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little-peril-stories · 2 years ago

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Whumptober 2023: Are You Nobody, Too?

So these tags happened in June:

Okay. Like, I know not everything needs to be explained in a story. Sometimes, things can just happen. But once an idea gets into my head, it's very hard to let go. So, here's Where She Learned To Do That.

(It's so long omg I'm so sorry in advance please forgive me.)

Whumptober 2023 Masterlist

Warnings: angst, blood (only a little), traumatic memories

Chapter 46 | Chapter 49 | Box in Your Heart | TPOT Masterlist | Finale Part 1

Word count: 6500 || Approx reading time: 26 mins

Are You Nobody, Too?

Teaser: “Can I help you?” He looks me over with a vaguely confused and slightly appraising look. As his gaze travels, I remember what Stella said about him being a bad apple. More important, though, is the thing she said about him starting fights. “I think you might.”

“Oh. Look who’s back.”

I glance up from the gravy stain I’m scrubbing from the front of my apron, wondering what has lent the vaguely sarcastic, displeased quality to Stella’s voice. Not that it’s that different from how she usually sounds, but there’s a touch more disdain there. Even though I’m not sure if she’s actually talking to me or if she expects a response, I ask, “Who?”

Victoria, next to me, looks around at the empty dining room. “Um…”

“Not in here,” says Stella impatiently. “Out there.” She jerks her head toward the window, where the sun is shining brightly despite the chill that’s creeping in—hinting at the looming autumn, heralding the end of summer, turning the leaves from brilliant green to yellow.

Celeste, hearing the tone, joins us. “Oh, that Bailey boy.”

“Oh,” Victoria says. She sounds disapproving, as I guess she’s supposed to, but maybe I’m the only one who notices her cheeks turn a little pink.

“Who?” I think sometimes they forget I’m not from around here, and that Bailey boy means nothing to me, and it certainly won’t bring out the shocked-and-appalled reaction Stella is clearly looking for.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I steal a glance outside. All I can see of the man in question is a set of long legs, a relaxed, loping gait, and a head of golden curls. Nothing questionable that I can see, certainly nothing to put such disdain into Stella’s voice.

When I look back at her, she’s frowning. “If you don’t know him, Lucy, consider yourself fortunate. A bad apple, that one.”

Chuckling, Celeste murmurs, “Oh, Stella, he’s not so bad.”

I duck my head slightly, glad of my long sleeves, and wonder if Stella knows how skilled she really is at picking out rotten apples from the ripe ones. “Oh, I see.”

Victoria gives me a half-warning, half-amused look. I know what you’re doing.

And it works, too, because after a few long minutes of making Stella wait for me to ask about whatever gossip—and unsolicited advice—she obviously wants to share, she launches right into it. “He goes away in the spring and summer, that boy, off working who-knows-where, and I think we can all agree it’s hardly likely to be honest work, but he comes back when the weather turns cold.” She screws up her face. “I’ve thrown him out of here for starting fights more times than I can count, and he’s…well, he’s quite the Romeo—it’s no secret—more lecherous than I’ve ever seen or care to see again. Stay away.” She spins to face Victoria. “Isn’t that right?”

“Of course,” Victoria squeaks, her cheeks flushing fully. I swear Celeste, who has a far more palatable sense of humour than Stella does, is about to burst into a laugh.

So am I, but I keep it together. After all, I’ve only been here since the spring, not even a year, and I don’t want to ruffle Stella’s feathers too much. She’s the one who pays me every week, after all.

“You’re going to have to use soap on that apron,” Celeste says lightly, watching me struggle, “or it’s never going to come out.”

I nod, resigned to the fact that she’s probably right, but really only half-listening, anyway. Something Stella said is sticking in my brain, and it’s not the thing about staying away from That Bailey Boy.

***

I sit on it for days, obviously, because the very thought of putting my idea into action makes me break out in a cold sweat, and it’s easier to keep working my ass off and stay on Stella’s good side. I don’t even bring him up again, mostly because I don’t see him, and I have a feeling that if I get Victoria on the subject, she’s either going to talk my ear off about whatever happened between her and That Bailey Boy or get annoyed at me for prying, and I don’t have the energy for either.

But one day he’s just out in front of some house near the outskirts of town, chopping wood. It’s the sound, the thwack and crack of splitting logs that draws my attention first, then the bright sunny hair, and I recognize who I’m looking at.

I don’t realize I’ve stopped until he halts what he’s doing and says, “Uh…hello?”

And I suppose I have little choice but to say, “Hello,” and I guess my idea is now a plan.

“Can I help you?” He looks me over with a vaguely confused and slightly appraising look. As his gaze travels, I remember what Stella said about him being a bad apple.

More important, though, is the thing she said about him starting fights. “I think you might.”

He frowns and stands up straight, leaving his axe in the chopping block. “And how’s that?”

Before I can lose my nerve, and before I can think things through, I say, “I hear you like to fight.”

Fuck, what a way to begin.

Luckily, his mouth twists into a barely stifled laugh. “You’ve been talking to that old bag who runs the inn.”

“So?” Why am I so nervous? I’ve seen what a real bad apple looks like. This guy’s nothing.

Leaning against the handle, he tips his head to the side. “Who the hell are you, anyway? Never seen you around here before.”

“I’m Lucy.” I rush the name, throw it out before I can fuck up and say the real thing. “I want you to teach me to fight.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Why the hell would you need to learn how to fight?”

“I just do.”

In case anyone ever tries to hurt me again.

In case Constable Baden Hatchett ever finds me, and I have to choose to fight or die.

“I don’t know, Miss. I got enough trouble as it is.” There’s something off about the way he says it—like he doesn’t really believe his own words. Like he’s still fighting back a laugh. “But I sure appreciate you thinking of me. Even though we’ve never met before now.”

A smirk that feels familiar even though I’ve never seen it before slips over his face.

“I’ll pay you for the lessons.” I almost say, I can make it worth your while, but at the last second, I realize that is open to far too many interpretations. “It’ll be a business arrangement.”

“Girls don’t fight,” he says pointedly, and now it’s me who’s smirking.

“They do,” I say, “and they can get damn good at it if someone teaches them how to do it right.” Girls do fucking fight, and if they did it even more, they might have fewer worries and fewer scars. “I want to learn how to protect myself.”

He stands up straight again, resting his hand on the axe handle. He sweeps another curious gaze from my face to my feet. “And you’re asking me?” I nod. “What’d you say your name was again?”

“Lucy.”

“Why you wanna defend yourself, Lucy? Who’re you afraid of?”

Clenching my jaw, I say, “I’d just feel safer if I knew how to protect myself, that’s all. Just in case.”

Back down goes his head, tipping to the side. “Well. Guess it’s the gentlemanly thing to do, saying yes.”

“Just lessons.” I don’t know if he needs the reiteration, but Stella’s warning is ringing in my head now that I’ve gone and done exactly what she said not to do. “Fighting. Self-defence. That’s all.”

“You really gonna pay up?” Up, down. The gaze flicks over me again.

What else can I do but nod? I don’t want to give up part of my wages to this stranger who I’ve been explicitly told to avoid. But who else would have even listened to my request?

“All right then, Lucy.” He extends a brown, calloused hand. “Henry Bailey.”

“Pleased to meet you, Henry.” I wonder if he can tell how nervous I still am.

“It’s gonna be a pleasure doing business with you, I’m sure.” He cracks another smile. It’s handsome, and I hate it, because it’s not even malicious. Sly, perhaps, and undeniably bemused. But there’s no cruelty or debauchery in his gaze.

“See them stables over there?” He points. “They’re not being used right now. Meet you there tomorrow.”

“I have to work.”

He snorts. “Then come after you’re done.”

“I work late.”

“You wanna learn, or what?”

“Of course I do, I just—”

He lifts the axe again, shrugging his shoulders. “Before work or after work. Your pick.”

I grit my teeth, already wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake. “Aft—no.” Do I want to be alone with this man in the middle of the night, in the dark? “Before.”

“All right then. See you at sunup.”

The next log lands on the block, splits with a shriek, and the two halves hit the ground, the cut clean and perfectly precise.

***

“I’m not teaching you shit,” he says, “till you can make a fist and hold it right.”

I haven’t spent much time in barns before, and I’m not sure I like it much. A musty smell clings to the air, and even though it’s a bit too dim to see properly, I’m sure there must be dust everywhere. There’s still hay littering the ground, not particularly fresh, and I definitely heard something skittering around—or several somethings, more like—when we opened the door. Henry Bailey is wandering around, inspecting the space, kicking detritus out of the way to clear a space in the middle. Even though it’s early, with autumn light creeping up the horizon, he doesn’t seem tired.

Lucky bastard.

“What do you mean, hold it right?” I ball my hand into a fist and peer down at it. When I look up, he’s smirking.

“How d’you like broken knuckles? Shattered elbows?”

I watch him warily. When he doesn’t say anything else, I realize he actually expects an answer. “I don’t, obviously.”

“Then you’re gonna have to learn how to make a real fist.”

“Okay…” I relax my hands. “What do I do, then?”

He pauses now, studying me again. “Why do you want this again?”

“That’s none of your business.”

His mouth twitches. “You came looking for me, asking for lessons, but it’s not my business.”

“No.”

With a shrug, he says, “If you say so.” In a few strides, long legs sweeping up clouds as he walks, he appears in front of me. “Don’t slouch like that. You already look like you’re fucking terrified.”

“I’m not,” I say, glaring.

“Bullshit.” Out of nowhere, he winks. “That Stella hag told you all kinds of stories, didn’t she?”

“How do you know I know her?”

“She hates my guts and tells all the pretty girls to stay away,” he says with a grin. “I broke a chair in her inn once.” He pauses. “No. Wait. Twice.”

He hates my guts. Like everyone else.

I don’t hate you.

The same words—that conversation, that ridiculous sentiment expressed to someone I barely knew a damn thing about, almost a year old now—come back to me, and it sounds so real, as if he’s here standing in front of me, and not this guy. Fire sweeps through my face, just as it did back then.

Henry notices, and a flicker of laughter crosses his face. “Jeez. I’m not that scary.”

“No,” I agree. “You’re not.”

“Well, then, fucking stand up straight.”

We stare at one another, both of us sizing the other up, and I’m keenly aware of how much this first lesson is going to set the tone for all the ones that follow.

“You are an asshole, though,” I say, but I straighten my spine, put my shoulders back, and plant my feet.

That Bailey Boy barks out a laugh. “Now we’re getting somewhere. If you want to fight, we need more of that and less of the—” He adopts a high-pitched voice that’s obviously meant to mimic mine. “—pleased to meet you, Henry horseshit. If you got a spine, you’re gonna have to show it.”

“You really are an asshole.” He has no fucking idea. “I have got a spine.”

“Good. Then you’re gonna prove it.” In one smooth motion, he clasps my wrist and pulls my arm up, raising his eyebrows when every part of me goes stiff. “Thought you weren’t afraid of me?”

But it’s not him, not really. “I’m not.”

“Look.” He lets go. “You asked me for this. You just said you aren’t scared. But I barely touched you and you froze. You’re either in it or you’re not, so which is it?”

“I…”

Once again, he just waits for my reply.

“I’m in it,” I say.

“Then wipe that look off your face and get used to this.” He takes my arm again. “Lots of ways to make a fist. Thumb in, thumb out, below, on top. Straight on, twisted. They all work for different things, long as you know when to use them.”

This makes me glare. “I thought I was supposed to learn the right way.”

“Joke’s on you. They’re all the right way. Depends on what you’re trying to do and who you’re up against.”

With my eyes narrowed, I wait for him to tell me he’s messing around.

Instead, he lets go, leaving my arm in mid-air, and says, “How would you hold your arm if you were about to punch me?”

“I am about to punch you.” I make a fist and draw my arm back.

The smirk on his face says that I most certainly am not, and his words confirm it as he points out everything I’ve done wrong in the last thirteen seconds in the simple motion of pulling my arm back for a strike.

“If you can,” he says, when he’s done, paying no heed to the flaming heat in my face, “you should try to build up your strength. Get some muscle. If you’re really serious.”

As if I’d know the first thing about doing that, or even have the opportunity to even try. “How much free time do you think I have?”

He shrugs. “Just a suggestion.”

Without warning, he moves behind me. “You scared of getting jumped?” It’s unsettling how his voice has gotten closer to my ear, but I can’t see him anymore. “That why you want to learn?”

“Sure.” I doubt Baden Hatchett or any of his constables would be sneaking up from behind if they got close enough to rearrest me, but it’s a true enough statement.

“You been jumped before?”

Long ago, a boy and a girl in an alley. Their faces flash in my mind. A year later, another alley, a man, falling snow, and that same boy, with his hands brushing my face.

I swallow the sudden temptation to cry. “I guess.”

“You guess?” Still behind me, Henry snorts. “You’re a real puzzle.”

Good. I’m going to keep it that way, too.

“Still. Smart.” He laughs. “Lotta nasty people out there.”

I whirl around, stupid Stella’s stupid voice in my stupid brain. “Don’t you dare try anything, Henry Bailey. I’m trusting you, and I’d you—”

“Jeez, Lucy.” He sighs and takes a step back. “This doesn’t seem much like trust, does it?”

And now we’re back in another long stare, a stand-off. I hate myself for looking away first. “You’re trying to scare me.”

“You think you’re gonna take on a grown-ass man who wants to hurt you, and you can’t even handle being a little scared?”

…She was looking for good pickpockets but also ones who could handle being scared a little…

“Stop messing with me.” Anger spills into my voice. “I’m fucking serious about this, and you’re hiding behind me and making fun of me. Are you going to teach me, or should I fucking find someone else?”

That Bailey Asshole is grinning. “You sure got a mouth on you.”

“So I’ve heard,” I snap. “Are you helping me or not?”

“Where the hell did you come from, Lucy…?” He pauses then, realizing that I never gave him a surname.

With a huff, I spin on my heel and head for the door. What a goddamn waste of time.

Footsteps, dust, and a grip on my wrist.

“Let go.”

“Lesson one,” he says smoothly, ignoring the command. With his free hand, he takes mine and guides it up to the wrist that grabbed me. “If someone grabs you. How to get out.”

The panic that was welling within me begins to ebb. He’s serious. He’s going to teach me.

He’s serious, and so am I.

***

Victoria practically goes into hysterics when she sees the bruises for the first time. “Lucy! What on earth happened to you? Are you all right?”

A quick glance in the mirror reveals the weeks’ worth of bruises that have built up on my arms, legs, and back, most of which have resulted from me falling into things after losing my balance or tripping over my goddamn skirt. I told Henry I wanted to wear trousers, thinking it would be easier to learn, and he just laughed in my face.

“Uh…no?” He’d cracked up, even twisted the knife a little harder by pretending to wipe tears from his eyes. “Why would that be a good idea? Are you likely to be wandering around in pants? If you don't learn how to fight in a dress now, you won’t know what to do when it really counts.”

Infuriatingly, he was right, and now I have purple and yellow splattered all over my limbs to show for it.

Of course, Victoria doesn’t know that this is all pain I’ve willingly signed up for, and she flies across our room, only half-undressed, to clasp my hands. “Who did that to you? Are you all right? Who’s hurting you like this?”

“Oh, my goodness. Victoria.” I know I should take her questions seriously, but the earnest concern in her face is so sweet and endearing—and misplaced—that I have to giggle. “No one’s hurting me. You don’t have to worry.”

“Lucy! Don’t lie to me!” She stares at a nasty one on my upper arm, dealt when I fell directly onto the corner of the barn’s windowsill by pure bad luck. “Look at the state of you!”

I bite my lip. Telling her I’m spending hours outside of work letting Henry Bailey put his hands all over me as he teaches me how to defend myself in case my former fiancé and jailer ever reappears to cart me back to prison or to the gallows… Not a wise idea.

“I’m…” Even though I lie to her every day of my life, I still hate it. There’s not a mean bone in her body, not an ounce of spite in her blue eyes, and I can’t imagine how hurt she’d be to learn I’ve never once been truthful about who I am.

“You’ve been sneaking out, too,” she says, “so early in the morning, and—”

“I fell.” I’m not sure Victoria’s stupid enough to believe me, but all I can do is try. Then again, I told her the IA tattoo, something I succeeded in hiding for only about a month, was a religious thing I got in church as a child, and she believed me, so… “I go out for walks before work. To wake up. Um…hear the birds.” Good god, I’m really giving myself away with that one. It’s almost winter. What birds? “Watch the sun come up. But I fell down the hill the other day. It hurt like a b—”

I stop myself just in time, and to my relief, Victoria pretends not to giggle.

“It really looks awful,” she says, brushing a finger over one of the lesser bruises, lightly enough that it doesn’t ache. “You must be more careful.”

“I know.”

When she lets go of my hands, she begins to pull away, then pauses, twisting a golden curl around her finger. “This has nothing to do with…”

“With what?” I keep my voice calm, face unworried.

“Never mind,” she says. “Just take care, all right?”

I wonder… If she can tell I’m lying about this, does she know I’m lying about other things, too? But she hasn’t said anything yet.

“You must be exhausted,” she says, returning to the task of getting ready for bed. “We’ll turn down the lamp early tonight.”

I smile, relief and gratitude warming my chest. “Thanks, Victoria.”

Because she’s right. I’ll be back at it again tomorrow, and before winter hits full force, I am going to knock Henry Bailey on his ass.

***

I’m going to knock Henry Bailey on his ass because he’s still an asshole, but we’re this far into our arrangement, and he’s only gotten more confusing and more annoying. He hasn’t yet taken a cent yet that I’ve offered, despite his apparent interest when we first met, which is beyond concerning, but has instead promised he will the first time I best him, something I haven’t had the chance to even try, let alone succeed at.

That’s only part of it, though. He still does things to irritate me, and the more I ignore the attempts at flirtation that started in earnest about a week into our lessons, the harder he tries.

“Congratulations kiss?” he teases the first time I land a kick, dislodge his grip, and “escape” to the designated safe spot we’ve set up in the barn.

“You wish,” I say, jumping back down.

With a wink, he just says, “You know it.”

Standing behind me, observing silently as I hurl practice punches at a sack of old hay (as if I’m letting you throw at me before you can do it right, he said), he guides my arm with deft, steady fingers, a little too close.

“Back off, Henry.”

“Just trying to protect you from damaging yourself,” he says, and even though I don’t turn around, I can tell he’s grinning.

After a particularly tiring session, watching me pant and try to catch my breath, he asks, “Want me to carry you back to old Stella? It’ll be heroic and romantic. Her head might just fall right off.”

“No, thank you,” I mutter, swiping at the sweat on my forehead with one hand and brushing away dust from my skirt with the other.

“You know, you wouldn’t be so bleeding hot if you just pulled up your sleeves.”

“I don’t want to pull up my sleeves.”

“Afraid to show a little skin?”

“Around you? Definitely.”

He’s sprawled on the floor. Just watching with undisguised amusement. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Why? Because I’m not swooning over you like everyone else?”

He was in the inn last night, with a group of men I assume go out with him to work during the warmer months. I told him if he broke any chairs or did anything to make Stella mad—which inevitably makes my life ten times more difficult—I would be the one cracking chairs over his head. Every girl who passed through, even the ones who were obviously there with their husbands, spent a few extra seconds staring at his stupid chiselled jaw and glossy golden head. Including, as was noted by me and Stella and Celeste, our sweet Victoria.

“Didn’t you learn your lesson last time?” Stella snapped, confirming my suspicions that there was some encounter in the past she hasn’t told me about, and Victoria blushed and avoided looking at him for the rest of the night, at least when she thought no one was looking.

For his part, I’m not even sure he noticed she was there.

“Is that jealousy I detect, Miss Prim and Proper?” He snorts. “Miss Prim and Proper who’s secretly plotting to kick someone’s ass in the future?”

Oh, and he’s constantly badgering me about why I want to fight. Who I want to fight.

“Henry, just mind your own business, for god’s sake.”

Outside, the wind picks up. Autumn is in full swing, with maple leaves now the colour of crabapples, some of them already starting to fall and coat the ground, painting it the hues of the season—sun-bright yellow, brilliant orange, and of course, blood red.

I love it and hate it at once. It’s beautiful, but there’s little I can do to quell the memories that are steadily rising as we draw closer and closer to the one-year mark of what happened to me last fall.

“Hey!” Henry sits up, snapping his fingers. “You even listening?”

“No.” I look away from the window. “What did you say?”

There’s a knowing glint in his eyes. I don’t like how well That Bailey Boy can read people—or, at least, read me. “Who you thinking about all the time, Miss Lucy?”

“No one.”

He rolls his eyes. “I can’t figure you out. You’re not thinking about anyone, you don’t got a sweetheart as far as I can tell, but it’s always back off, Henry.”

“Not everyone has to fall in love with you, you know, you insufferable dickhead.”

That makes his jaw drop. “How’d you get so feisty? You were falling over all winded three minutes ago.”

“I’m better now.” I am suddenly regretful of my choice to do our lessons before work begins. The idea of facing the day after all this, particularly this stupid conversation, is exhausting. “You’re being an idiot.”

And I’m being mean, but I don’t care. I don’t want to talk about who I’m thinking about all the time.

“Never had a girl call me a dickhead before,” Henry says, and instead of being pissed off, he just gives me the most ridiculous little pout I’ve ever seen.

In spite of myself, I laugh.

“See you tomorrow,” he says, getting to his feet, and without another word, he disappears.

***

For some stupid reason, I expect things to get better and easier once he actually lets me spar with him. It’s all slow and pretty fake—he never looks that concerned when I’m going for him—and still I end up with more bruises and even less confidence than before.

“Your head’s always somewhere else.” It’s almost a scolding. “You get caught up in thinking about your lost love, you’re gonna get caught off guard.”

“There’s no lost love. Don’t you ever listen to me?”

“Then why won’t you let me kiss you?”

“You’re such a prick, Henry,” I say, and he falls to the floor, howling.

“Where have you been all these years?” he asks, not for the first time, and I can’t help but smile.

“You like being insulted right, left, and centre?”

Flashing me his most winning, beaming grin, he says, “By you, darling? Of course.”

“You’re so disgusting.” I wrinkle my nose, and as usual, he doesn’t seem at all put off. “Why don’t you make up with Victoria?”

“Who?”

“You’re a pig,” I tell him, and he shrugs. I can tell he’s lying about not knowing who she is.

By the time the trees are almost fully bare, my bruises aren’t doubling in number at the rate they were before, and I’m tripping over my skirt less, and it’s starting to feel intuitive every time I shake off his grip when he tries to catch me off guard.

But the sky darkens early, and the candles have to burn longer, and wind whistles through every door and window.

And in the night, there are memories whose hold no amount of training can dislodge.

“Again,” I say. It must be the third time he’s pinned me today; honestly, I’m not even certain. He looks down at me with a piercing gaze.

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Again,” I repeat, pushing him off. He doesn’t resist. One of these days. I’ve got to get the better of him one of these days. Otherwise, what’s the point? If I can pin him, I might have a chance in hell of pinning anyone else who might ever try to lay their hands on me.

He purses his lips. Is he annoyed? What the fuck reason does he have to be annoyed? He’s the one who keeps winning. “I think maybe you should take a break.”

Irritably, I point out the window. “I have to work soon. This is all the time I have. One more go.”

It’s still dark, even though my duties at the inn start soon. Autumn is well and truly upon us, almost over—any day now, it’ll turn to winter—and I don’t want to walk back to Stella’s alone and cold in the gloom, thinking about having had my ass kicked again and again and again.

“All right,” he says, but I can tell he’s not happy. “One more.”

I guess he could sense the mood I’m in today from the moment we started, because he hasn’t made many jokes at all. Or perhaps the cold weather and dark sky bring back awful memories for him, too.

“Fuck it, Lucy, pay attention!”

My head cracks against the barn floor, and it fucking hurts.

I hit my head on a cobblestone road, once. Years ago now. It bled, leaking hot liquid down my face, and a boy whose name I did not know pressed a handkerchief against it to stem the flow. It hurt like this, if I remember correctly, around the same spot. I went back alone to a room in a sleazy boarding house and cried myself to sleep.

“Fuck! Hey! You okay?”

I sit up, moved by the worry in Henry Bailey’s voice. “I’m fine.” Wincing, I gingerly touch my fingertips to the throbbing spot on the side of my head. “Shit.” The skin is broken; the pads of my fingers come away red. “Shit.”

“Fucking hell,” he says, next to me now. “I didn’t mean to knock you over that hard. Are you all right? How many fingers am I holding up?”

I bat his hand away. “Seriously. I’m fine.” If he’s upset now, he’d lose his shit if he knew what kind of shape I was in around this time last year. One little knock to the head is nothing.

“Answer me, damn it. How many—”

“God damn it, Will! I’m okay! Just give me a min—”

A boiling surge of mortification hits me so hard, it’s more likely to knock me out than the smack of my skull against the floor.

Fucking shit.

“Henry,” I say quickly, but I said what I said and I can’t take it back. “Henry. I’m okay.”

He leans back on his heels. “You hit your head real bad, or are you still thinking about No One even while your head’s bleeding?”

No one. No one.

I close my eyes. I don’t want to look at him right now.

“Just hold on a minute.” I hear him stand up and walk away, and it’s a relief to have some distance between us. I can’t pretend that my head isn’t throbbing, or that this miserable anniversary I’m living through isn’t fucking me up big time, or that I don’t sometimes look at Henry and see Will. Wish I was seeing Will.

“Here.” I open my eyes when he comes back. There’s a wad of cotton in his hand. “To be honest, I’m surprised you haven’t needed patching up before today.”

Somehow, that makes me smile. “You’re an ass.”

“And you’re a clumsy scatterbrain.” Henry presses the cotton against my temple. “Wanna actually tell me what’s eating you?”

All I can do is shake my head and say, “I’m fine.”

He sighs. “Y’know, out of everywhere in this boring-ass shithole of a town, I’d be the last person to judge you, right? You get that?”

I do. I really do. But he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Stella thinks he’s such a rascal, a bad apple, a no-good sort of man with no decency at all, but I think even he’d be floored to find out what’s hiding in my past.

“I appreciate that.”

He studies me, quiet for a while, blue eyes more serious than I’ve seen them. “It’s all right, you know. If you're…if you’re not. Not all right, I mean.”

I’m not all right. But I don’t think I need to say it. He obviously knows.

“You remind me,” I say, “of…” Can I say it? I don’t think I can. “Someone I knew. Someone it…” I swallow a lump in my throat. “Someone it hurts to think about.”

“Will, huh?”

I don’t look at him, and I don’t answer.

“Will is No One, your tragically lost sweetheart.” He leans back on his hands, and before I know it, he’s spinning the wildest fucking tales I’ve ever heard in my life. “Died too young of a mysterious fever. No! Poisoned by a jealous rival.” At my incredulous look, he keeps going. “Uh…a sailor lost at sea? No. He…shot a man through the heart, all to defend your honour, and now he’s on the run.” I laugh, wiping my eyes, annoyed at how close to and yet how far from the truth that one is. “He left you at the altar, and you’ve got a secret kid squirrelled away somewhere.”

“Henry!”

“He broke your heart, and when you see him again, you’re gonna give him the punch in the kisser he deserves.”

Ignoring the voice in my head screaming at me that Will wasn’t the one doing things like running away and earning a punch in the kisser, I tell him, “Wrong. Wrong. Unbelievably wrong.” Since I can’t correct him, I just finish with, “It’s more complicated than that.”

“Yeah,” he says with a sigh. “I bet.”

After a few breaths, he stands up to grab his scarf and begins to wrap the scratchy grey wool around my head.

“What the hell are you doing?” I demand, pawing at him to get him to stop.

“What? Don’t got any real bandages for this. I’m gallantly saving you from bleeding out in this gross-ass barn. You should be thanking me.”

“Gee, thanks.” But I’m laughing, even though my head still hurts and probably will for the rest of the day. “I don’t think we’re in bleeding out territory, though.”

He sighs again. “Well. That’s good news, I guess.” At the pause, I know what’s coming, and even though I want to get my back up, I know he’s right. “Can’t drift off like that. You do it all the time and I keep telling you, you gotta stay focussed.”

“I know.”

“And if it’s really not that bad…” He gestures toward the cotton pressed to my head. “Then you’re lucky, but what if I was actually trying to hurt you? Being sad isn’t an excuse for acting like an idiot.”

I know I deserve the chiding, but despite that, the scolding forces out of me a sideways glare. “You’re one to talk.”

With a snort, he says, “You think I got my reputation because I’m sad? I’m just an asshole.”

“No, you’re not,” I say impatiently. “Just an idiot. Like me.”

He’s quiet for a moment or so, just staring.

“What?”

And then he grins. “Got you to say I’m not an asshole.”

“Ugh.” The urge to take it back is strong. But I’m laughing again.

“Tell you what.” He fixes his shirt—tucking it in neatly (sort of), rolling down the sleeves. “Take a day or two to sort yourself out. Make sure that isn’t worse than it looks.”

“But—”

Holding up a finger and shaking his head, he goes on, “I’m not going anywhere, anyway. I’ll be here till the spring, so what’s the rush? Take a few days off. But I’ll give you a challenge.”

I frown, suspicious. “What kind of challenge?”

“You come back, all fixed up and fired up and ready to go, and we get back at it. Practice as long as you want or whatever, but when you decide you’re ready, we spar.”

“How’s that different from what—”

But there’s that annoying, mischievous grin. “Forget paying up. You win, I’ll never hit on you again, ever.”

I blink. This was not what I expected him to offer.

“You pin me, knock me off my feet and get me at a disadvantage, then I promise I will let you sulk in sorrow and self-pity about your long-lost Will for as long as you decide that’s what you want to do.”

“But if you win?” I’m not sure I’m going to like what’s coming.

He winks. “Then I get to give you one kiss and see what happens.”

“You’re so disgusting,” I say. “You don’t even want to kiss me. You just want to say you did.”

Laughing, he says, “Then I guess you better win.”

The cotton is red when I pull it away from my head, but not nearly as bad as I feared. His gaze, when I look up, is fixed on me, glinting and laughing and full of challenge.

“So? What do you say?”

“I say Stella was right about you all along.”

But.

Outside, the sun is teasing its way into the morning. If I don’t get moving soon, I’m going to be late, and then I’m really in shit.

His proposition is unbelievably stupid, a trap because he thinks there’s no way I can get the better of him, and he’s sick of me getting lost in thoughts and memories while we’re supposed to be fighting.

“One week,” I say. A smile spreads across his face. “A few days off. Time to practice. And then in a week, I’ll take you up on your stupid offer. And I’ll win.”

Narrowing his eyes, he asks, “You serious?” I nod. “Then shake on it.”

His grip is firm, like this is some kind of binding contract to him, and I suppose it is. I try to match the pressure and steadiness of his hand curled around mine.

“One week,” he repeats, and I do the same. When we let go, he sweeps a still-concerned-but-less-so-now glance over me. “Want me to walk you back to the inn?” I shake my head. As if I want Stella, Celeste, or Victoria to see me strolling up with him That Bailey Boy on my arm and blood on my head.

“Just you wait, Henry Bailey,” I say, getting to my feet. “You’re gonna rue the day you ever agreed to teach me how to fight.”

With a laugh, he shoves his hands into his pockets and heads for the door. Before he heads out into the grey morning light, he shoots me his signature sly grin, and said, “Can’t wait, darling,” and vanishes.

“You’re an ass!” I call after him, but he’s gone, his hearty laugh already fading.

He is, and maybe I’m a fool for taking him up on his offer, but for the first time in weeks, I’m feeling something other than the empty dread these long, bitter days have brought.

For the first time in weeks, there’s a fire burning inside me, buoyed by an old friend, one I haven’t met with in far too long.

Hope.

Chapter 46 | Chapter 49 | Box in Your Heart | TPOT Masterlist | Finale Part 1

Whumptober 2023 Prompts Fulfilled

No. 1: “But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps.” | Swooning | “How many fingers am I holding up?”

No. 5: “You better pray I don't get up this time around.” | Debris | Pinned Down | “It's broken.”

No. 14: “Feed me poison, fill me ‘till I drown.” | “Just hold on.”

No. 15: “I don't need you to help me; I can handle things myself.” | Makeshift Bandages | Suppressed Suffering | “I’m fine.”

No. 30: “It’s okay, just to say, ‘I’m not okay.’”

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