
Bob's brow furrows, but he ultimately decides to ignore him so he can continue making his point. "Right, well, anyway, the point was that it isn't going to take a whole country of people hurt for me to decide you need to go. One is sufficient. I'm not going to call the waves, and carry you out to sea. Or burn you like Ford might, or call in all those crazy gadgets Otto would. Instead, I'll just have a nice chat with my plant friends. They're smart, and they're creative too, so they'll know what to do."
"There's lots of empty fields around here. Lots of places to bury uh, you know… things. Relatively large things." Bob states, with clear ill-intent.
Gristol looks more than a little sick at the implication.
"Are we talking about composting?" Helmut asks happily. It's unclear if he's been following the conversation up to now. "The plants could always use some fresh plant food!"
"My thoughts exactly," Bob answers. He scoops up Helmut, earning the disembodied brain equivalent of a whooping laugh. "Speaking of food, I heard the Noodle Bowl has a special on pretzels today." Bob adds.
Helmut jitters with excitement in his orb, but then psychically transmits disappointed vibes at Bob, after a moment. "Don't tease me like that, Bobby. S'not nice."
Bob pats the orb apologetically. "Oh, right, sorry. Forgot about that whole, can't eat thing."
"How will handsome Helmut survive such travesty?"
"I promise we'll get you a bunch of pretzels, once you're back to your body. How's that sound?"
"Far out!"
Gristol's appetite has, without a doubt, soured. He doesn't even try to bother with his lunchtime bologna, at this point.
-------------
Gristol's time is peacefully silent, for about three days. No one visits, no one speaks to him, and no one comes anywhere near where he's being held besides to drop off his meals.
His luck runs out on the third day.
He should have expected it. How many of them were there? Six? Seven? Eight?
She doesn't bother with sitting. Or long preambles, or even a simple, polite introduction. She's all business, stepping up to the door and delicately sliding the eye-slot open, before standing back, clearing her throat to get his attention.
"It would be such a shame if a swarm of bees were to wander into this chamber, wouldn't it?"
Gristol, at this point, is just tired. He is so, very tired. "You wouldn't dare," he says, but it's lacking his previous, gung-ho conviction.
Cassie hums flippantly, like they're discussing grocery lists, or book sales. "I control the bees in theory, but if they've set their mind to something it's much too difficult to stop them. As a hive they have their own momentum." It's out of my hands, she implies, as if she doesn't want his head on a pike.
If she's like the last four, she too has murderous intent.
Gristol finds it very difficult to drum up the energy to be properly scared. He drops his head back against the metal wall of the Psychoisolation Chamber with a solid sounding thunk, wondering all the while how his life could have possibly gone so far sideways . What did he do wrong? Was trying to resurrect his fallen kingdom's savior really such a terrible thing?
Is he even going to survive to the end of the summer? Or is one of these insane psychics going to psi-blast him to death first? And does he even care anymore?
"You know all of your friends have already been through to threaten me, right?" Gristol asks, too exhausted to affect his usual, annoyed drawl when he talks to lessers.
(If she knew you thought that, she'd probably sentence you to death by bee right now.)
"Oh, really?" The freakishly tall, old woman asks. She sounds disappointed not to be the first, as if her thunder has been stolen. She taps her pencil against the cover of the volume folded in her hands.
"Yes. All with increasingly… violent warnings."
"Oh, alright then," She definitely sounds disappointed, "I was hoping to properly scare you straight. But, seeing as I've already been beat to the punch, we can cut this short. I'm sure you're sick of all the long lectures, and I have much better use of my time than associating with you any longer than I must."
Gristol returns her disdain in equal measure. It's what he's best at, after all. "I'll have you know that I am the crown prince of Grulovia and I will be respected."
Cassie smiles at him, thin and without teeth, a pitying sort of expression. "No… no, what you are is a sad man, who hasn't yet realized he is at the end of his rope." She tears a page out of the notebook in her hands, folding it with practiced dexterity as she stands to her full height (not quite full height, per se, since she has to crouch slightly, craning her neck down, to look in through the slot). "My bees patrol the surrounding woods. They, just as I, are quite fond of Lucy... I think I speak for them when I say our opinions of the Motherlobe are a little more complex, but that's still home. You know how bees react when you threaten their home, surely."
Gristol covers his face and muffles a scream. "I'm surrounded by crazy people."
Cassie slips a note through the slot in the metal door, folded into an origami butterfly that almost seems to flutter as it drifts to the floor. "I think I'll just leave this with you. Good day to you, Malik."
"You've already done it once," The note reads, tersely. There isn't any need to specify what it is. "Try it again, and it will be at your own peril."
– Cassie O'Pia
-------------
Compton comes to Psychoisolation specifically to head to his own Chamber and collect his things. He left some precious mementos behind, and had a mind to reclaim them- starting with his framed photograph of him and Cassie, oh, and his chess board, of course. He's walking back to the elevator shaft with his belongings tucked under his arms when he notices noises coming from the only other currently occupied Chamber.
Ah, so that must be where they're keeping Gristol Malik.
He walks over, and steps up to the door. It's too tall for him to peer in, since this chamber is fashioned more for the average sized Psychonaut, and is much taller than his own. He reaches up, slides open the slot near the top of the door, and then clears his throat.
The ending dregs of 'Glory to Grulovia' stop abruptly. Compton frowns reflexively, and shifts on the tips of his toes, as an especially smug voice sounds from deeper in isolation.
"Your future ruler, Gristol Malik of the innumerable Maliks, speaking. Who are you, and what do you want?"
What an awfully unpleasant young man, Compton thinks, with no small amount of discomfort. Someone needs to talk some sense into him, before–
Compton's resolve only strengthens further.
"Hello. I'm Agent Boole. I just thought it would be best to let you know that I have been known, on occasion, to explode a head or two."
Gristol visibly pales. "Hold on, what the h-?"
"I'm sorry, I really must be going. I was only supposed to be here a few minutes, and Cassie is already waiting for me." Compton turns on his heel and rushes off, belongings jangling as he moves.
Gristol is met with the sounds of footsteps retreating. Something falls to the floor, and he can hear whoever's on the other side of the door scrambling to pick it up. Then more footsteps, rushing away, before they peeter out into silence.
The note he received yesterday is still crumpled on the floor to his right.
Gristol is left to panic, once he fully realizes that that was one of them.
-----------
"You poor thing. You're scared, aren't you?" Lucy nods. "I know what Crully and the others are doing. It's sweet- lovely, really, having family that will do these sorts of things for you. Threatening silly little fartheads to keep you safe. I've missed them, but I couldn't really remember what I was missing, which only made me miss them more. A vicious cycle, memory. But I'm rambling."
"I won't hold them back," Lucy says. "You still are that spoiled little brat I knew all those years ago. Maybe you can change, but I won't hold my breath. Your father couldn't, and you've shaped up to be just like him."
"Don't you talk about my father! He was an idiot and a- a coward, and I am nothing like him."
"Just be happy I've turned over a new leaf." Lucy sighs. "It's a shame. You have such potential, if you could just get out of your own way, silly glupi."
Gristol grumbles, and it's a bitter, hateful sound. Lucy hooks her fingers over the edge of the slot, the only means of contact Gristol had with the outside world. She would have brushed her bandaged hand against his cheek, if she could. It doesn't matter, of course, since he would have turned his head away, anyway. He turns his face away from her, now, so he doesn't have to see her disappointment.
Lucy's next statement is knowing in her certainty, smug with her resolution. She chuckles heartily, a cackling noise.
"Chin up, little prince," she says like she might have all those years ago, when he was still a tiny little boy, and the worst he had ever done was be fussy with an attendant. She looks at him not like her enemy, but an old friend fallen to the wayside. There is kindness in that gaze, a quality in her he had not noticed nor valued, before. Her smile contains lifetimes, more contemplative than first glances ever reveal.
"There's hope for you yet."
"Please just– just leave me alone." Gristol mutters. "Don't you have bowling pins to juggle or something?"
"Protect yourself if you must, but it won't get you out of that metal bubble of yours." She tuts disapprovingly, as if she's just given him a test and he's failed. "I think… maybe, you could change. It's your choice…" She contemplates the next part deeply, before eventually adding, softly, "If you ever do decide you want that second chance, ask for me. I promise I'll come, and I'll help you to try."
"Do you really believe I can change?" Gristol asks, and everything about him, from his posture to his tone, is guarded. Angry, and bitter, waiting for the inevitable trick.
"Yes," Lucy answers simply, truthfully. "If you're willing to put in the work."
Hope is a foolish thing, but Gristol still feels it growing in his chest as he watches her walk away, despite his better judgment.
He stares at his hands, for a good long moment after she's long gone, and ponders.
You could be better. Even scarier; there's hope for you yet.
Entanglement
This is an Encanto Triplets One-shot that I've started but haven't finished yet! Excerpt is under the cut, if you guys are interested in seeing it.
Summary: The Madrigal Triplets catch up after nearly a decade spent apart.
———————
He left for Mirabel. He did not leave for himself. He couldn't bring himself to leave for himself, to leave because he was hurting, because he was alone.
Even when he did leave, he did not venture far. He tried leaving Casita, but couldn't get past the door before he was ducking back inside, drawn to the familiar warmth of the home he'd known all his life. He couldn't stay, but he couldn't leave, either.
Entanglement.
It's a phenomenon that states that even once two particles have become separated, there is still a connection between them. Actions performed on one particle affects the other, regardless of how far the distance between them becomes, because that connection never breaks. Entangled particles are separate entities, but only so far as their linkage allows them.
The Madrigal Triplets have always been entangled all in each other.
They've always needed one another.
Even now, Pepa hugs him like she might never see him again, squeezes too tight and too long, chin against his shoulder, arms locked around his middle as she half heaves him in the air, desperate and clinging as if a decade had been five. Julieta had always been the triplet who gave the most comforting hugs, gentle hugs, swaddling in the same sense as her cooking. She came with the goal to reassure.
Pepa's hugs were like assaults, as raw and fierce as her emotions- and certain to be twice as long after a rainstorm's past.
"You're crushing me," Bruno says, managing to eek it out through sore ribs.
And Pepa laughs, and draws back and then grins down at him, and it's slanted and maybe still a little pained. Bruno wonders if that pain will ever go away, ever completely diminish, or if it's like the tears in his ruana, never to be sewed back up again, like a bank of gray clouds forever drifting just on the horizon.
He also wonders if and when his ribs will stop aching.
"Careful with him, Pepa," Julieta calls with a click of her tongue. "He's still so fragile. At least wait until I get a good meal in him before you start trying to crack him in half."
"Are you saying I can't hug my little brother?"
Bruno rights himself, adjusting the tousled folds of his ruana with ticking fingers and a stilted huff. "Tackle. She really means, can't I tackle my little brother."
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Finally finished that Triplets fic I was working on forever ago. Here it is. Have it!
The Madrigal Triplets catch up after nearly a decade spent apart.
-------------
He left for Mirabel. He did not leave for himself. He couldn't bring himself to leave for himself, to leave because he was hurting, because he was alone.
Even when he did leave, he did not venture far. He tried leaving Casita, but couldn't get past the door before he was ducking back inside, drawn to the familiar warmth of the home he'd known all his life. He couldn't stay, but he couldn't leave, either.
Entanglement.
It's a phenomenon that states that even once two particles have become separated, there is still a connection between them. Actions performed on one particle affects the other, regardless of how far the distance between them becomes, because that connection never breaks. Entangled particles are separate entities, but only so far as their linkage allows them.
The Madrigal Triplets have always been all entangled in each other.
They've always needed one another.
Even now, Pepa hugs him like she might never see him again, squeezes too tight and too long, chin against his shoulder, arms locked around his middle as she half heaves him in the air, desperate and clinging as if a decade had been five. Julieta had always been the triplet who gave the most comforting hugs, gentle hugs, swaddling in the same sense as her cooking. She came with the goal to reassure.
Pepa's hugs were like assaults, as raw and fierce as her emotions, and certain to be twice as long after a rainstorm's past.
"You're crushing me," Bruno says, managing to eek it out through sore ribs.
And Pepa laughs, and draws back and then grins down at him, and it's slanted and maybe still a little pained. Bruno wonders if that pain will ever go away, ever completely diminish, or if it's like the tears in his ruana, never to be sewn back up again, like a bank of gray clouds forever drifting just on the horizon.
He also wonders if and when his ribs will stop aching.
"Careful with him, Pepa," Julieta calls with a click of her tongue. "He's still so fragile. At least wait until I get a good meal in him before you start trying to crack him in half."
"Are you saying I can't hug my little brother?"
Bruno rights himself, adjusting the tousled folds of his ruana with ticking fingers and a stilted huff. "Tackle. She really means, can't I tackle my little brother."
Pepa hits his ear with a well aimed flick. Bruno hisses, though it doesn't really, truly hurt, cupping his hand against the side of his head as if her tiny assault has drawn blood.
"Hey, watch it!" Bruno snaps, slapping her hand away.
Pepa shoves him in return, causing him to tumble backwards. He catches himself on the counter and is about 3 seconds from lunging for his sister when a throat's cleared to their right.
Julieta stares them both down with a raised brow and a cup of coffee each, which are passed along the counter by a few of Casita's clattering tiles as soon as they're placed down.
Bruno flops down in his seat with little fanfare. "She started it," Bruno whines, because he has found ten years in the walls has greatly altered his view on his own personal safety.
"Me?" Pepa is still glaring at him, but the lack of telltale rumbling says she isn't all that upset.
Bruno missed this, missed this with the deepest, heaviest of aches. The crackle of the stove, the soft hush of his sister's voices this late in the evening, the warmth of their togetherness. He stews, seeps in it, until they are interrupted.
Small feet patter as the youngest Madrigal dashes headlong into the kitchen. There is, as always, a bright smile affixed on his face. His pajamas, covered in coati and also clearly just pulled on, with a collar haphazardly folded and cuffs not completely pulled down, is a sure indicator he'd been getting ready for bed. He has something in his hands, cradled to his chest, as he walks up to the counter to approach Bruno.
Antonio grins, heaving whatever it was he was holding toward his Tío Bruno, standing on the tips of his toes, "The rats told me they wanted me to give this to you," He exclaims, showing off the gap in his teeth as he grins a little wider, looking so very proud of himself.
Bruno takes the cup, careful to mind the places in which it is cracked. It's an imperfect thing, that cup, but imperfection hardly impairs it's value. He turns it over in his hands, once or twice, tracing the lines where it's been mended with potter's mud.
"Good job, Tonito," Pepa says with a warm smile, "Tío Bruno loves it, doesn't he?"
"...Thank you." Bruno traces the lip of the cup with his fingers, clearly distracted.
"Now, what do we say?"
"You're welcome!"
"Did you get behind your ears? Did those rats help you?"
Antonio nods, giggling.
"No they didn't." Pepa raises both eyebrows, eyes comically wide. Antonio starts laughing harder. "Look, I see dirt. You can't fool me. Upstairs. Vamos, rápido." She shoos him, swatting her hands in his direction. Antonio, at this point overcome with bubbling laughter, darts up the stairs.
"I made this cup."
"Do we have a hidden sculptor in our midst?"
"Oh no, no, nothing like that… I did some pottery for a short stint, didn't work out, not enough water… I needed a kiln too. It takes clay way too long to dry just on out in the open, waiting. Um, I wasn't super great at it either."
Julieta makes a hand motion indicating for Bruno to pass the cup to her. He does, somewhat reluctantly. Without the cool ceramic his hands feel achingly empty.
"Is this-?"
"Yeah."
"This is us," Julieta murmurs.
Julieta wordlessly passes off the cup to Pepa, before their sister can even realize she might want to ask to have it. Pepa, immediately upon inspection, presses a hand over her mouth, half muffling a sound part-way between a screech and a terrible, wet sob. Bruno finally glances up from his hands at the telltale ping of water droplets against kitchen tile. Pepa is raining, tears freely streaming down her face, catching against the lip of her palm.
"Brunito made this?" She turns to Julieta, her hand having moved to her cheek, fingertips pressing at the corner of her mouth, drawing an invisible line to her jaw.
"Where else have you seen handwriting like this?" Julieta asks, softly, oh so lovingly.
Pepa laughs wetly, crackling like distant, distant thunder. She's still crying, now tracing down painted lines, fingertips brushing over damp ceramic cradled in a shaky grip. Her siblings give her a relatively wide berth, lingering just far enough to avoid the spray of her rain, the splash of the droplets, but just close enough to offer a comforting arm squeeze, or the tangling of hands.
"Camilo hasn't been that short in years." Pepa says with a wheeze.
"You're right, not since he was, what, six?"
"And look at your head, Julieta!"
Julieta gasps in mock offense, "Brunito! How could you?"
"Are we done critiquing my artistic talents, now?" Bruno asks with an annoyed huff. "I would have changed it, but you can't erase paint, okay?"
It's become a quiet sobbing, now, a faint sobbing, colored something like long held, long lingering grief. Her shoulders have started shaking, and Bruno has to blink back what he knows is guilt.
"Hey, hey… Don't cry…" He exclaims, he soothes, though it's got nothing to do with the rain, which is lightening and waning, and more to do with the way she's sniffling, the pull of her lip between her teeth, the obvious lifting of the floodgates. He's only just gotten back and he's already made her cry. Miércoles.
"Tell her to stop crying, Julieta."
"Shut up. Lloraré tanto como quiera, idiota." She hugs him again, tight enough to bruise. "If you ever worry me like that again–"
"Okay, okay, I get it. There is no need for threats."
"It'll be a Bruno Massacre." She practically sings out. "I'll char every last hair on your head."
Bruno is having very many mixed feelings. He squirms against his sister's iron grasp, caught between trying not to choke and laughing way too hard. "Julieta, help!"
Julieta steps through the puddles littering the kitchen baseboards with a practiced poise. "Aye, (it's okay) I would never let her do that to you, Brunito." She takes a step back, appraising him with an upturned smile and a twinkle in her eye. "Well, maybe just the eyebrows?"
"Julieta!"
She chuckles, the noise originating from somewhere deep in her middle, one of those body shaking belly laughs that always used to overtake her when they were small, when their world was small, just each other, and all that really mattered was cracking just the right joke to see how long you could get her doubled over for– before miraculous gifts, before rolling thunder, healing meals and impossible futures, before they knew why their mother vanished inside her room on occasion, unable to come out, black shawl clutched tight in both shaking hands– she chuckles, and she cups Bruno's face in her hands and kisses him on the forehead with the vibration of her still stumbling laughter rumbling against his skin, all before she doles out two more forehead kisses in rapid succession, apologizing lightly with each one.
"Kidding. I was kidding, Brunito." She draws back to look at him, and the fondness she levels his way makes something in his chest ache, tight and constricting like a lungful of plaster. "About the eyebrows, I mean," She amends. "Not the rest."
He glances away, toward the floor. "I- I knew that," he says, except some part of him had wondered.
(He's trying to remember the last time he received a forehead kiss from his sister. The memory is fleeting, silty sand sifting between his fingers.)
"I meant it. I was so angry after you left! It thundered for a week, and then it just… then it just rained, and rained, and rained."
"The fields flooded. It took months for them to drain."
"It was not a good harvest that year. We ate nothing but dried corn and flour. Mama was so upset."
"Speaking of flour, remember when you almost dropped an entire bag in the market?"
"Oh God, yes! Of course I do." Pepa quiets down to a whisper. "But I thought we agreed not to talk about that?"
"That's family history, and our dear little brother needs to hear all about it." Julieta replies.
I'm not that much younger than you, Bruno thinks to say, but then he might not get to dig into what sounded like some very juicy gossip. "Exactly, Bruno needs to hear all about it!"
"Fine, but I'm telling the story. You know you always add extra embellishments, Julieta." Pepa glares at her sister, though it's little more than a gentle simmer, tempered by affection.
"I'm just telling it the way I remember it."
Pepa laughs, huffy as it's exhaled. "The way you remember it includes one too many donkeys."
-------------
Julieta drapes the blanket over Bruno's shoulders with care, eventually stepping back to regard her handiwork once the task is complete. His back rises and falls with each belabored breath, and the quilted fabric with it.
A faint hush has fallen over the kitchen, broken only by the skitter of rat paws and the occasional, rumbling snore. Julieta is hesitant to break the silence in fear of waking her brother, regardless of the awkward angling of his neck or the way his face smushes against his arms. A decade spent in the walls has not been kind to Bruno, and Julieta would rather be struck dead then wake up her hermanito prematurely when just a few months ago he was sleeping in a rickety arm chair surrounded by rats, slipping between support beams, and nibbling on absconded arepas behind the family portrait- and even now that he's back he's still bone thin, and achingly tired, and with deep dug trenches cut beneath his eyes.
Julieta struggles to get her legs moving. She finds herself standing, staring, watching, unable to bring herself to leave just yet.
"You should go get some rest, too, hermana." She forgoes the more diminutive nickname she'd usually use, because Pepa looks like she's in the mood to be stubborn and at those times what can usually pass for endearing shifts two steps too close to patronizing.
Pepa hates to be patronized, nearly as much as she hates entirely too obvious observations or muggy, sweltering evenings. Julieta knows that, just as she knows when to push with Pepa and just how far, knows how far is enough to get her to open up, but not so far that the clouds start crowding in and the downpours break out and Pepa still won't quite meet her eye even a week down the road because Julieta's still sniffling.
She knows Pepa, So she knows that right now is not a time to press.
Pepa makes a soft half squeak at the back of her throat. When she finally responds it's distracted, her attention clearly elsewhere. Firmly elsewhere.
"That's okay. You go ahead."
"You'll be grumpy in the morning," Julieta replies. It's just a gentle push, quiet concern concealed behind a sparkling eye and jovial ribbing. "These chairs don't have any lumbar support."
Pepa makes no effort to move. She reaches out and tucks the hairs that have fallen into Bruno's face behind his ear, lingering a moment before drawing back.
That's all it takes, really. Understanding passes between them though not a single word is spoken. The longing, the yearning, the fearing and the hoping- Julieta recognizes with ease. They had too many talks, huddled together, still trembling, (grieving), not to. It's been nearly 8 years since Julieta last entered Bruno's tower, but she still remembers the sting of sand grit against the surface of her eyelids as she wiped away tears, the tiny cut of the grain, the sharp itch when it inevitably entered an eye, falling from her lashes.
She hasn't yet admitted to the ache she still feels, the pain that still lingers, the sting that should have diminished when Bruno came back but hasn't just yet. Cooking hardly helps.
(Food heals the body, but does it heal the soul? The mind? When does a broken heart become a broken heart, and is there ever enough flour to plaster all the cracks?)
Julieta sits back down in the chair between her siblings, gently redraping the blanket around her and Pepa's shoulders so it covers all three of them. Pepa makes a quiet noise of thanks and leans into her sister's open arms, head leant precariously against her shoulder.
"Hmm. What should I tell Félix?" Julieta asks gently.
It was infinitely clear neither of them would be making it to their respective rooms, tonight.
"We can both apologize in the morning," Pepa replies through a stopgapping yawn.
Julieta nods.
"You don't want to leave him, either?" Julieta glances at Bruno, who at this point has shifted around until he too is leaning against her and snoring like a train.
It isn't much of a question. Julieta can see it in her face and in her eyes, no clouds required.
"It's silly, isn't it?" Pepa murmurs, and she grasps on a little tighter to Julieta's forearm.
"No. No it isn't."
"We wouldn't be able to stop him." We couldn't stop him before. "That's the worst part."
"Then let's make him feel like he's home again. Let's be his home, again."
"Do you think it will ever be the same, again?"
Julieta considers. Her mouth opens, closes.
There is silence. Julieta turns to respond, chin dipping downward, only to find Pepa has already fallen asleep between words, her forehead tucking into the curve of her left shoulder and her arm haphazardly draped across Julieta's lap. She's snoring, though when asked she's always adamant she doesn't do that. One of Pepa's knees has also found its way to the top of the chair, gravitating to jab into Julieta's ribs, but that hardly impairs the fondness of Julieta's smile.
Julieta is the only one who remains awake, watching over her siblings, until she too falls into a relatively peaceful slumber.
Julieta's eyes drift close, fluttering, as her head tilts backwards.
It's the most restful sleep she's gotten in awhile, crick in her neck and all.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Is this me writing yet another Cassielucy fic? Yes, yes it is. Will I ever stop? The answer is that I don't plan to any time soon. Anyway, gosh golly I had fun writing this, and hopefully you guys will enjoy reading it, lol.
If you want to read it here on our beloved tamblr.com, it's under the cut.
Description: Otto squints at her the next time he sees her, eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Is that Lucy's sweater?"
Cassie looks down at the sweater, then back up at Otto as if she has no idea what he could mean. "No, it's not."
------------
It's mid-winter, and Cassie is freezing. The Gulch is by no means a warm place in the winter, prone to frequent freezing temperatures and plenty of snow, so having the right clothing is imperative. Cassie is particularly ill prepared, having just arrived at Green Needle Gulch earlier that same year in the dead of summer. She brought with her long, flowing dresses, and short sleeved shirts of a relatively thin material, since that was what her wardrobe primarily consisted of back home. The one coat she did own was left behind in favor of more immediately useful clothing.
She'd meant to purchase a new coat once she got to the states, but never did get around to it. She got swept up in daily life with the others, and the thought slipped her mind, and by the time she was thinking about it again it was nearing the end of December, and she was realizing, perhaps a bit belated, that she's been cold for days.
Cassie has never much liked the cold. It settles in her bones, nipping and clawing, and lingers long after the true chill has subsided.
She shivers as she walks, on her way to Lucrecia's house to hopefully borrow one of her many, extra layers. Lucy's own wardrobe had always been on the heavier side, the warmer side, with a number of coats and sweaters.
"Lucy?" Cassie calls, but receives no answer. She steps into Lucy's home, and glances around, but finds that it's empty. Lucy isn't here.
Cassie shivers quite violently, and takes a few steps further into the house.
She knows she should ask, in theory, but Lucy isn't home to ask. Her clothes are so warm, and, well, it wasn't as if she was going to keep it, long term, anyway. She was only going to borrow it. Cassie really hadn't packed for cold weather, and besides, who else was she supposed to borrow from? She certainly couldn't ask Boolie, or any of the others. A coat from Fullbear would swallow her whole like a particularly wide abyss- hardly functional, though the man might get a friendly laugh out of it, and she'd rather die than be seen wearing anything of Otto's. No, this was the only solution.
The trunk Lucy leaves at the end of the bed is already open, a few articles of clothing sticking out, folded over the sides of the opening.
A particular sweater catches her eye. It's thick, woolen. Cassie saw Lucy wearing it recently. She wonders if it still smells like her. Did you really just think that? No, no.
Cassie pulls it on over her head before she can overthink it any further. Immediately she feels a cascade of welcome warmth, with a barrier between her and the freezing, ambient temperature. It's a little more than that, of course. She relaxes into the fabric with a contented sigh. The fabric does smell faintly of lakespray, lingering vestiges of cigarette smoke, as well as Lucy's specific brand of peach blossom scented perfume, all Lucrecia associated scents that make Cassie's insides twist with… with… with, affection is the word she settles on, eventually, as adjacent of a term as it is. It isn't inaccurate, per se.
It isn't the truth, either. But it's close enough.
She stands up, carefully closes the trunk, and leaves.
-------------
Otto squints at her the next time he sees her, eyes narrowing with suspicion. A moment of watching and he seems to realize what's out of place, eyebrow arching as he asks through a mouthful of meatball, "Is that Lucy's sweater?"
Cassie looks down at the sweater, then back up at Otto as if she has no idea what he could mean. "No, it's not."
Otto hums in thought. "Really? It sure looks like Lucy's sweater."
"It isn't."
"Right, right, It's just another sweater that happens to look just like one of Lucy's sweaters. Right, my mistake."
"I know this looks weird, but I can explain."
"O'Pia, relax. I don't care if Lucy lets you wear her clothes, that's none of my business. Don't care if you start stealing all her jackets or filching her shoes, either. As long as you don't take anything of mine, I couldn't give less of a crap."
"I mean no offense by this, Toto, but that is the last thing you need to worry about. You dress like a background extra from Back to the Future, and it is genuinely appalling."
"A background extra? I am at least Marty Mc-f-cking-Fly, godd-mmit."
"I wouldn't even borrow a pair of socks from Marty McFly."
"It's your loss. I'll have you know I have some of the best patterned socks. Either way, give me my major character status, Cass. You can't take away a man's major character status like that."
"You aren't going to tell Lucy about this, are you?"
"Ford said the exact same thing; Oh golly, Otto, please don't tell Lucy. I don't want her to think I'm a major weirdo or something." Otto says, affecting a mocking impersonation of Ford that isn't half bad. "I told him he was a weirdo, of the highest fricking caliber, of course. None of that mattered anyway, she was still shagging him silly the very next week– and right in front of my Cobb salad, can you believe that? I told them, 'hey, I'm eating here' but they had the nerve to just keep-"
"Okay, I get the picture." Cassie laughs. "I'm very sorry for both you and your salad."
"It was very traumatizing… for the salad, I mean. It never recovered."
"... you ate it."
Otto nods. "I ate it. That was some good salad. Would have been even better if someone," His voice raises to half a shout, "hadn't been getting handsy-"
"They can't hear you, Otto."
Otto just huffs, stabbing his meatball with his fork.
At that moment Helmut pokes his head into one of the side entrances of the Heptadome, with Bob close behind. Helmut waves.
"Hey, heard shouting," He says. "Whazzup?"
"It's just Otto, upset about PDA."
Helmut nods once, used to that sort of news. "Oh yeah, okay, the usge. Is that 'cause of me and Bobby or…"
"Lucy and her dumb-ss boyfriend" Otto replies, just as Cassie says "Lucy," before pausing.
Helmut nods, stepping further into the Heptadome. He too squints at Cassie, but it's Bob that says, rather dubiously, "Is that one of Lucy's sweaters?"
"No," Cassie lies, just as Helmut tilts his head and says, "Yup yup, that's definitely Lucy's. That's why the logo seemed familiar."
"It isn't. But even if it were, so what?"
"I think Cassie needs to tell us where she's from again, because she's clearly been living in De Nile."
"Nothing about that was funny, Otto. Better luck next try."
"I think it's sweet that she lended it to you. Bobby borrows my jacket all the time, right Bobbybear?"
"You weren't supposed to tell anyone about that."
"But I want the whole world to know how much I love and appreciate you, Bobbyboo."
"Helmut."
"What, you think a coupla spectators are going to stop me from sweeping you right off your feet?"
Otto gags, loudly and demonstratively, before collecting his tray of food and slamming his fork down upon it, standing up. "Ughhh, I'm outta here. Maybe I'll come back when the lovebirds are done squawking back and forth."
Bob responds succinctly, showing Otto his middle finger.
"Oh that's so mature, Cactus," Otto replies, rolling his eyes.
"Leave me alone, Robocop, or the cattails won't be so nice today. I'm busy."
"I'm going to go find Compton," Otto announces loudly. "At least he has a clear definition of public decency."
"I think I'll tag along, if that's fine with you," Cassie says.
Otto shrugs. "The more the merrier, I guess."
-----------
"Is that my sweater?"
"Yes, but in my defense, you weren't home and I was very cold."
Lucy smiles at Cassie, taking her time as she cuts the peach in her hand in equidistant slices, then plucking one, popping it into her mouth. She makes a quiet sound of satisfaction at the burst of sweet, tangy juice on her tongue, and when she looks back up at Cassie there's a sparkle in her eye. "I think it looks lovely on you, darling. I have a few others you could try on as well."
Cassie stares for a moment, confused. Her fingertips flit across the surface of the sweater sleeve, against fuzzy woolen fabric, pulling lightly at the occasional, loose thread. "You aren't upset?"
"Not particularly, no. Should I be?" She laughs, then carves out the next slice with the edge of the knife in her hands, before spearing it with the tip, offering the fruit to Cassie. "Would you like a piece?"
"No thank you."
"Are you sure? It's perfectly ripe… I'm not sure how Bob manages that in the middle of winter."
"It is rather impressive, isn't it? I suppose Bob has his ways."
"It's sweet, too, like someone I know."
She must be talking about Ford.
Nope.
Lucy, please… please don't compare me to a peach. I am physically unable to take the psychic damage that would result from that.
Honey then?
Lucy, I am begging you-
Lucy says, out loud, "Look at my honeybunny. Honeycomb. Sweetie belle. My sugarcube, sweet as can be, honeycheeks."
"It's sweet cheeks… Let's talk about the sweater, okay? I assume you want it back?"
Lucy shakes her head, polishing off the last couple slices of peach. Another sits beside her on the table, this one having yet to be peeled properly. "No, I would rather you keep it. Can't have you catching cold. Unless, of course, having me constantly at your bedside sounds appealing to you."
Cassie frowns faintly at the thought… well, not of Lucy at her side, that was really the only silver lining, but at the idea of being bedridden. "I hate being sick. The inactivity is bad enough by itself, and one always feels so icky."
"True, but there is an upside. I make the very best chicken broth."
"I guess that would make it more bearable."
"It would be the perfect excuse to spend the day together." Lucy shrugs. "But we could do that anyway."
Cassie chuckles at that. "Finding alone time around here is about as difficult as finding a needle in a haystack."
"There's a lovely spot on the lake that Crully showed me. It's peaceful, serene even. You should see the way the stars shine, cast over the water." Lucy spreads her hand out in an arcing motion, wiggling her fingers as if imitating the twinkle of the stars they might see. Cassie thought that did sound rather lovely, but she decides to wait until Lucy is done before saying as much. "It's frozen over this time of year, but come spring thaw, I could take you." Lucy's tone turns lilting, "Wouldn't that be romantic?"
"As long as that canoe Ford carved isn't the sort that's always rolling over."
"My Crully is a Master craftsman, or so he claims." She hums fondly. "He explained a bit about counterbalancing and ballasts, was it? Tedious stuff, but it boils down to sand bags in the center of the canoe to keep it steady."
"Are you sure you don't want this back? I know it's one of your favorites, and I've been meaning to buy a coat anyway."
"I'm sure." Lucy considers for a moment. "We should go coat shopping together. We can make a day of it, go to that outlet mall a few towns over, have lunch in the food court. They have the best pretzels."
"I would love to." Cassie grins wider than she ever thought she could at the mention of food court pretzels. As always, Lucy's enthusiasm was rightfully infectious.
"It's a date," She says, tossing the untouched peach to Cassie with a laugh. The other woman catches it in one hand. "In the meantime, you and me, lunch on the porch? It's chilly, but otherwise the weather is gorgeous today."
"Lead the way."
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Look at this depressing little tink-tink fanfic I wrote. Was a bit in the dumps for uh, irl reasons, so I finished this sad fic and now I want yall to have it. On the bright side, there's a hopeful ending, huzzah!
I got the initial idea while talking to @portalcartoon. And @britishsass helped with beta-reading.
If you want to read it here, it's beneath the cut.
It was a clear, cool night, with a pleasant breeze blowing in from the lake and the quiet chirp of cicadas forming the backdrop to Cassie's ponderings. Cassie left her home that evening with the intention of taking full advantage of such a peaceful atmosphere. She hadn't walked outside besides to take care of her bees for a number of days, and she was certain the fresh air would do her some good. Back before exceptionally good weather like this was an excuse to gather together under the stars -dragging blankets out amongst the grass and dirt before sprawling out in clusters or pairs, laying flat on their backs or curled up in balls- talking until their minds were fuzzy with laughter and sleep, and watching the stars until their eyes fluttered closed and morning soon came.
Now, it's a catalyst again, though Cassie knew no starlit sleepovers awaited any of them.
Cassie wandered, for a time, relatively aimlessly. She had no set path in mind, instead walking wherever her feet took her. Eventually, her aimless wandering ended with her on the doorstep of Lucy's old house on the lake, because of course it did. It always did. Everything started and ended here, converging at this singular point, with Cassie powerless to stop it.
She swallowed thickly, eyes already a little wet, and stopped at the threshold separating the inside of Lucy's home from the surrounding Gulch. The doorway was notched with small indentations Ford and Lucy had put in with a carving knife to make their mark, so to speak, with the others later doing the same.
Seven marks, one deeper than the rest, less of a mark and more of a gaping wedge, as if someone took a screwdriver and dug into the wood in a bout of anger, all clustered under her trembling hand in a semi-circle.
Cassie ran her fingers over them as she looked around at the rest of the house.
It was dark, dilapidated. The floors creaked when she took her first step inside, and rot had begun to set in. Water hovered in the air to a cloying degree, and the atmosphere of the place was unwelcoming. Cold. It didn't feel like a home without Lucy, seated knitting at the table, or up in the loft, dangling legs kicking as she waved at her latest guest.
Part of her lamented how abandoned it felt, pondering how they could let it fall so far into disrepair. They should have been helping, caring for it. Another part of her couldn't imagine standing one more moment in the center of this kitchen without collapsing, so she walked as quickly as she could to the lake beyond the back entrance.
Her eyes were burning and her shoulders trembled.
She sank down to her knees at the edge of the lake, watching the way the water rippled across the surface. The gleaming shine of the moonlight reminded her of Lucy, of the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed. She would have looked beautiful under a night sky such as this, with the light framing the soft curves of her smile.
Cassie recalled so many, many nights just like this one, seated beside this very lake with Lucrecia, talking about nothing and everything, both about the most mundane topics she'd ever covered (like the cost of thread, which turned into a three-hour conversation that had them in giggling tatters by the end of it) and the greatest love Cassie had ever known. They shared their first kiss by this lake, impromptu and unplanned. They shared their first promises by this lake, watching stars and whispered commitments.
Cassie had her first breakdown by this lake, just a few days after getting back home to a home that no longer felt like home after the battle with Maligula, so grief-stricken she hadn't felt she could breathe since getting off that plane, settling back in with the latest of weights tied around her neck. That third day, put off by a surly, equally aching Bob who demanded she leave him alone just for a moment, and unable to find Compton because he was with Otto surely on to bigger, better things, finally all alone with a chance to reflect on all the thoughts she'd been stubbornly avoiding… on that third day, she collapsed and she wailed, and she screamed until there was no air left in her lungs to scream with.
Right now she stared into the water, still. Thoughts of what-ifs, of maybe-so's swirling in her mind.
If I had just been there for her. I should have helped her, I should have saved her.
The water rippled. It took Cassie a moment to realize it was the impact of the tears streaming down her face that was causing the rippling, distorting her reflection to the point of incoherence.
Cassie gave her speech and Maligula looked at her with such hatred; the hatred of a friend spurned, a loved one abandoned in their time of need, and something in Cassie's heart broke.
Footsteps sounded behind her, quiet at first and growing steadily louder. She doesn't bother to turn because she already knew who it was, and could easily tell by the tread of his shoes. Besides, they've been alone out here for at least a week.
"H-hello. I wasn't crying." Despite her assurance, her voice was teary. She wiped at the bottom of her eyelids with her two outermost fingers, wrapping her arm around her knees. She was sniffling.
"Right, and I wasn't drinking." Bob dropped down on the embankment beside Cassie as if his legs would no longer sustain his weight, as if he couldn't be bothered to care how he landed, his back twinging alongside the loud wince of a man more than twice his age. He kicked his feet out over the rocks, unconcerned where the soles of his loafers landed. The thin layer of algae coating the surfaces uncovered by low tide would be sure to leave a stain.
He turned his head a half pace to his right, and immediately noticed the frown on her face. "Too soon?" When he didn't get a response he just nodded, fingers moving to massage just above the bridge of his nose. "Too soon, okay. God Bob where is your f-cking… understanding? What's the word?"
She lifted her head from her knees, smiling quite sadly at him. "Solicitude."
"Of which I promise to now show more of." Bob asked, "How long have you been out here, crying?"
Cassie ignored the question. "Lucy would have loved this night," she said instead.
The lack of answer was answer enough.
Bob's hands flexed before moving to flank him on either side. These last few days just the mention of such names, of such loss, was enough to push Bob to anger. The wounds were so freshly hewn, and none of them had been able to reconcile with the emptiness. The lack. The hurt.
Cassie can't stop thinking back to better times, simpler times, even. She was reminded of a warm hand in hers, quiet laughter not quite so twisted in anguished anger. She longed for those days, when the sun shined down upon her, reflected in those verdant green eyes. When she called none other than Lucrecia Mux, friend, the term encompassed nothing and everything, and more than Cassie could ever express.
Thinking of Lucy reminded her of Helmut, as it often did recently, and Cassie covered her mouth and tried not to gasp at the guilt– because surely Bob felt the same way she did. To lose the light of his life so prematurely, to long for what never could be again. Cassie waited, tense shouldered and shaking, for Bob to yell. To scream.
It's what she deserved, after all. It's your fault, that tiny, wheedling voice in the back of her mind said, and she couldn't argue.
The anger never came. Instead, Bob leaned forward, eyes glaring into the water. His cheek twitched, jumping under his beard, and then he tilted his head to the side until he was staring at Cassie, with a casual sort of cadence that they both knew was forced. "Yeah?" He asked.
Cassie hummed in acknowledgment of the new question, eyes still drifting back to the water, still teary and wet. An easier question, one she's prepared for. She bit her lip, and then she began to speak. "On occasion, we would stargaze and she'd ask me to point out all the constellations she didn't know, which was most of them."
A soft laugh, ragged.
She draws her thumb across the edge of the eye-shaped pendant hanging against her sternum, once, then twice. It is smooth and cool, psitanium just like the metal earrings they hadn't found Lucrecia wearing once it was time to fight. She banished the thought of matching jewelry - matching hearts, Lucy had said, how funny- and focused on the earthy brown of Bob's eyes, the conflicted furrow of his brow as he looked at her. "Once we ran out of constellations she'd pretend like she couldn't remember them and then she'd ask me to start again."
"Who doesn't enjoy unnecessary recitation to make the heart grow fonder," Bob replied.
"Cetus was her favorite," Cassie said, and she both sounded more at ease and more broken than she has in weeks.
Bob smiled, weak, and hurt, hurt, hurting. The question is just to bide time, to gain some space, some breathing room. "And that one's…?"
"The whale. It doesn't look much like one, though."
"I just see a bunch of dots. This was more Otto's thing than mine."
"How are you, Bob?"
"Fine." The look he received was enough to get him to reword. "As fine as I can be. The plants are growing. Mostly. Some of them have gotten fickle, and they're being difficult and… I'm f-cking tired, Cass. I'm tired as h-ll."
"I'm surprised to see you here. I haven't seen you in days."
"Would you be shocked to learn that I actually came here to be alone?"
"No. Not particularly." She did as well, after all. "What about the Greenhouse?"
"Needed some fresh air. It feels like a freaking tomb."
Cassie looked back up at the sky, one hand tapping against her knee, the other moving to point above them. "There's Ursa Major, the bear. Its brightest star is Alioth, which is 102 times brighter than the sun."
"Helmut would have loved that sh-t." Bob sighed, a wistful little sound. "He used to have this thing he'd say, about colors, and souls and stars. Never completely understood the explanation, but he basically said I'd never be alone because the brightest star that twinkled the most was him winking at me… or something like that. A lot got lost in translation."
"I miss him."
"It should have been me," Bob said.
"Don't you ever say that. We need you. We love you." She grabbed his hand, sitting up tall for the first time since she'd crumpled at the side of the lake. "There isn't any time, nor space, for self-deprecation."
"When then? When do I get to feel horribly bad?"
"Not now."
"When?"
"I don't know. But not now."
"You sound just like her," Bob whispered, plaintive and quiet, like any person speaking of someone long gone; well-loved. "That is exactly what Lucy would have said. Except she would have added something like 'now buck up!' at the end. Then she'd drag me back inside to drink frankly disgusting tea."
Cassie giggled at that, just slightly less like stones in her lungs, pebbles piercing her insides. It took a long moment, but Bob laughed too, loud and wheezing, and Cassie had to ask herself when the last time it was that she heard Bob laugh. Genuinely laugh.
"You couldn't be more right," Cassie replied. The wind howled behind them, perhaps intent on joining in on the moment. It was getting cooler as well as it became later still.
"We're gonna get through this," Bob said eventually. It didn't sound like he truly believed it, didn't sound like he was invested, but he smiled as wide as he could muster and placed his hand atop Cassie's.
Cassie smiled back, just as wobbly. You don't have to pretend with me, she wanted to say, but she understood the value. He didn't have to power through the hurt, didn't have to act like he wasn't hurting, but Cassie already knew sometimes the act was all one had. Telling yourself that if you just act like you feel fine that eventually you will be is less harrowing than admitting you might never be able to fill the love-shaped hole in your heart, as cavernous as it is devastating. So Cassie didn't pop the bubble, just as Bob had done in the past for her.
Instead, she recognized the olive branch for what it was. She pulled herself together, wiped at her eyes enough to clear the blur of tears from her vision, and then she stood up.
Then she extended her hand out to Bob.
Bob blinked up at her, a tad confused.
"How about we get some of that tea?" Cassie offered. "You know where the packets are, and I know where the stove is. I think we can work it out together, don't you?"
Bob chuckled. There was a wet undercurrent to it, but neither of them were picky these days.
"Sure. But only if you make the grossest stuff she's got in supply."
"I think she's got some Tomato Mint in the back of the drawer."
Bob pretended to gag. "Eew. That is gosh darn perfect."
They started to walk back to the house, leaving the lake behind. Bob paused at the doorway, his hand moving to brush against the chipped spots in the entrance. His whole body seemed to sag for a moment, and Cassie stood beside him, hand at his elbow, staring at the dark emptiness of the main room with the same heavy sadness swimming in her eyes.
"Hello, my old friend," Bob murmured, tapping the door frame once more.
They walked inside, with a creak of the floorboards. Cassie flipped on the light switch near the door, nearly hidden by a pile of knitting, thusly bathing the room in bright light.
It wasn't enough to chase away the melancholy, the grief, but it was a start, she supposed.
So was fetching the teapot.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I'm back at it again, posting another Psychonauts fic. This one is also based on ideas from @portalcartoon. She helped with formulating like half the dialogue in this fic, and was overall just a delight to work with.
Without further ado, the fic. If you'd like to read it here, it's down below the cut!
Description:
Marona and Lucy have a difference of opinion Pre-Valermo Dam Incident and try to hash it out. It goes as well as you'd expect.
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Marona continuously reaches out, trying to bridge the gap, with little success.
She hasn't seen Lucy in months, only in newspaper articles, the daily news program. When Lucy first arrived back in Grulovia, Marona was just happy to see her sister again; they had tea at Marona's home, as they always do whenever Lucy visits. Marona remembers how anxious Lucy seemed, especially when she asked why she had returned so soon. Lucy refused to answer any of her questions, just stating she had business to attend to. When Lazarus came into the kitchen, Lucy slipped out unannounced, brushing past him with hardly a word.
Lazarus pauses behind his wife's chair, placing both his hands on her shoulders, kneading with his thumbs and squeezing. At that moment, Marona needed the reassurance. "What was that about?" He asked, with eyebrows raised, frowning.
Marona frowns in turn, laying her hand over his, and her eyes squint. "I don't know… but something isn't right."
That next week, a massive, sweeping tidal wave crashes into the opposing army camped at Grulovia's border. Half die on impact. Those few who aren't drowned by the second wave, even more monstrous than the first, surrender. The third wave kills them all.
Marona knows it had to be Lucy's doing. The thought turns her stomach.
"She's no soldier," Marona will whisper to Lazarus late one evening, head in her hands as she pours over the newspaper clippings, a hiss locked between her teeth. "This is a job for armies, not my Lucy."
"Talk to her," Lazarus will reply, always the soother of her anxieties. "She knows you want what's best for her, so she's bound to listen."
It takes nearly a month for Marona to reach Lucy. Her sister isn't answering her phone. Marona is steadily becoming more and more worried, especially because she knows what the Gzar is doing, knows he's using Lucy.
The next time Marona sees Lucy they are once again in Marona's kitchen. Lucy looks exhausted, bags under her eyes, expression hagrid. Her coat is pulled tight enough around her to swaddle, and she genuinely looks sickly. She lifts her porcelain teacup with both hands, leaning down to sip from it.
"How are things at the capital?" Marona asks.
"Very busy," Lucy replies, "You know this."
"And you know you don't have to stay at the palace, don't you? We'll always have a place for you here." Marona whispers the next part, "You could come home."
"You're too kind, dear, but no." Lucy shakes her head. "I have a duty I must fulfill."
When Lucy tilts her head just so, Marona can glimpse a scratch, just beginning to scar, slashed diagonal across her cheekbone. It looks silvery in the light shining through the kitchen window, scabbed dark near the middle. Marona reaches up, across the table, intent on ever so carefully brushing her fingertips along the cut to assess the extent of the injury, the extent of the hurt. Lucy hisses though Marona's hand still hovers above, not quite touching, and then she grabs her by the wrist, pauses a moment, and pushes her hand away.
Marona sensed enough, even if it was only a flicker, inflamed, smarting, tied to a sense of self-doubt. Betrayal. Not good enough, ebbing from the skin. When Lucy eventually releases her wrist, Marona retracts her hand, resting it open palmed in her lap.
"Lucy…" Worry pools. Marona desperately wants to reach out again -perhaps check her for any other wounds so they may be properly cared for, nicked before they fester- but she restrains the impulse. "Who did this to you?"
"Enough of that." Lucy says, and she sounds angry, but Marona can hear something considerably more vulnerable warbling beneath the surface.
Lucy swiftly changes the subject. "How is my nephew doing, little Auggie?"
"Driving me crazy, I suppose as he should, at this age." Despite the implication of her words, her grin is wide. She glances toward the other side of the kitchen, down the hall, in the direction of the once nursery, turned bedroom for her beloved little boy. "He's asleep right now, but if you'd like to see him you can slip in without waking him up. He sleeps like a log."
Lucy nods, slips from her chair and starts down the hall. Marona watches her go with a sigh.
Each of the Gzar's moves are soon met with protests. He's an unjust leader, the people quickly decide, those who are hungry, sickly, struggling, while he secretly lines his pockets and uses the country's resources for personal gain. Marona has never been a fighter, but she can't stand idly by while so many others around her suffer, so she picks up a sign the same as the rest and takes to the streets.
Those same streets flood frequently, battered by constant rains, anything to drive the people away. The Gzar's right hand military advisor, a tall, severe woman calling herself by the name of Maligula, is often the one sent to quell the protests, to cull the masses.
Marona knows it's her Lucy, if only because no one had as tight a command over the sea's raging depths as Lucy did - otherwise she's unrecognizable, so angry, so harshly cruel.
Marona calls Lucy for tea again, now, desperate to speak to her sister. She sits anxiously waiting for her, focusing on steeping her tea to just the right concentration to distract herself, keeping her hands moving, so she's not staring at the door, not holding her breath in prickly anticipation.
"The battle is already over. The invaders have long since been dispatched, why are you still fighting?" The words are still bitter in Marona's mouth as she pours over them now, turning them over in her mind.
Lucy had been defensive, angry.
"I'm protecting everyone from the traitors who would like nothing more than to destabilize this country again."
"What you're doing is hurting innocent people, your own countrymen."
"Our dearest Grulovia is in flux; It will not settle on its own."
"Is that what he's been telling you?"
Lucy propels herself upward with water, landing on the balcony with a click of heeled boot soles on wood. Marona glances up from her tea, startled.
Marona pushes herself up from her chair, stumbling toward her sister. "Lucy, I have to talk to you."
Her eyes narrowed knowingly. "This argument again?"
Marona wonders if Lucy has gotten taller, since the last time she saw her. She is at the very least carrying herself differently, standing ramrod straight, drawing herself up ever stiffer, so she appears to tower over Marona. Her lips are pulled into a sneer, as if there's a bad taste that lingers in her mouth. As if her sister is a bad taste, perhaps, waiting for her to get frustrated enough to finally purge it.
Marona squares her jaw, refusing to feel the least bit intimidated. "This has to stop."
"I'm asking you to stop, Lucy."
Coats in the house are bad luck, Lucy always said when they were smaller, when they'd come running in from playing in the snow and Marona would plod through in her snow drenched winter boots leaving tracks all over the floor, climbing up on the counter without ever shedding her topmost layer of clothing. Bad luck, Lucy would tease, and she'd toss her own coat at Marona with a bright laugh that almost rivaled the still lingering, tingling cold reddening her puffed out cheeks. Lucy doesn't take off her coat, now.
She still wears it standing in the middle of Marona's kitchen, draws into it, jagged stitched faux furs that frame her face and limbs in sharp, cutting shapes.
"I'm going to protect you, no matter what it takes. I know you might disagree with me, but this is what I have to do to ensure the safety of you and everyone else"
"Safety or not, what he is doing with you is not okay!" Marona reaches out, clasps Lucy's hands in hers, drawing them to her chest. "I'm worried about you!"
"I'll be fine, I'm always fine!" She squeezes Marona's palms with her own fingers. They're freezing cold, icy, chilly apprehension. "It's you I'm worried about, Marona."
"I can see how much pain you're in," Marona whispers in return, "I love you, and I can see when things are okay and when they're not, and you're in pain right now."
A flash of panic, hurt, shifts like thorns on climbing vines. Lucy pulls her hands away, and Marona feels as if she's been cut, stinging at every lost point of contact, never mind the lack of visible wounds.
Lucy shouts, "What are you even talking about?! I'm fine!" Her shoulders hunch inward, arms crossing over her chest as if she needs to protect herself. Marona wants to remind her that she doesn't have to, not around me, never around me, you're safe with me, but she knows Lucy won't hear it.
"But I can see how worried you are."
Marona used clairvoyance on Lucy once since this whole Maligula business started, saw the world through her eyes, dark and frightening, drenched in flood waters with no safe spaces to turn to. Death was around the corner, and Lucy was so heartachingly afraid, and Marona wanted more than anything to draw Lucy into a hug and tell her everything would be alright, if only she would hear her.
"I'm fine! There's no problem! I'm doing my job!"
"But Lucy-"
"I know what I'm doing."
"I know you're in pain." Marona's expression is nothing if not solemn.
She reaches out, again, touching her hands to Lucy's temples, gently resting their foreheads together, before closing her eyes. A quiet sound bubbles up out of Lucy's throat, something of a sigh, or perhaps a faint whimper, and she lets her own eyelids flutter closed, nearly slumping against her sister. The space between their heads glows as Marona reaches out with her own mental signature to touch Lucy's, to get a read on her sister, brushing against the very edges of her memory, her being. Her aura is hurt-red, so very clearly distressed, and Marona glimpses indecipherable anguish and a towering guilt, and her very soul aches for her.
Her eyebrows furrow and her mouth downturns into a little frown, and she starts reaching deeper, fully intent on setting Lucy's mind to rights. Her first goal is to soothe the pain billowing out in waves. Lucy gasps, and just as suddenly Marona is being forcefully shut out from her thoughts, and Lucy is pushing away from her. Lucy is crying quietly; There are tears in her eyes, just barely noticeable, pooling at the edges, not quite enough to fall.
"What makes you think you know anything about me?!" Lucy shouts, snarling with rage. Her eyes start to glow piercing white in her agitation, and Marona knows she's about to lose her. If she can't convince her to stay, Lucy will leave, only this time Marona can't be certain if she's ever coming back.
"Lucy, please, if you would just listen to me!"
"I'm done listening to you! You just want me to be weak. You'd rather I quit instead of seeing this through. I won't fall for it."
"I could sense your aura. Something's wrong. If you could at least just… just let me help you. Let me help you fix this, before it's too late. You're hurting, but we can–"
"WE can't do anything. Bye, Marona."
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Lucy sits alone, alone, alone forevermore, head in her hands as she sobs. The locket chain sifts through her fingers, catching on her thumb. When she notices the drag of delicate metal against her skin she looks up, and unable to hold the hurt in even a moment longer, she throws the locket as hard as she's physically able. It hits the floor, and the hinge breaks clean off, the glass cracking as it makes an impact. Lucy is standing now, chest heaving, nostrils flared. She refuses to look at it, broken in two, one piece shattered in plain sight, the other, Marona's half, having skidded beneath a dresser, certain to be lost for ages.
She slams the bedroom door shut behind her.
