Welcome the Stranger, Ethan x OFMC, TW: mental illness, possible CA, suicidal ideation, MDI, explicit sexual content, dead dove do not eat,
This fic is based on Welcome the Stranger, but I'm fooling around with the aftermath of that story. I have no earthly idea where it's going. I've had this blurb lurking and staring at me for ages and I wanted to see what it was like posting fics straight to Tumblr.
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There are so many leaves in the perfect blue water. He wonders when the last time the pool guy visited. A breeze, cool and transitory, shakes the surrounding trees. It pulls even more leaves from reluctant branches and into the rippling water along with the last of summer.
He had missed so much, spending almost the entirety of his favorite season in the hospital. It was a top-notch private facility, but it didn't have a pool, which was probably for the best. He loves to swim, and he loves summers on Long Island; it was one of the only things that could permeate the poisonous black shell he lives in. This was just one more thing he could file away under the disappointments of the year. It wasn't the first, and sure as shit it wouldn't be the last. He's learned to mistrust almost everything he can see or hear. Honestly, it's exhausting.
"Pool guy is coming next week."
He looks up at the cloudy sky and inhales sharply. The medication is supposed to be working. The clouds were moving fast that afternoon. Overhead, they're big and fluffy. One of them looks like a bunny at first, but then the liquid made gas begin to change their shape. He forgot most of the science behind clouds. Mainly, it was because he never paid attention in class. He was always too busy drawing in his notebook. Maybe it's because he's crazy, but now the bunny is starting to look like a hot dog.
His therapist says he shouldn't use that word anymore. He was surviving and protecting himself, and now it's time to find better ways to self-care and live the best, most peaceful life he can. She says he has never been crazy. His therapist says there's no such thing as crazy. There are only coping mechanisms that can’t serve him anymore. His inner child needs a better parent than he was given, and that has to be him now. He's not sure he believes her. He still feels tired, sad, and paranoid. He still has nightmares about Misty, lips blue, lying lifeless in that pit under the pergola. He did that to her. He thinks better of the reckless thought and  shakes his head. No, he didn't; none of it was real.
"You must be Ethan? Mom and Mr. Schilling said you'd be coming home today."
His eyes scan the sky again. Farther away past the trees and the place he doesn't like to think about, the clouds are dark, menacing. They'll break soon, and if he’s not ever so careful, so will he. His stomach clenches with an unknown fear.None of it was real.
Ethan turns around, but he doesn't want to. He hopes it's not happening again.
He nods at the woman in front of him. She's pretty with very dark hair styled in a pixie cut. She has on the apron that Mrs. Hofstadter usually wears. It's white with blue pinstripes, but this time it has a red stain near the hem. Perhaps marinara or something.
Maybe she's real. Misty was tall and slender. This woman is short and a little buxom. Ethan tries not to think about Alice. She is also tall and thin, but she was real, right? They confirmed that in the hospital. Ethan's thoughts start to feel fuzzy and disjointed again. His throat is tight and so dry. Why do his eyes hurt? It was probably just the wind.
He fingers the wide flat bracelet made of paper and plastic that has lived around his wrist for the past ninety days. All of a sudden, he feels so tired. He wants to reacquaint himself with his bed and sleep for a thousand years.
"Yes…um. Yeah, I'm Ethan. Who are you?"
She's very pretty in a tiny fairy creature kind of way. She has very dark eyes, hair, and an olive complexion.
"Oh, I figured Mr. Schilling or my mom might have sent you an email."
Email. Ethan doesn't even remember the last time he looked at his inbox. He was allowed some computer time at the hospital but no mobile phones.
"Sorry, I must have missed it."
She takes a step forward and pushes the sleeves of her sweater up her arms. She has a silver Cape Cod bracelet on her left wrist along with a watch.
"My mom is getting her hip replaced. Arthritis runs in our family. That's why I'm here."
Her smile is nice, wholesome. This woman eats normally, has friends, and loves her parents. Ethan doesn't know that for certain, but she has good regular vibes.
Nope, she is definitely not a delusion. Any girl he could conjure up would be elusive, mildly creepy, and full of secrets. Something between a pussy willow reed and an ancient wraith would be the kind of woman drawn to death on the Bristol board in his office. Each stroke of his peculiar silver pen would create a gamine curve of ink or a real living thing; he wasn't sure. All he knew was that they always looked like his mother. This woman, in front of him, lives in the light parts of the world. She had to be real.
Ethan shook his head and rubbed at his eyebrows. He could feel a tension headache coming on.
"I'm sorry. Who are you?"
She laughs easily, and it's nice. She moves forward with her right hand out.
"Jesus! Sorry. I should have led with that. I'm Stacey Hofstadter. I'm replacing my mother while she's healing up from her hip replacement."
Ethan takes her hand to shake it. Her fingers are cold and damp.
"Sorry, I was giving the kitchen a good scrub down."
Stacey rubs her hands on her apron nervously once he lets go of her fingers.
"Before my mom started working for your mom, she owned a house cleaning business. I used to work with her. So I'm qualified to keep house even if I haven't done it in a while."
Ethan nods again, but remains silent.
"It's getting kind of inhospitable out here. Wanna come inside? I can make you something to eat or warm something up for you."
Stacy tries to shove hair out of  her face, but the wind won’t hear of it. Ethan can't remember the last thing he ate. He did eat something; he had to first thing because of all the pills. The labels on the little orange cylinders explicitly said to take them with food.