chapter 13 — a sanctuary named love
Cws: Past torture, forced trauma/injury reveal, covert whump, living weapon whumpee, panic attack, self-blaming, alchohol mention (just to be sure), past whipping, abuse apologism (?), touch-aversion.
Masterlist || previous
The weapon was tired.
It wasn’t an issue—it almost scoffed at the notion—, it wouldn’t be, but it was, unfortunately, the truth. She had pissed off Ms. Ann and gotten herself in a stress position for hours, last night, so she hadn’t had a chance to actually sleep. But mostly, she was fine.
It took a few minutes of breathing exercises to get itself together in the morning. But she was fine.
And its handler had gone out today. It was too good of an opportunity to ignore.
Ciça didn’t seem to notice their fatigue, to their slight relief. Which was a bit silly. She seemed frighteningly good at reading them, sometimes, and the thought that it was so easy to gauge their thoughts scared them. But not now. She mentally patted herself in the back for it.
Espa was washing dishes, that day. Ciça had taught them. It wasn’t actually that hard to do it, and it made her feel useful. A way of paying her back. The motions were simple, repetitive. Just like training—just as soothing—but way less straining. The sound of tap water was also surprisingly decent at cleaning its mind.
Ciça was going to cook today. And—an alien feeling had started to arise inside—she had asked if she wanted to help. Espa had little to no prior experience, which was a dangerous liability. Especially with something as delicate and complex as cooking. It should probably have been more wary about it. Danger alarms should have rang inside its head. The fact that they didn’t should have lit up enough red lights on its own.
Somehow, it did not.
“Yes,” it had said. Because, really, what else there was to say? Espa could remember few requests that they had felt so glad to fulfill. Now, while the woman got the necessary ingredients over the counter, Espada had taken upon itself to clean the sink before they started without being asked. She brushed a pan with the sponge, internally smiling at the foam it created. It might be their favorite part of the process. Ciça was assembling a bottle with yellow liquid on the balcony—oil, she recognized by the smell—a seemingly heavy paper bag with pictures of golden wheat printed on the front, and something that smelled like—it held its body from tensing up—alchohol.
They hadn’t ever seen Ciça drink. They carefully concealed any apprehension over the possibility and rinsed the pan.
“Oh, thank you, Espa.” Ciça seemed actually genuinely happy that they had washed the dishes for her. It allowed itself to feel proud. “You did a good job,” she nodded, getting behind Espa and evaluating her work. It didn’t flinch at the motion. “Are you ready to start?”
It shoved down whatever nervousness it had. It gave her a nod.
--
Ciça set down the mix of flour and salt on the balcony, pouring a little bit of the oil and brandy in a hole in the middle. The pastries were going to turn out amazing. She might be a little giddy with excitement. Ciça looked up at her. Espa had just cleaned the kitchen—and done a good job, for someone who, quite frankly, had sucked at it a short while ago—and was looking at her, waiting for instructions.
She could feel a smile forming on her face.
“Cm’here,” she gestured, hands already greasy. Ciça carefully mixed the liquid with the flour in small, certain motions. The dough was supposed to be firm. She hadn’t done pastel in a while, though, but she remembered the recipe by heart. Espa silently walked to her side, watching her hands work. They were attentive. “Do you prefer chicken fillings or... uh, cheese? Ham?” She asked. “Can you pick them in the fridge for me? Pick whatever flavors you like, you’re deciding them today.”
The kid perked up, hesitating for a second before giving her a nod. Ciça heard her go up to the fridge, staying a good while perked up in front of it. Undecided. Its low buzzing was a pleasant background noise. She hummed to herself, working the pastry. She had never cooked with Espa before. But this one was easy; she’d just help her fill the dough with whatever she liked, and help her close them to fry. Not actually dipping them in oil; Ciça wouldn’t put her in danger like that. After a while, Espa came back to her side, settling the tupperware on the counter. Grilled chicken, cheese and... ham. Ciça bit her lips, trying to hold back a laugh. Precisely the ones she had mentioned. Yeah, maybe Espa was a bit predictable.
Sometimes, it was almost like... she was afraid to make choices.
A little sadness threatened to sprout inside her. It was things like this that made her wonder how she had turned out like that.
It wasn’t fair.
Ciça spread the dough on another surface, the flour she had poured over it splattering over her. The woman blinked, and the surprise got a laugh out of her. She caught, in awe, Espa’s own lips curling up a little. The kid offered to help clean her up, but Ciça didn’t mind it. It was part of the process. Espa helped her model the mass into thin squares, and dutifully filled them with even amounts of filling as the woman provided her with more dough. She seemed to be having fun—or the most she ever seemed to have—deciding when to add a bit of each. Her concentration was endearing. Ciça finished her task, approaching her and stuffing two pastels of nothing but cheese. Espa watched, amused. It made her giggle.
Two little forks to close the pastries with dents, and they were carefully put on a square cake tray.
“They look amazing,” Ciça admired them. Espa seemed to beam at the praise. Ciça grinned. She always did so. Predictable, indeed. “I’ll put the oil in the pan now, okay? I need you to stay away from it. It’ll be hot.”
“Okay.” Her voice was an octave lower when she answered. Ciça turned to look at her, frowning at how she seemed to have frozen up at her words. But she didn’t look upset or hurt at all.
Maybe she was just imagining things.
As it turned out, Ciça’s recent lack of pastry practice doomed her. She filled the pan over the sink, and then, it was too heavy to be comfortably lifted to the stove. She groaned after two unsuccessful attempts. How clever.
“Can I help?” Espa. Ciça hadn’t wanted her to—but the oil wasn’t even heated yet. She sighed, nodding, and gave another attempt, this time to carry the pan halfway towards her. Espa looked alarmed. She lunged towards Ciça, grabbing the pan from her hands. The woman blinked, hands suddenly empty. The kid tensed up. To her surprise, she didn’t seem to be straining to hold it at all.
“Sorry,” she apologized. Ciça had long given up on figuring out what she always apologized for. She just gave her a mindless you’re good, as she always did, stretching her arms in relief, free from the weight.
It accidentally hit the pan. With a sharp clank that echoed through her entire body like a gong, it fell. Staining on Espa’s chest, the yellow leaked over the whole floor.
Neither of them moved for a hot moment.
“Oh—shit, shit, I’m sorry,” Ciça rushed to say as soon as she snapped from the shock. The tiles were entirely covered by the generous amount of oil she’d used, and she winced at the thought of having to clean this up. For now, she just bent down to pick up the pan. Espa still didn’t move a muscle. She looked up at her in concern. Fuck, it might have fallen over her feet or something. “Are you okay? Uh—Espa?”
The kid still didn’t move.
--
It had dropped from their hands. It was an accident. They hadn’t meant to. Shit, they hadn’t meant to. Ciça was apologizing and asking them if they were okay, but the meaning of the words evaded them. She was acting as if it’d been on her. Espa held itself from tensing up, forcing its breathing to even.
Their shirt was wet. They looked down at it, slowly tracing their hands on the fabric. They became sticky.
Oh.
It hit them with a wave of panic. No. No, no, no, no no no—
They’d ruined it.
They’d fucking ruined it—and ruined the things they’d been cooking. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Espa?” Ciça’s voice was gentle. It sounded as if filtered by water. “Did it hurt you? It’s okay. We can clean it up and refill the pan,” she was saying. Espa’s chest felt heavy. It tried to keep its lungs taking in air.
“Okay,” was all they said. It realized it was afraid to move. Shit. She needed to fix it. Espa looked to the floor, but Ciça had already picked up the pan. It crouched down without thinking. The floor was soaked and greasy. Like yellow blood had been splattered over it. The sight made their mind go blank.
It didn’t quite feel like it to the touch.
“...How do I clean it?” They looked up. Espa did not know how. Having to ask for guidance in this situation felt sickening. They had fucked up. They should know how to fix it. It held back the trembling that threatened to rise, dropping its gaze from Ciça’s. It was scared of what it’d find in there.
Ciça let out an audible oh.
“No, no, it’s okay, you’re okay, Espa.” She reached out a hand to it. They mindlessly took it, before being able to think it through. The weapon got up from its knees, barely putting its weight on her hand. “It’s okay. I’ll clean it, okay?” Fuck. It felt terrible. Espa should do it. Espa should make it up to her. She needed to— “Oh, Lord,” her voice. It sounded guilty. “Your shirt.”
Their blood ran cold.
Espa looked back down at it, and a cold blanket of terror wrapped up around her. It knocked the wind out of its lungs.
The stain was enormous. Noticeable, even against the dark blue.
Ms. Ann was going fucking kill her.
Espa could feel its throat locking up, and they covered their mouth with a hand before realizing how inappropriate it was. “I’m sorry,” it choked out. She shouldn’t react like that. She should stay composed and keep herself together. Functional.
The oil seeping through the fabric against its skin made it want to retch. Oh, fuck. Fuck, shit, fuck—Espa had ruined it. When they went back home, Ann wouldn’t be happy. She’d know it had gone out in her absence. The memory of the punishment from the last time she found it out made its mouth go dry.
She’d find out about Ciça.
It couldn’t breathe.
No. No, no, they—
“Sweetie?” She sounded worried. Espa realized they’d been ignoring her. Stupid fucking useless weapon. “I can borrow you another shirt, okay? You—” she interrupted herself, seeming shocked. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m sorry.” It tensed up, trying to prevent it. Luckily, it was faint. It hadn’t gotten out of control. For now. But she was finding it hard to move. Espa’s chest waved.
Ms. Ann would find out.
She could feel her heartbeat in her ears. Their breathing was getting so ragged it’d started to be noticeable.
It couldn’t fix it.
It couldn’t fix it.
Ciça said something else—the humming on her ears drowned it. They felt sick over the fact. And now they weren’t even listening. Useless—and took her hand. Espa let itself be led wherever she was taking it. They wouldn’t resist. Was she mad, maybe? She might throw them out for the trouble.
They faced a bathroom instead.
“Here,” Ciça said, softly. A shirt was put on their hands. It was white and overly large. Colorful paint slobs over it. They instinctively held it out, away from the mess that was their own chest. “Change to this shirt, okay? Or do you want another one, mayb—no, no, nevermind, you’re good, it’s fine. I’ll clean the kitchen. It’s fine,” she reassured. Espa could feel their body failing to keep itself together. No. No, it was not fine. She had fucked up. She had fucked up badly.
It had fucking ruined it.
The door in the bathroom closed, and Espa allowed itself to cover its mouth and let its shoulders waver, a rapidly growing headache throbbing in tandem with its heart. Fuck. No, shit, she had to fix this. Its handler couldn’t know. She realized that coming home with a new, unexplained shirt would be somehow even worse. She’d find out. Its Miss would fucking kill them both.
She couldn’t breathe.
Espa forced the air inside, feeling dizzy as it did so. They felt too hot in a sudden—and the sticky feeling in their chest didn’t help. It yanked out the shirt, throwing it on the floor. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
--
The kitchen was slippery, but it was clean—mostly clean—by now. Not like Ciça had been happy to do it, but it wasn’t that big of an issue. Espa didn’t seem to take it well. She had said sorry. (Again.) Did she think it was her fault? Ciça felt bad. She’d tried to reassure her it was okay, it was nothing, but the kid seemed to be barely hearing her.
Her face was completely blank. Ciça had never wished for it to show something more than right now. Espa only seemed a bit dazed—and guilty—but her demeanor hadn’t actually changed much. If it wasn’t for the way her hands were shaking, honest-to-God shaking, it would have been invisible. It was scary, how buried within she hid it. Ciça would never be able to know if something was wrong. All of Espa’s previous enthusiasm seemed to have vanished like a drop of water under the sun, as if someone had poured a bucket filled with cold ice over her.
And... there was something frighteningly familiar about this. It had happened before.
She heard water flowing from the sink across the door. Espa must be cleaning herself. Ciça knocked, just to let her know she was there.
“Espa? The kitchen is already cleaned, okay? I’ve already put another pan on the stove. It’s all fixed now.” She glued her ear to the door. “Are you doing okay?”
No response.
Ciça bit her lip. Well, maybe she hadn’t heard. She forced out a breath.
“I’m not mad at you, just for the record,” she told, hoping it’d be reassuring. “When you’re changed, come out, okay? I’ll be by the kitchen.”
The only noise inside the bathroom was still of the tap running. Ciça bit back a rush of apprehension. This was starting to make her worried.
But she didn’t enter. Espa was changing. It would be wrong to invade like that.
She ended up not actually going back to the kitchen. The pastries hadn’t been dipped in the oil yet. She was just waiting for it to heat, so it was fine. Suddenly, she felt really glad the accident had happened before they’d heated the pan. It made her skin crawl to think of what would’ve happened, then.
A noise.
Ciça’s ears perked up. Was it...? Had something fallen?
“Espa?” Her voice went up a note in alarm. She was unable to keep it out of her tone, as much as she wanted to convince herself that the kid was fine. “Are you okay?” No response. Shit. “Can I enter?”
No response.
Ciça was getting progressively more alarmed. She called again, but the quiet was eery. Fuck. Had she gotten hurt? The woman bit down her fear and knocked again, apologizing under her breath as she did so, and turned the knob.
Espa was with her back turned, hands supported over the sink, (was it... had the soap container fallen to the floor?) but she flinched—hard—as soon as she heard the click of the door open. Ciça’s stomach dropped in guilt. The tap was still running when the kid turned her head to look at Ciça, eyes clouded and glassy. She was as tense as a rod.
And her back was bare. It was covered every inch by scars.
Ciça’s breath got stuck in her throat.
For a moment, it seemed like neither of them could move. Ciça had made herself swear she wouldn’t stare anymore when she saw Espa’s bruises (because she knew she had some, and knew Espa got nervous when she did) but it jumped out of the window, then. She could barely process what she was seeing. Lashes upon lashes layered over each other, drawing criss-crossed patterns of a darker brown in her skin. Cut. Striked through. Trying to imagine what had happened to get it like this knocked the wind out of her. It was as if every inch was covered by them.
She saw her freeze up.
Espa seemed to recoil under Ciça’s gaze, turning her back and leaning against the wall. She had never quite seen the kid so utterly horrified. But now her front was bare and clear as well, and the situation wasn’t much better.
Old lacerations on her skin, clean and precise, disappearing under a bra. Some were large, some were small but plentiful. There were still fresh bruises over her ribs. Were those... rope burns?
Her head rose up to meet Espa’s gaze. She found the kid had started facing the floor. She didn’t move.
“I’m sorry,” was all Ciça said. Espa flinched again at her voice. Ciça recoiled at the reaction. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated. There was nothing else she could say. “I shouldn’t have—sorry.”
She closed back the door as soon as she stepped back, not staying to see Espa’s reaction.
Ciça covered her mouth, dropping her fingers from the knob. She heard something else fall inside the bathroom. She didn’t enter again.
--
The weapon dropped to its knees as soon as the door closed.
It felt like it was falling.
Training rang alarm bells in her head, berating her for allowing herself to be seen like this. Don’t draw attention. Don’t show things to outsiders. Espa’s hand instinctively raised to its shoulder, covering its mark. The brand under the waist of their shorts suddenly felt just as hot as in the day it’d been burnt. It made their mind go blank.
The memory of a whip felt down their back, and they flinched.
Fuck. Fuck, she had ruined everything now. Ciça saw. She wasn’t supposed to see. Espa’s breathing failed them, and they only had the sense to stumble for the clean shirt they should’ve put on ages ago before they ran out of air. She had taken too long. Why had she taken so long? Changing clothes was a matter of seconds. It felt sick to its stomach. It couldn’t breathe.
Ciça knew.
Ciça knew, and now everything was fucking ruined. It had to go home. Now. They remembered that if Ms. Ann saw them with another shirt, they were fucked for good. Espa covered its head with its arms, pushing down a groan of frustration. The more it thought about it, the more unsalvageable the situation looked like. Its chest hurt, and its heart beat way too fast.
They couldn’t fix this.
They had to leave.
It kept being hammered in her head.
Ciça knew.
Ciça couldn’t know. She shouldn’t know. Why had it taken to stupidly fucking long changing a shirt? They’d made this worse. She knew. She saw. There’d be trouble. Trouble it’d caused. It remembered what happened to the last outsider who found out. It curled over herself, trying to breathe and biting back a rush of nausea. Nothing would come in. It was helpless.
She knew.
What could it even do? Espa felt lightheaded. It had to get itself together and breathe. Right now. It was taking too long. What would Ciça do while they didn’t come out? Call the police? The thought sent it spiraling further into panic.
Ms. Ann would kill her.
God, they were filthy. Not drawing attention was one of the hard rules. It bit its lip, drawing blood. That was basically treason. She should’ve stopped this weeks ago. No, it shouldn’t even have started it. What had it even been for? Hang around when they could have been training, practicing, all while wasting time? Espa’s ears hummed like a load of cicadas. With a tinge of horror, it felt its eyes burn. They were so fucking ungrateful. She’d broken the rules—just for a-a spoiled wish for treats and sitting around watching TV and doing nothing?—and Ciça, Ciça didn’t even know. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her fault, she didn’t know they were doing a wrong thing, and she had been so kind. Espa couldn’t stop the shaking, and struggled to bite the tears back.
Don’t cry.
Don’t whine.
And how had she thanked her? Ruining things when she tried to give them something nice—again. She was always giving it nice things. Espa didn’t ever reciprocate it. They didn’t, and they didn’t deserve it. They were so fucking entitled. Going back to her just because she was kind unconditionally, because it didn’t have to work for it to receive it. It was lazy. It was awful. It felt sick at itself.
But they’d always known that was wrong. They’d always known. They had. But she kept doing it. Espada was a bad weapon. Perhaps one of the worst that’d ever been. She should stop this. She had to leave.
She had to fix this.
It took a long while, though, to finally get itself together and be able to normally breathe. She didn’t end up getting to the point where she had to cover her mouth to muffle sounds, which she took as a good sign. Espa’s ears had ceased with the endless ringing. They could think now.
They still felt bad.
She felt out of breath, but it was just in her head. Its limbs were heavy as if made of lead. They barely felt as her own. They had gotten themself off the ground a while ago—pathetic—but were still leaning over the toilet for support, and were finally dressed. They needed to fix it. Right now.
Espa pushed back the unruly expression that had taken over its face and forced its hands to stop with the fucking shaking. They felt sick. But they looked normal now. The mirror in the bathroom ended up being useful.
Sometimes, it felt like Ciça’s house was perfect for everything they needed.
They turned off the lights, relishing in the dark silence for a moment, before getting over it and opening the door.
Ciça wasn’t there anymore.
The weapon bit back a shudder of relief.
Espa knew where to look—the house was tiny—and, soon enough, found her back in the kitchen. She faintly noticed the floor was clean and pristine. So Ciça had cleaned it.
She was too nice.
“I’m sorry,” it was the first thing they said. As it should. Ciça startled, looking in her direction. She hadn’t noticed them enter. “I was sloppy and careless and ruined the plans you had, Ciça,” they said. They’d rehearsed the list in their mind. It was too annoying when she talked too much, but she needed to show she knew what she’d done wrong. That was basic. They needed to stop slacking off just because no handler was watching. Espa never met her gaze. It stared at the floor. “I—”
A hand closed over hers. She shut up, a chill running through her spine at the sudden touch.
“It’s okay,” Ciça said. As she always did. But by the tone in her voice, it obviously wasn’t okay. It was strangled, not that low, but tight in a way that implied she was straining to keep it that way. “It isn’t ruined, okay?” Espa could hear it in her voice, how she tried to smile at them. It clenched its free fist. “Some of them are actually fried already. Accidents happen. I’m not mad at you.” Some of “them”? Oh, yes, the pastels. The weapon had almost forgotten about them. “I’m—actually, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have intruded in the bathroom,” she sounded increasingly more upset. It’s your fault, they told themself. They had taken too long. And now Ciça was upset.
It wasn’t on her.
It was on them.
“It’s fine,” they said, not because it was fine, but because it was their fault. “I took too long in there. I’m sorry.”
Ciça didn’t say anything for a beat. She could hear the cracking of the boiling oil behind her, frying the dough they’d prepared earlier. It made them nervous. They didn’t want to think how it’d feel if its skin had to touch it. Espa did its best not to clench her jaw as she waited for her to say something. They half expected a slap. It’d be a lenient thing to do, for all the trouble she’d caused. Not like Ciça had ever, but it would be only fair.
“...Can you look at me?” She asked, at least. Espa didn’t hesitate. When it met her gaze, it struck it like a truck how close to tears she looked.
You did this.
Her black eyes were pleading. Espa didn’t know what to do with it. “It’s okay,” she repeated, shaking her head. She seemed to really want to make Espa believe it. It was unbelievable. It didn’t deserve it. “People make mistakes. You’re not gonna get in trouble for it. Not here,” she added, as if it was an afterthought.
Yeah. That much was clear.
Espa should have anticipated this reaction. It didn’t aid in making them any less tense. It repressed the instinct to bow at her feet. She needed to show she was sorry. She needed to fix everything.
Step “obtaining forgiveness" of its plan was mindblowingly quick to achieve. It left it feeling winded.
“...Espa?” It blinked. It’d left her gaze for a moment. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Ciça.” Espa went back to controlling its breathing. “I’m sorry.”
She dropped her hand. Espa half felt relieved and half missed the contact. It was warm.
Spoiled.
“Y-you, do you want to talk about it?” They furrowed their brow. “The,” she hesitated. Espa’s stomach curled. It didn’t like seeing her this distressed. “—the scars.”
It felt its blood freeze.
Ciça seemed to notice it.
Again, with that frightening perceptiveness. Espa concealed its panic. Ciça averted her gaze.
“I—I know we agreed I wouldn’t make questions,” she fidgeted with the earrings on her ears, pursed her lip and ran her hand through her hair. “But it—I’m so sorry, it just—” her voice broke. “Can—I—who did this to you?” She locked her eyes back on its. “Please let me help.”
It was exactly as they feared. Against itself, it almost took a step back.
The smell of burnt food invaded her nostrils, and Ciça turned around in alarm, seeming to notice as well. The pastries.
“Oh—the... shit,” she cussed. “I’ll finish frying them.” Ciça looked back at them. Espa had stayed still. “Can-can you wait by the living room? I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
The last thing Espa wanted was to wait by the living room.
“Yes, Ciça,” they said, because they could obey a simple request. She nodded, looking nervous, looking heartbroken, and they almost couldn’t handle it. As soon as she turned, Espa turned on her heels into the corridor.
She clutched the white shirt closer to her body, trying to keep herself together.
It was soft to the touch.
Ciça did end up taking less than ten minutes—they counted—to meet her there. Espa hadn’t been given any further instructions, so she just sat by her usual spot on the couch. The windows and door were, as usual, open, and it found itself taking in the outdoors’ wind to soothe. Their cape was hung by the chair. It didn’t have it in it to pick it up.
The TV was turned off. Ciça gave it a glance before locking eyes with it and—seemingly bedrudgingly—sitting on the floor nearby them. It felt its eye almost twitch. Fuck. Why was she like that?
Espa wouldn’t speak first, so, obviously, it was Ciça who did. She took a deep breath, two, as she looked up at her.
“You have to tell me who is doing this to you.”
They breathed in sharp through their nose. Poor restraint.
It desperately wanted to just say no. But it wasn’t as entitled as to just give this blunt of a refusal to an order.
Now the problem was working around that.
“The scars are old,” she answered instead, tone the most respectful she could keep it while dodging a question. Ms. Ann would have zapped them for refusing to give a clear response, but it was, at least, partially true. Most of them were old. Twelve were from the past month, but Ciça didn’t need to know that.
It had the opposite of the intended reaction. Ciça seemed to only grow more horrorized.
“How young were you?” She asked, clearly nearing tears. Espa repressed a wince. It probably shouldn’t answer that one. Giving details would be a terrible move. Could she break the rules any further?
I’m not supposed to tell you, was the most honest answer the weapon could reasonably give, but it was obvious Ciça wouldn’t take that. It was frustrating. Espa didn’t like not being able to give the answers they were supposed to. It needed to drive her away from asking more. She needed to leave it. It was terribly inconvenient how outsiders just seemed to be so curious about the Dove’s information. Why could they never just leave it? Sometimes it was as if they were like that just to make things harder for them.
But looking at Ciça, it got a little hard to believe it was the case.
She sighed, and Espa flinched, realizing they hadn’t answered the question. They scrambled in their mind for something satisfactory, but Ciça was speaking again before they could.
“Sorry,” she said. Espa clenched its fist. Please, don’t. She had sort of discarded the option of abandoning Ciça’s house, selfishly hoping to find a way to allow things to stay the same. They just wished she made it easier. “I’m really, really sorry, Espa.” She sounded the part. It didn’t know what to do with it.
Ciça was amongst the only ones who apologized to it. It shouldn’t happen.
“But, it’s—you need to understand.” Her eyes were pleading. Still. “Nobody should hurt you like that. I know you probably want to protect them, because you don’t want them to get in trouble, but your safety is more important,” she said. “Please tell me what is happening. I can help. I promise I can help.”
Not wanting to get them in trouble? It almost scoffed at the notion.
Their family didn’t get in trouble.
That was why weapons like Espa existed. To ensure it.
“It’s fine,” it weakly protested, not having anything else to say. She didn’t want to say no to Ciça. She’d only get more curious, and prod more, and it made them feel bad. They didn’t like disobeying her. Their heart beat anxiously. If it came to that, she would—
Blood replaced Ciça’s face in its vision, and it took a sharp intake of breath, looking down at its lap.
She couldn’t know any more.
“It’s not.”
Espa recoiled at the tone. Ciça seemed to notice it, face growing softer.
“It’s not fine, Espa,” she repeated. “Sorry f-for raising my voice. I—I’m not mad at you, I’m just worried.” She closed her eyes. “...I just want you to be safe.”
So do I.
Espa didn’t know what to say, so it didn’t say anything. This was getting worse. Out of hand.
If it came to that, Espa would have to leave.
They didn’t want to.
But what they wanted didn’t matter.
Ciça caved at their silence.
“...Okay,” she said, and Espada didn’t know what she meant. They tensed up. “If you won’t tell me, it’s okay.”
Its mind went blank. Espa slowly raised its eyes at her.
“But—but if anything happens, and you want it to stop, or you feel like you can’t anymore, just-just tell me, okay?”
Espa didn’t answer. They were still trying to process her words. She always felt incredibly slow with Ciça, for some reason. The woman took its hands in hers. They were more prepared this time. So they didn’t flinch.
“I’m here when you need me,” she repeated. Her voice was firm, but Espa could still see she was at the verge of crying. “I will do my best to help however I can, and I will do anything to keep you safe, okay? I’ll protect you. Whenever you are ready to tell me, whenever you want to ask for my help. Just say it, and I’ll be here,” her voice broke. “Okay?”
It blinked, feeling weird.
“Yes, Ciça.” She couldn’t handle staring at her eyes anymore. She didn’t know why her breathing picked up. “I understand.”
They didn’t think over the meaning of their own words, and didn’t need to, either. This was... better than she’d feared. Ciça wouldn’t prod. The relief crashed over them stronger than they anticipated, and they felt themself start to shake again. It bit its lip, trying to hold it. But Ciça noticed it, because of course she did. She closed tighter on their hands, and it didn’t hurt—nothing done by Ciça ever did—but they repressed the urge to recoil.
“Can I hug you?”
The request made it taste blood. She had sunk her teeth too hard in her lip. But Espa didn’t have it in them to refuse it. Not after they’d denied Ciça mere moments ago—even if she didn’t seem mad. They owed it to her.
So they braced up for it.
It nodded.
Ciça didn’t waste a second. It almost took it off guard, but Espa managed to keep its panic at bay. Her arms trapped them tight against her chest, and her hold was strong and firm. So firm they wouldn’t be able to let go if they tried. Ciça was a large woman. They knew that. It didn’t quite register as it did now. They waited, one, two, three seconds, but she didn’t let go. Espa realized she probably wanted it to reciprocate it. So it bit back the bile, not allowing itself to cower away, and tentatively raised its arms to rest against her back.
Ciça held her tighter as a response. Espa bit her lip harder so as to not let it tremble.
They stayed agonizingly long like that, until Ciça was finally satisfied and stepped back. Espa breathed in and out, trying to regain composure. They wanted to curl up. They didn’t.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Ciça, thankfully, didn’t notice it. She noticeably wiped her eyes, despite seeming to want to hide it—she was way worse at it than them—and breathed out as well.
“I’ll—the pastels are done,” she said, and Espa almost didn’t hear it over the noise in their ears. It was still shaken by her arms trapping them—too terrifyingly close—and by the crisis just averted. The thought of the food seemed too far away. They stared at her, almost unbelieving that they’d even still be allowed to eat them. After they—Espa clenched her fist where she couldn’t see—ruined everything. “They should be a little cooler by now.” She clumsily got up, groaning as her joints strained. Espa, once again, remembered she had sat down on the floor while it stayed sitting by the soft sofa. The weapon pushed back the disgust at herself. “I’ll bring them. Do—do you still want them?”
She kept staring at her. What kind of question was that?
“Please,” it confirmed, voice a bit too low. They tried getting it to a decent volume. For some reason, it didn’t work. “If it’s okay.”
Ciça nodded, lips tight, and stormed out back to the kitchen.
Espa used the time they were left alone to cradle their arms in their hands.
--
A little bit under a dozen pastries—that was how much they’d made. Despite everything, they still smelled delicious. Ciça set a tray with them covered in wrapping paper to absorb the oil on the floor by the backyard, enjoying the breeze and the smell of her flowers. They relaxed her.
She seemed to like it as well.
The kid had had her knees raised up to her chest before Ciça got there—after asking Espa if it was okay for them to eat in the garden—and quickly tried to lower them when she did. But Ciça had, thankfully, been faster.
“It’s okay,” she had reassured, for what seemed to be the thousandth time that day. Espa slightly tensed up, but tentatively went back to her position. She sighed, relieved. A win.
It seemed like a comfortable pose. Ciça had... never seen her look so protective of herself before. She seemed to want to shield her body. It pained her to see, but the last thing Ciça could do was let her know it was okay.
It isn’t okay, her brain disagreed. She’s getting hit with a belt at home, and is so scared that she won’t even tell you. She held back the tears. She had prodded, pressed, but Espa’s eyes only acquired a faraway look and she looked like she’d panic before actually daring to answer. It felt more like an interrogation. She had relented, again, and she still didn’t know if it had been the right choice.
Regardless, she picked up a pastel—these were a bit smaller, only a little larger than her hand—and snapped it in half, steam coming out of its inside. She held it like that for a moment, blowing the heat that wouldn’t come off by the crust otherwise. Espa watched it, with silent awe. The cheese they’d put in it was completely melted now, sharing space with the ham. The smell was intoxicating. When she was satisfied, Ciça finished breaking the pastry in two and wrapped one of the halves in more wrapping paper, giving it to Espa.
“Here,” she allowed herself to smile. “This one’s yours. But you eat as many as you want.”
Ciça could almost see the wonder in which the kid picked it up.
She stared at it for a second, admiring the filling of the pastel. Ciça thought she’d never get tired of seeing it, how happy she seemed whenever she gave her something like this.
Without even waiting for it to cool off a bit more, Espa took a large bite out of the pastry. She didn’t recoil from the burn, only taking in a breath in surprise. She could see from her reaction that it was good. She ate half of her bit in a matter of seconds, not minding the heat. Ciça blinked out the water starting to form in her eyes and looked away, taking a small piece of hers.
It tasted awesome.
She covered her mouth. They were actually better than she remembered. What was it that made food so much better when she could share it like this?
It isn’t okay, her mind reminded, and Ciça knew that. She wondered if Espa had ever been okay. She had put away her dirty shirt to wash, and planned to iron it dry later—her panic about it was painful to see. She just hoped that it’d actually help. For now, Espa’s mind seemed to be away from it.
A little idea sprouted in the back of her mind. Before finishing her pastel, she set it back on the glass tray and got up, ignoring how her joints protested at the movement.
The kid stopped, alerted by her movement.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, getting back inside to the kitchen. “You can keep eating as many as you want.”
When she was back, Espa was still eating her first. She now slowly savoured each bite, taking smaller chunks now than when she’d started. Ciça felt herself soften.
She clearly noticed it when Ciça sat back down, but didn’t look up. She almost thought she could see Espa trembling again.
She smiled, a bit sad.
“Hey,” she called. The kid looked up, chewing down another small piece. She set her undivided attention on her.
Ciça took a little pendant from her pocket.
“For you.”
Espa blinked.
The necklace had a single, small jade stone hanging from a thin silver chain. Despite its dainty appearance, it was a sturdy one. A bit old, if she was being honest. Ciça held each end of the jewel in a hand, spreading it for Espa to see.
“I wanted to give you a gift,” she admitted, a little embarrassed if anything. “I bought this some years ago, to go to a wedding.” It was still one of her favorites, even if she didn’t use it nearly as much these days. She gathered courage before continuing. “Would you like to have it, Espa?”
Her confused expression quickly shifted into one of alarm. She set down the remains of the pastel, shaking her head.
“No,” she refused, then quickly scrambled to correct it to a, “sorry—it’s, I couldn’t. It looks expensive.” It came out unsure.
“It’s fine if you don’t like it,” Espa opened her mouth to protest, but Ciça didn’t give her the chance to. She pursed her lips. “You can even throw it away if that’s the case. But I want you to have it.” It was an object she was fond of, truth be told. It was precious. Jade was her favorite gemstone, and this—it was special. Though she wasn’t lying. She wanted to give Espa something special.
It was silly, perhaps—she tenderly held Espa’s hands, who allowed it, still hesitant—but she deserved something nice. It might be a little arrogant to think it could be precious to her, but if it could be anything close to that, then maybe it was worth it.
“As a friend,” she smiled, landing the necklace over Espa’s palm. The kid stared at it. She didn’t move her hand, still seeming shocked by the gesture, but Ciça didn’t register anything negative, so she went on. “Do you like it?”
To her shock, she saw Espa’s eyes start to wet.
“...Thank you,” her voice was barely above a whisper, and she seemed to desperately try and hold the tears in, but it was unmistakeable now. When Ciça let go, Espa slowly moved the hand to her chest, staring at the necklace.
She held it. There was a sort of adoration in the care in which she did it that made Ciça embarrassed.
“Thank you,” she repeated. “Is it—mine?” Espa looked up at her, still in disbelief.
Ciça suddenly didn’t feel as upset at letting it go anymore.
“Yeah,” she said. “I hope you like it.”
Espa didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
Ciça picked back up her pastel—almost cold, but it was still tasty—and slowly took a bite out of it. The cheese hugged her tongue. The dough was just on point.
It was not okay, she knew. But maybe—she sent a glance to Espa, who had put the present in her pocket and was hiding her face in her food—at least for now...
It could be enough.
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