#i love this soft patient side of helen so much ok

[elialys]

"To sport now, and Australian cricket captain, Allan Broader…Border, has threatened to resign in the wake of Australia's worse…worst ever World Cricket score…Series score."

THE NEWSREADER | 1.01 | Helen x Dale - Dale's Update Part 1 [2]

[spookymultimedia]

A Summer to Remember ch 6 [fin]

[Helen pov]

     I ran after him, rocks shifting under my feet. He stopped at a gravel road, leading to the cabin, leaning against a tree and looking at the ground. 

       "Timothy.  . .I understand if you're mad. I'm mad at myself. I wasn't thinking. I still love you. I mean it." My voice shook.

              "I'm confused . . ." He said calmly, 

" but I don't blame you. I'm not that upset really, I understand, I mean-." He sighed trying to gather his thoughts. I stood there dripping. The warm heat and soggy humidity kept me from getting cold. 

                "You like her, huh?" He looked up at me. I nodded, "Alot, actually." 

        He smiled. I didn't expect him to smile. "She's great for you."

           "You. . you think I should?"

"Maybe, I don't really care, well, mind" He shrugged. "If it makes you happy."

             " But I can't leave you." I took his hand. 

He thought for a moment, "Uh. . .isn't there this. . .thing where. Someone has multiple wives?"

    I cocked my head confused.

"You know, that thing that. . .Mormons or Amish do? But like with a husband and a wife?"

        "Polygamy?" I answered slowly. What was he getting at?

 "Yeah, that but without the multiple wives thing."

               ". . .poly . .polyamory?"

"Yeah." He smiled, "that."

I shrugged, "I don't know, that takes a lot of work and communication." 

                ". .but?"

   "But I am considering it."

                "Maybe bring it up to Maude?"

"Okay." I smiled. He hugged me despite me being all soaked and dirty.

           "What about Ned?" I asked and let go.

                         "I don't know, I haven't seen him in a couple hours. I hope he's okay."

                  "You really care about him a lot don't you?"

      He nodded bashfully, "Yeah.  . .yeah I do."

      "That's okay." She smiled. 

He hid his mouth with his palm and looked away.

          "Really it is." I insisted.

"This is all so new and . . . "

       "I understand. . .I think I might be. .bisexual."

  "Me too." He muttered. 

           "I mean you don't need to have multiple partners to be bisexual but that is something I'd like to try. . .I really really l like her."

    "Oh. . . Okay."

                       "What?"

  "I don't know, I just thought that you needed to be involved with both to be bisexual."

              "No it's just, I could like men and women equally..like they're both hot. You know?"

He shrugged, "I don't know, I- I don't really feel that way at all."

                  "What?" I furrowed my eyebrows confused.

            "I just- I don't know, I just think everyone looks just ok. I mean I don't not think you're beautiful or anything. Because you are. You're cute. Just. I just don't know what hot is." He scratched his chin and looked away. 

       "Oh. . ." I was still confused. "Okay."

"I should really go look for Ned." 

            "Yeah. I'll go talk to Maude."

"Meet you later then." He smiled a bit and walked off.

          "See ya!" I smiled back and ran back towards the lake. 

[Ned pov] 

               I laid in bed hugging onto a pillow after I showered. I thought about what I said. The guilt was dull now but it was still there. I wished I hadn't said anything, I wish I could move on. I'd live without, but it would still hurt for a long while. I closed my eyes, listening to the birds and the windchimes Timothy made one summer. The air conditioner made a low hum, it was a bit peaceful. I could lay down and pretend nothing existed but the present. Nothing in the future matters now. There was only now, and now there were birds singing, a soft pillow under my head, a clean body, and chimes to accompany the birds music. No worry existed here. No concern. No stress. I didn't have to think about it now. I allowed myself to just be present and exist in that moment. I felt okay. 

      After half an hour my catnap was interrupted by a soft knock on the door, "It's me. Ned? Are you in there?" 

            "Yeah." I answered. I started to feel sick again. I opened the door and let him in. 

       "I've been looking all over for you. Are you alright? I'm sorry I pressured you like that, I should have realized that was still a sensitive subject for you. I didn't mean to put you in that uncomfortable situation." He rambled. It wasn't often I saw him ramble like this. I was usually the one who did the rambling and apologizing.

       "Did I ruin everything?" I looked down at the floor.

                "No. . .no of course not." He touched my arm. "Actually uh, I talked to Helen." He moved his hand back to his side.

He sat down on the bed and I did too. 

     "Yeah?"

"It turns out she and Maude really like each other."

        "Oh. . .Tim, I'm sorry.  ."

"What? No it's not like that, she actually wants to maybe start a.  . . .polyamory"

        "Oh? You mean.  . . with you and her dating other people?"

He nodded.  He looked down and chewed at his finger. 

   "Is. . .that a good thing?"

He nodded his head. 

           "I'm happy for her. I mean, she still needs to see how Maude feels about it."

    "Oh." 

          "Ned I.  . .I- I think I." He flapped around his hands in frustration and shut his eyes. I waited patiently. He took a deep breath. "I love you." His hands fidgeted at his shirt nervously. 

        Everything suddenly felt unreal. It was like time stopped. He felt the same way? 

          "Wow . ."

"Uh . .do you feel okay with me being with you and Helen?"

          "I do feel a bit jealous of Helen sometimes. I'm sorry I must sound like a jerk." I looked away ashamed.

             "It's okay to feel that way. . ."

"But I do want to try it out. I think it'll go away once I- . .I um." I blushed.

             "Get your share?" He smirked.

"Something like that."

               "I get it. Well, what do you want to do with me?" He played with the hair at his neck.

I suddenly felt shy. 

   "Uh . . .um. .uh. You want me to be honest?"

          "Yes."

         That was a loaded question. I didn't want to overshare. What if I make him uncomfortable??

     "I really want to.  . .kiss you . .and do some other sexual stuff." I looked away kinda embarrassed. 

             "Oooh." He sounded somewhat surprised. "You're allowed to feel that way." He smiled. 

      I looked at him, "Sooo. . .you're bisexual then?"

            "Yeah.  . .I think so? I mean I- I don't know. I'm a little confused about sexuality."

             "It can be intimidating. It's so weird to suddenly just feel this desire and it's so new yet familiar and it's hard to shake off." 

           "Oh. . . ?"

I looked up at him, "I'm sorry are you uncomfortable?"

                "Oh. No. .no. Just…..I don't know. I just don't feel sexual? I mean I want sex. Buy. Oh, I don't know. "

                    .      "That's okay."

"So . . .you wanna do something?" I didn't want to sound needy. I was but I didn't want to sound that way.

                   "I honestly feel pretty tired right now. I just want to lay down. I'm sorry."

            "No, that's okay. I'm kinda tired too."

        I laid down on my back and left room for him. He laid by my side and reached out his hand. I held my hand out and he felt it.

"I'm sorry.  . ."

                  "Why?"

"I just.  . . I- I have this issue with touching people sometimes. Like sometimes hugs are just too much or I just really don't want to shake hands with a stranger. It's uncomfortable."

           "Oh. ."

"I'll be okay. I want to hold you. . .I just. I don't know if I can yet without getting overwhelmed?? I'm sorry it sounds silly."

         "No, it doesn't."

"Okay, thank you."

                 "Mmhm" I smiled.

He gently held my hand and closed his eyes. 

I did too. It was quiet, and it was okay again. 

            

[Maude pov]

    I waited at the shore feeling scared. What we did was impulsive but wild and free and nice.  . . I never felt like that before. It was mind numbingly wonderful. I listened to waves crash while my mind was filled with nothing but dread. A selfish part of me hoped I could have her. 

     I was drawing hearts in the sand when I heard Helen.running up to me, "Maude!" She called, smiling. I stood up trying to get a better look. She suddenly hugged me. 

       "Helen! What's gotten into you?", I giggled out. I held onto her waist and grounded my feet before we toppled over. "It's wonderful, just wonderful, oh I love you so much. I love Timothy so much, oh my goodness I love you so much."

      Timothy and me? Was there a compromise? 

       "What happened?"

She let me go and waved her fists, too excited to stay still. 

    "Me and Timothy talked things out. I told him I was sorry for my actions, he forgives me of course and he said he didn't blame me. So we decided to try out polyamory!" Her words were rushed.

     "Polyamory? What's that?" 

"Um. .well I think it's when you date multiple people or something like that. Of course everyone has to consent to the relationship and stuff. It's not Polygamy."

      "I don't know what Polygamy is. So. . .you're saying we can date?"

  "Yes! It's okay."

I hugged her, feeling happy, "I'm so relieved Helen." 

         I looked up at her. My happy Helen. Our happy Helen?? She was happy and loved and that's all I cared about at that moment. She placed a hand on my cheek and pecked my lips. I kissed her back. I couldn't help but cry. I felt so free. After being by her side for so long I feel honored to be hers. Her eyes widened after our kiss. "Ohh I didn't even tell you the other thing! Timothy likes Ned Flanders! Isn't that the sweetest thing? He's such a sweetheart."

          Her hands rested on my shoulders as she spoke. I touched one of her hands and listened. 

          "So is he going to date him?"

"Well. . .Timothy doesn't like talking things so fast. He said he was going to talk to Ned. I think they'll be okay." She smiled. "I'm happy for him.  Both of them. I think this will be good for them both." 

        "Me too." We spend the rest of the afternoon kissing and running through the water. 

[Timothy pov] 

     After supper, the four of us sat around the outdoor campfire. Ned was making smores and showing me how he perfectly roasted them. "The trick is to keep every side evenly toasted. Nice and equal." I smiled. I liked how calculated his method was. He put in alot of care. When it was finished  he gave it to me. They were warm and gooey. I smiled and wiggled a hand.

      "Good?"

  He nodded. I glanced over at Helen who was next to me. Maude was in her arms and Helen told her stories. Her eyes where glued to Helen's. They where a sweet couple. I liked seeing them happy. I nibbled at my treat and gently touched Ned's hand. We held hands. He smiled at me warmly. Helen stared at us smirking. I blushed and smiled, looking down at the fire. I stared into the it feeling happy and nervous. Everything felt okay and peaceful tonight, tomorrow would be a new chapter in our lives. There's lots that we still have to figure out, but as long as we have each other I think we'll be okay. I massaged my thumb onto Ned's palm and let him rest on my shoulder. 

[Ned pov]

       I sat at the edge of the lake alone, looking up at the stars. I had finished packing early and decided to go take one last gander at the water. The air was warm with a calm breeze. There wasn't a single cloud in the sky to block the view. Maude walked up to me and sat with me. "The weather is nice tonight."

"Yeah, it sure is."

       We sat quietly. Crickets were singing to the beat of the water. The light breeze brushed against a bush. "Ned, do you ever wonder what it would be like if we never met? Would we end up in relationships we don't want anyway? Would we have figured out we're gay sooner?" 

            I thought for a while, and then shook my head slowly, "I don't know. .but I know that I don't regret meeting you. You're the best friend I could ever have." 

     She smiled. "You too." 

[Maude pov] 

       Ned and I held hands and watched the stars glow on the water, knowing nothing would come between our friendship. The love our friendship had was just as deep as our respective love for Tim and Helen. I'd always have his back. I was ready to support him and Timothy through everything. It was a very deep friendship, maybe even deeper than most friendships where. Regardless of what our relationship was, it was strong and something beautiful.

       The night felt yellow. Like, a happy warm yellow. I felt happy, we were all happy. I knew for certain this would be a summer to remember. 

[meetmeinthematinee]

Present Frustrations (John Wick X Helen)

A/N: Exactly today is my 1 year writingiversary -- June 22, 2019 I wrote and posted my first ever John Wick Fic over on A03. So it’s perfect timing that I have this fic ready to go today. It started out as a very different story but I kinda love the direction this went in. So--as always--thank you so so so much for reading and commenting and liking. Sometimes I read your comments and I cry a lil bit because I get so emotional about it. But in a nice way. 

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Warnings: Kinbaku (a.k.a. Shibari, a.k.a Rope Bondage) If you don’t like people being tied up and their feelings explored this fic is not for you and that’s a-ok. Angst (kinda?) Lots of feels. 18+ please, probably NSFW.

It was the swearing and clattering of objects that drew her to the basement stairs. Helen had been reading--or trying to--but enough was enough. John had been moody and irritable since he’d woken up. Usually she’d just leave him be until he’d worked out whatever he needed to but sometimes, like today she’d have to intervene. She listened for a moment as the swearing got louder, his voice deeper and sharper in tone before she sighed and went to fetch his car keys.

“WHAT?!?” 

He snapped as she padded softly down the basement stairs.

He threw the awl in his hand onto the counter in irritation and spun to face her.

“You have two choices here John. Take the car for a real workout OR kneel at my feet as you silently turn the pages of my book for me. Simple as that. Take your pick.”

He didn’t answer but held out his hand for the car keys and she held them aloft, above his open palm for a moment.

“Come home in one piece, alright?” 

She said with a small smile before dropping them into his waiting hand. She didn’t wait for an answer, she turned and climbed the stairs and made her way back to the livingroom and her novel.  A few minutes later the door slammed and she knew exactly where he was at. 

They went through this from time to time. John would become restless and quick to anger. Transitioning to this new and much more normal life was hard for him and Helen tried her best to provide the structure he so clearly needed to keep himself together. He needed tasks. To be told what to do. Especially when he was like this--any shred of self awareness he possessed went right out the window.  

She heard the mustang squeal into the driveway an hour later. She finished the last bite of her sandwich and brushed the crumbs off her lap just as John made his way into the kitchen.

“Hungry?”

“No.”

She raised an eyebrow as John pulled the fridge open hard enough to rattle the condiments in the door. He seemed to stare blankly into the fridge for a while before slamming the door shut again without taking anything. 

She wrapped her fingers tightly around his arm as he brushed past her. 

“Is today one of those days, John?”

He stiffened in her grasp and let out the breath he didn’t even realise he’d been holding, he relaxed his clenched hands and nodded, silently answering her.

“Would you like my help?” 

He nodded again.

“You know the rules, darling.” She reminded him, gently. Her voice, calm and soothing but also firm.

“Yes.” He made eye contact with her for the first time since he’d gotten home. It made her heart ache to see the wildness in his eyes--the misery and frustration.

She moved her hand from his arm to the side of his face and he flinched a little at her touch. 

“You’re going to get everything we need and lay it out for me on the bed. I have a few things to take care of -- and I want you waiting for me on your knees. Understood?”

“Yes.”

John leaned in for a kiss and Helen gently pressed her finger to his lips. 

“None of that right now. Just do as I’ve asked, darling.”

She knew he hadn’t eaten since breakfast so she took a few minutes to put together a plate of cheese and fruit for him and stowed it in the fridge for later. With the mood he was in she wanted to be sure he felt extra safe and extra cared for after their scene. When he was unmoored and tense like this she never really knew how he’d react afterward. It’d taken a while for them to figure that out together. Helen rolled her shoulders and took a few deep breaths as she left the kitchen and went to find him in their bedroom.

John was kneeling on the floor facing away from her, resting back on his heels with the neatly tied hanks of jute rope, the safety shears and a blanket and pillow laid out on the end of their bed. Helen took note of the tension in his shoulders and the fact that he wasn’t fully kneeling like she’d asked as she moved closer to him. 

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” She asked as she slid her hand into his hair, her thumb lightly caressing his cheekbone.

He pressed his face into her touch and closed his eyes for a moment.

“Yes, please.” 

She picked up one of the hanks and undid the knot, shaking it lose and forming a bint.

“Chest harness?” 

“Please.” 

She stroked the rope slowly along the broad line of John’s shoulders. 

“I need clear answers, John. Try that again.”

“Yes, chest harness, please.”

“Arms free or box tied?’ She asked as she began the process of wrapping the rope around his bare chest to start building the diamond patterned harness. The soft sound of the tails of the rope swishing as she pulled them through her capable hands. 

“Bunny ears.” He said lowly.

“You’re sure?” She pressed him. It was such a vulnerable and open position -- he was pushing himself and that was cause for some hesitation. 

“Yes.” 

“John, you don’t--”

“I want it.” 

Helen finished off the chest harness and stepped away to admire her work. The jute was tied in beautiful diamond shapes that pressed into his skin just enough to leave marks later on. She circled around him and slipped her fingers under the ropes checking her work to make sure it wasn’t too tight. 

“How’re you feeling, John?” She asked as she threaded her fingers into his fair, gently brushing it back and tilting his head up to look at her. With semi-glassy eyes and gently parted lips he blinked slowly at her. Almost like a contented cat sitting beside a fireplace--letting her know he was well on his way already. The deep frustration she saw in him earlier had vanished.

“Good. I’m good.” 

Without prompting he raised his arms and positioned them behind his head groaning a little as the rope on his torso bit into his skin as he moved. His elbows pointed up to the ceiling with his toned forearms pressed against his biceps. 

“Fuck. You look like a little present. Maybe I’ll open you later if you’re good.” 

John sucked in a breath at her words and marvelled at how she always knew exactly what to say and even more importantly, when to say it.

Helen tugged his hair a little and wrapped her hand around his clenched jaw, regaining his focus and attention.

“Promise me you’ll use your safe word if you need to.”

“I will.” He answered, without hesitation and she felt his jaw relax under her fingers. A subtle but reassuring sign. As much as she trusted John she also knew he would push himself beyond his limits if she didn’t keep checking in and reminding him that this wasn’t meant to be a punishment, but rather something that could bring them closer together. She had no interest in breaking him. She wanted to bring him to the edge and safely back again.   

As she undid another hank of rope she nudged his thigh gently with her foot. 

“Crossed legs. Kneeling will be too much.”

John briefly lowered his arms and repositioned himself, moving off of his knees to sit as Helen instructed. He settled himself and trailed his hands up and over his chest. The rope restricted his motion somewhat and the jute dug roughly into his skin as his muscles shifted with each movement. By the time he had his arms back in position he was covered in goosebumps. Desperate to be touched and handled by her again.

Helen moved quickly, standing over John as she worked up the series of loops and hitches to secure his arms in the desired position, always checking to make sure his joints were in alignment and not over-extended. As she secured the final knot she paused and checked his hands again to make sure his circulation was fine. 

She circled around to the front of him and crouched down, gently placing her hand on the centre of his chest. 

“Feeling ok?”

“Uh huh.” He uttered quietly. 

“You look so beautiful like this.” John blushed crimson at those words and his already altered breathing picked up speed.

She brushed her hands up his side, feeling the contrast of the rough jute rope and his soft, warm skin as he shivered under her touch. She crowded him and leaned over checking his hands again. He leaned his head against her and pressed his face into her thigh. Losing himself in her softness, her warmth and her scent until he felt her pull away. Or at least he thought she had. He really wasn’t sure. 

“I wish you could see how gorgeous you are right now. Would you like to see what I see?”

“Mmm.” He murmured as he nodded slowly.

Helen reached for the polaroid camera he’d set out for her earlier.

She smiled to herself as she felt him start shivering in earnest, more of his bodyweight leaning against her than before. She carefully guided him just under the arms so that he was sitting more on his own again as she sat down beside him. 

His chest was a deep pink colour now. Helen cradled his face with her hands and spoke quietly but firmly. 

“Do you remember your safe word?” 

It took him a moment to register her words, his eyes were glassy and heavily lidded.

She waited, patiently, searching his face and body for signs of distress but she found none -- he was afloat and drifting.

“Yeah.” He said softly in a tone she hadn't heard from him before--as if he was dreaming.

Their bedroom always had such beautiful light so Helen had no trouble snapping a few beautiful shots of John as he sat there, tied, exposed and utterly vulnerable to her--and for her. The rope bisecting his scars and tattoos. Transforming them into something new and unreadable. Disrupting their place and meaning on his body. The marks she’d leave on him were temporary and the longer lasting ones--the ones that mattered most of all were and would always be invisible.

John’s chin quivered as she snapped the last shot and she could see the goosebumps were all over his body now. She let him have a few more moments before she began untying him. 

As she carefully guided his arms back down to his sides his teeth started to chatter.

“I’ve got you.” She said as she pulled out her safety sheers and cut the rope off his chest quickly and efficiently.

She pulled a blanket and a pillow off the end of the bed and wrapped it around him before she moved the pillow into position.

“You did so well.” She said as she guided him to lay down. It was much easier to keep him on the floor where he was than to risk moving him and having him fall. Helen was strong but not quite strong enough to handle his dead weight. 

“Are you ok now?”

She laid next to him and smoothed her hand soothingly through his hair as he shivered.

John made small contented sounds as he focused on her touch with his eyes closed.

He was slowly coming back to himself--he’d never floated that far and become that unaware before. It was blissful and terrifying all at once.

“Yeah. I am.” He said as a languid smile stretched across his lips. 

Helen kissed his forehead. “I’m going to get you something--do you feel ok to be alone for a moment?”

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t you dare get up, though.”

He laughed softly. “I won’t, promise.”

Helen padded to the kitchen and got the snacks for John as well as some water and an advil. 

He was sitting propped up against the end of the bed when she walked back in. He was so overwhelmed by her love and care he could barely breathe.  

“I thought you promised not to move.” She said with a rueful smile, interrupting his reverie as she set down the snacks beside him.

He grinned sheepishly at her and shrugged as she slid her arm around his waist and settled herself next to him. She picked up a piece of strawberry and held it aloft before she offered it to him. He leaned forward and bit into it--his lips brushing against her fingers, the bright flavour and sweetness washing over his taste buds. 

Helen’s eyes crinkled softly as she smiled and picked up some cheese.

“I’m so sorry, Helen.” John said suddenly.

She watched as the tension crept back into his body. 

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for. Let’s just enjoy each other for a while, hmm?”

For a moment John looked like he was about to say something but instead he leaned closer to her, looped his arm around her waist and allowed himself to sink back into the relaxed calm he’d felt only moments before. 

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[meltingalphabet]

Why won’t you love me?

“Even though I was with Marcus, I wanted Nate to notice me. I didn’t realize that it’s not always nice to feel wanted. I have my boyfriend - sorry - ex-boyfriend, to thank for teaching me that.”

I wanted to stop the tape, remind her to stay focused, but I could already tell this statement was going to be a long one. This was far from how I wanted to spend Christmas day, but I understood that she needed to tell someone the whole story, her story, and it wasn’t worth it to rush her.

“Marcus isn’t bad… I wouldn’t have dated him if he was bad” she emphasized the word, as if it were a sliding scale and “bad” was the extreme. “But, I guess I’m not as good a judge of character as I thought.” She looked pained.

I cleared my throat. She sighed and looked back up at me. “I started dating Marcus about a year ago.” She thought for a moment, “yeah, pretty much exactly a year ago. He had been crushing on me for… well for forever. My longterm boyfriend had broken up with me the week before our office’s annual Christmas party - I remember because I was annoyed I didn’t have a date to go with - so…” She groaned at the memory. Her face scrunched as if she tasted bile at the back of her throat and was about to be nauseous, “I drunkenly made out with Marcus under the mistletoe. It was late and I was a mess. But the next morning I woke up and Marcus had bought coffee and a croissant from the bakery down the block. We didn’t even have sex, he had just… put me to bed. He even slept on the couch. Yeah, he’s a little… obsessive, but…” you could hear the air quotes, “he’s sweet. Or, at least I thought he was. But he took care of me and… and I guess that was the first time a guy’s ever really done that. And, well” she paused, “I guess that’s what I needed. I am almost forty and, as my mother constantly reminds me, I’m not getting any younger.”

I nodded, feeling more like a therapist than a police captain. I touched the button on the side of my phone, seeing if there was any word. Wondering if I would be more needed elsewhere. But it was Christmas and the force was out seeking a homicidal maniac, for the first time with an actual lead, so I sat back and continued to listen to Ms. Monroe’s story.

Her eyes were locked on the back of a picture frame on my desk. It was a picture of Myra, my wife. Bridget’s eyes were focused but also, not… They were focused on the black back of the picture, but her mind was far, far away. I resisted the urge to take the photograph, to hide it in my desk drawer, to keep her cold, focused eyes away from my wife. I thought of Myra, pictured her sitting on the couch, watching Love, Actually for the third time this season. God, I hate that fucking movie.

“Then I met Nate.” Her voice was breathy and her eyes glistened at the mention of the name. If she was an anime character, this is the part where her big wet eyes would reflect penciled in twinkles radiating inside her giant pupils. She was still looking at the back of my wife. The back of her picture. Before I could stop it, my hand shot out and nudged the picture forward, towards me. Bridget looked up at me, startled. The spell broken. She blushed slightly, and continued, “Nate started working at our company a few months ago as the IT guy. His official title was helpdesk specialist or something.” She waved away the nonsensical title as if it irritated her. “He replaced Terry, who left to go work at some stupid startup that I know will be bankrupt in six months if it isn’t already.”  Bridget rolled her eyes. She said Terry’s name as if it had coated her tongue in an unpleasant lemon flavor. Apparently, Ms. Monroe did not approve of Terry. Her nose was turned up into sneer as if he were the human equivalent of discovering shit on the sole of your shoe. She leaned in towards me, her eyes looking up at me conspiratorially. She lowered her voice, “he was a republican.” She quickly sat back upright and looked at me gravely. I nodded my head as if in understanding. There was no need to tell her that I too, am a republican, and no, I’m not a piece of shit, but thanks.

She nodded back at me, her focus loosening again, as if her hate of Terry had been the only thing normalizing the situation. She stared down at her fingernails. “Nate is…” she trailed off, picking under her thumb nail. “He’s perfect.” She finally finished. She looked up at me, not sheepishly like I would’ve expected, but with a sad kind of longing that made her look much younger than she was. “He’s young and handsome. Smart, kind. He’s the drummer in some punk band. I’ve dragged Marcus to a few of their shows.” She gave her fingers a small secret smile. “They’re terrible.” Her voice was light with laughter. The voice that people only use when discussing the quirks of someone they love. “He just… He has so much life. So much character. I can feel him enter the room without seeing him, without hearing him. I can just feel his presence.” She looked up at me and we stared at each other for a moment. I had nothing to add to this school girl crush, so I did what years in the force could never teach me but two daughters and wife could: I stayed quiet and waited. “See, Marcus doesn’t really have any hobbies. He doesn’t even have a favorite type of movie. It’s not that we disagree on whether to watch a romantic comedy or an action film, he just has no opinion. He watches what I want to watch and likes what I like. Unless you consider painting tiny figurines of wizards and dragons as a passion.” She snorted.

I do consider that a hobby, but I didn’t say anything.

Her blue eyes danced above my head as she eyed the dusty corners of the small beige office. I sat patiently, waiting for her to continue. She didn’t. There was a reason why Deputy Black wanted me to conduct this interview.

I cleared my throat. “And Nate is the man you believe to be in mortal danger, correct?”

She nodded, her eyes widening with fear. “Have they found him yet? Have they found Marcus? Is Nate ok?” Raw anxiety formed broken jagged paths through her voice.

I touched my phone again, out of habit more than anything. I knew I hadn’t received any updates. “No news yet, but we’ve got almost the entire force out tonight. We’re doing everything we can to prevent another death. In the meantime, please continue with your stor…” I cleared my throat again, stopping the word short, “statement.” I amended.

“I should have broken up with Marcus. It would’ve been the adult thing to do. Break up with Marcus, ask Nate out, then go from there. But I’m an idiot, a coward, and idiotic coward.” She looked exhausted, “I didn’t want to break up with Marcus, because…” her eyes darted to the side of the desk, “I wasn’t sure Nate was into me and I didn’t want to be alone.” She admitted looking up at me, her eyes pleading for forgiveness, “not again.”

I nodded.

“But that’s why I think he’s in trouble.” Her voice was louder, stronger. Her tone serious, grown confident with genuine fear.

“I know, Ms. Monroe. We’re doing everything we can. Please, tell me about the gifts you mentioned earlier.”

“Yeah, the gifts.” She shuddered slightly, almost imperceptibly. “I think Marcus knew I was into Nate. I mean… I tried to hide my crush. Like I said, I don’t even know if Nate thinks of me that way, so I try to treat him like just another co-worker. I guess more than just a co-worker, but still just a friend.” She looked briefly guilty, and then continued, “I started getting small presents last Thursday, December 14th.” She nodded towards the charm bracelet sitting in an evidence bag on my desk. “The day of the first murder.”

I couldn’t stop the image from flashing into my mind: Helen Roger hanging limply from one of the tall oaks in the park. A jogger had found her body at about eight am during his routine morning run. Her neck had broken with the impact. A coldness crept from my spine as I remembered her pale face. Her eyes were much too large, bulging from her eye sockets. They were turning a white I never want to see again. Her pupils grey, no longer searching for help, but gone forever into the void.

I ignored the cold sweat forming on my brow and took a large silent breath to slow my heart rate before I asked, “what was the present exactly?”

Bridget tapped the evidence bag with a long fingernail painted a festive red. “It was the bracelet and the partridge in a pear tree charm.”

Helen’s swollen filmy eyes popped into my mind.

I steadied myself and swallowed. “And you think the charm was a message? That Mrs. Roger was the partridge in a pear tree?”

Bridget nodded, her eyes wide. “I didn’t realize at the time, but now it makes sense. It’s a pattern.”

“You mentioned a note before, but you no longer have it, is that correct?”

“Yes. The box was sitting on my desk when I showed up for work, wrapped in a soft pink paper. There was a note that read ‘To my true love on the first day of Christmas.’ And it was signed, ‘your admirer.’” Rosey splotches grew over her cheekbones.

“But you didn’t keep it?”

“I.. I didn’t want Marcus to find it.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want him to get jealous.”

I studied her for a moment, one eyebrow raised. “And what made you believe that Marcus wasn’t ‘your admirer’? Wouldn’t that have been your first suspicion?” Now I was the one with air quotes in my voice.

She shrugged, “women just know, you know? Marcus isn’t creative enough to do something like that. He bought me socks for my birthday. A bracelet, let alone a charm bracelet, is not like him.” She picked at her nail, eyes trained on a coffee stain in front of her. “But I guess I was wrong.”

“What did you do with the bracelet?” My internal voice chided myself for asking the question, since it was more out of personal curiosity than professional necessity.

“I hid it in my desk drawer.”

“So Marcus wouldn’t find it?”

She nodded.

“And you continued to receive these… presents. One every day, correct?”

She swallowed. “I didn’t realize they were connected to the murders until yesterday.”

“I understand, Ms. Monroe. You had no reason to suspect anything. Please describe each gift for me. In the order you received them. They’re all here in the evidence bag, correct?” I asked.

“Yes, they’re all there.” I noticed her gaze caught everywhere but the bracelet, sitting between us like a disowned child. “I received the charm with two turtle doves that Friday.”

“December 15th.” I added.

She nodded. “Like the first gift, this one was wrapped in the same pink paper and was sitting on my desk when I arrived in the morning. It was the same day you found that couple.”

Mrs. and Mr. King had been found that morning at the bird sanctuary up the river. The caretaker had discovered them as she began to open for the day. They were both in their late twenties, married for four years, Mrs. King’s mother explained to me on the phone later that day, her voice wet with tears. I didn’t tell her that they had been found naked, Mr. King positioned on top of Mrs. King in a staged act of intercourse. The wooden handle of a small knife stuck out from her breast.

“Cause of death for Mr. King was poison, surprisingly enough.” The coroner told me. Surprising because poison victims aren’t often staged like this, as a calling card to the cops, or the victim’s family, or to the victims themselves. Or maybe just as a giant “fuck you” to the living.

“Was Mrs. King poisoned as well?” I asked.

The coroner shook her head. “No, she died from the stab wound. I’d say about a half hour after her husband died.” She picked up the picture of the bodies from the crime scene, examining it like one would a painting at the Louvre. “It’s a macabre Romeo and Juliet. Him poisoned, then she stabbed, taking her life to follow him into death.”

“Why position them as if they were having sex then?”

She looked up at me, her forehead scrunched in thought. Finally, she said, “I think it’s one final expression of their love for each other.”

I shook my head in disagreement. “No, that’s not it… love can’t be staged by a madman. I think… I think it’s a power thing. Like rape. He forced them to make the ultimate sacrifice as lovers, and forced them into a position of intimacy and love. A scene that should be personal and private, but he put it on display.”

“Their love raped and soiled for the masses.” She nodded, the photograph hanging loosely in her hand over the corpse of Mrs. King, a white sterile sheet covering the shame the killer exposed for all to see.

“And then the next day you received the charm of the french hens.” I said, no longer asking. The story obvious from here.

Bridget nodded, her face pale.

The sisters. Three elder sisters had been abducted from Sandy Hills Retirement Home early December 16th. Sometime after 3am according to the nurses on the nightshift, one of which had helped the eldest sister use the restroom around 2:45am. Their bodies were quickly discovered in the manger scene outside of St. Peter’s downtown. Their bodies had been positioned so that they were kneeling around the statue of baby Jesus. Their ankles were tied tightly together behind them, and their wrists were tied in front of them. The soft skin of their inner forearms turned up towards the sky, long red lines forming angry crosses on each of their wrists. They had been murdered there, in the manager, their blood painting the holy scene as large sticky pools formed around the crib. Their delicate faces and bodies bruised. The smell of hot iron mixing with snow was strong, filling my nostrils like angry bees attacking my sinuses. It was then that talk of a serial killer began to echo through our minds, our meetings, and the media around us, leaking out to the town, creating fear and panic during the happiest time of year. The theatrics alone connected the murders, despite each victim and scene contrasting drastically from each other. Until this month, three murders in as many days had been unheard of here.

“Then on December 17th you received the four calling birds charm?”

“Yeah.” She said, her voice strained. “It was a small metal charm with four birds in a nest.” The children's choir. He hadn’t killed just four, he had killed all seven. None of them had yet seen their thirteenth year. Their choir director found them in the school’s auditorium, where they were going to rehearse for the Christmas show. Their tongues had been cut out, fishing line threaded through the tips and formed into a loop so the sick bastard could hang them from the tree that decorated the left side of the stage, like dry, thick ornaments. Their bodies sat on the benches where they would’ve sang that very night, blood staining the metal ridges on each surface, so thin and close together that the blood would be almost impossible to completely remove. The overflow dripping from the open sides of the benches, falling to the polished wooden floor with a thick drip. Drip. Drip.

“There was a note with that one.” Tears formed around the edges of Ms. Monroe’s eyes.

I waited for her to continue.

She cleared her throat and recited, “four calling birds, voices sweet as honey, pure as snow, for my true love, may I admire the echoes of your song for years to come.”

“And let me guess, you threw that note out too?”

“I didn’t realize…”

“It’s ok, Ms. Monroe. I believe you.”

On December 18th, Mr. Harold Goldberg was found slain in the backroom of his jewelry store, his throat cut from ear to ear, his fingers removed except for his thumbs and each digit placed in one of the candlestick holders of the menorah on his desk, blood coagulating at the base of the gold symbol for Divine wisdom. The coroner informed me that his fingers had been removed before his throat was cut.

“I didn’t realize…” she repeated.

On December 19th we received a call from a house off of Longfellow road. The owners of the home were in the process of finishing their basement, and the construction workers had arrived that morning to find human intestines hung along the bare rafters like a Christmas garland, small twinkling lights wrapped around them, winking at their audience. I remember my stomach sinking like a rock when we got the call, the images of the other murders still so fresh in my mind. When we arrived the men showed us to a section of brick wall that had not been completed the night before, the mortar still fresh. It took three hours for us to catalog, and then remove the bricks, careful not to disturb the body we knew to be inside. One of the men identified him for us: their contractor, Peter Zinferd. There was a large cut from his sternum to his genitals, the skin of his stomach open like the cardboards walls of an advent calendar, exposing his insides, which were disturbingly empty.

“I didn’t realize…”

Elizabeth Turner, lead ballerina for the community theater’s upcoming production of Swan Lake, was found December 20th floating in a fountain at the middle of the park. She bobbed in the red water like a lightless buoy. Her feet had been cut off pre-mortem.

Bridget began to sob.

Two women were found brutally dismembered in a room at the Blueberry Inn downtown on the 21st. They were only identifiable by their shredded maid uniforms, clinging to what remained of their torsos. Jill Thompson and Mary Higgins had come in to work at 8am that morning and were found at 10am. How the bastard had done it so quickly and quietly is a mystery. Instead of fanned splatters, their blood was in solid, purposeful marks as if the murderer had painted the walls with their body parts.

Ms. Monroe’s body heaved up and down, her slim shoulders shaking with the force of her cries which echoed off the plaster walls of the small office.

We still hadn't been able to identify the girl we found in an alley on the ninth day. She was outside the emergency exit of Tiger’s Paw, a dance club near the heart of the city. Her head had been removed, her neck now a jagged raw mess. Seeing the bone and muscle reminded me of walking into a butcher shop, the naked meat a moist red in the cold white light. She was wearing a tight black dress and strappy heels. She had wanted a night of thoughtless fun, a night to lose herself to overpriced alcohol and loud music. Maybe even lose herself to the sexual embrace of another. Yet, instead, she has lost all identity. Without a face, it was difficult to estimate her age, but I could tell she young, probably about the age of my eldest who just celebrated her twenty-first birthday in November.

Bridget sniffed loudly, her body still racked with sobs that escaped her mouth sharply in short bursts like coughs. She calmed herself enough to continue, but I had to struggle to catch her words, “I should’ve noticed. I should have realized Saturday. That… that poor man.” Tears streamed down her face. She couldn’t continue. Mr. Jason Larson, the manager at a big box store. His eyes had been gouged out and shoved deep down his throat, his heart removed. Using a sharp blade, the killer had cut a deep slit into the base of the organ, which was placed with care at the top of a Christmas tree.

“I should’ve realized the connection!” Bridget cried suddenly, startling me out of my reminiscence. “I should’ve seen it!” Her voice rose with a cry.

She stopped and breathed sharply, hyperventilating. I stood and was beside her in two steps. I placed my hand on her back and lowered my face so it was level with hers. “Ms. Monroe, it’s ok. Try to hold your breath. That will slow your body and hopefully your breathing.”

Bridget closed her mouth, her lips pressed tightly together. Her body shook with the effort, but she locked eyes with me and refused to let herself breath.

“Good. Very good, Bridget.” I patted her on the back softly. After a few moments, she let the air inside her lungs escape with a violent explosion. But she was able to inhale deeply and slow her breathing. “Better?” I asked.

She nodded and I returned to my seat. Bridget looked shaken. Both her hands cradled the styrofoam cup of coffee in front of her, her knuckles turning white with her efforts to stop them from shaking.

“Hindsight is 20/20.” It was a stupid thing to say, but it’s all I had. How was she supposed to connect her bracelet with Mr. Larson being found in the display window of the Lord & Taylor where he worked.

Mrs. Monroe straightened her neck which gently rocked beneath her head, as if her head was suddenly made of lead and she was too weak to fully support it. “I… I didn’t realize until the next day.” Her throat was rough and raspy with pain, the bottom of her right nostril glistened with snot. She inhaled deeply as she tried to resolve herself, then continued, her voice still weak, but calmer. “There was a note on the eleventh day. It came with the eleventh charm: a small silver woman holding up one of those flute things you always see Peter Pan or Peter Piper with - I can’t remember which. Then I saw all these facebook posts about her, the girl, Piper.” Tears started to blur her words again, her voice rising an octave, “She was only six years old.” A sob choked in the back of her throat as she lost all of her strength and fell into her arms which rested on the edge of my desk..

Piper. Poor Piper. So little and frail. Her mother reported her missing at 4pm after trying to pick her up from school. She had waited in the pick-up lane for ten minutes before asking one of the teachers supervising if her daughter was running late. The teacher went into the building and returned moments later to say that Piper’s teacher had seen her leave the classroom at her usual time. The mother, a Mrs. Carol Dosher, immediately panicked. Staff searched the school for the young girl, but she was nowhere to be found. We came as soon as we were called, hyped up on the knowledge that someone was going to die that day, but no one knew who. Our stomachs twisted as we realized that the only thing we knew for sure was that we would be too late. Always too late.

Her body wasn’t discovered until 5am Christmas morning, this morning, even though it felt days, weeks, months ago. A fisherman saw her as he was walking down the pier. He had pulled her out of the water, a job I’m ashamed to admit I’m glad I avoided. She had been tied to the leg of one of the docks, so he cut the ropes with his jackknife, tearing them with the blade urgently, not noticing as it cut dull grey lines into her thin arms. Dark blood oozed out lazily, stiff from the cold and the absence of a heart beat.

The coroner said that she had been alive when the murderer left her, but that the tide had made sure she didn’t survive the night. High tide was at about 3am that morning, so her mouth and nose wouldn’t have been fully submerged until then..

“Would she have frozen to death before the water got to her?” I asked, keeping the hope from my voice to try and sound professional. I internally begged the heavens that the child went with the numb death of freezing instead of screaming herself hoarse as the cold water slowly ate at her, rising over her chest, tightening like a vice around her ribcage, threatening to break it with it’s cold strength. Unfamiliar fingers of frost reaching up her neck, searching patiently for a way to invade her small body, to take it as their own.

“Unfortunately, no.” The coroner’s voice was quiet and soft as she kept her eyes on the file in her hand. I tried to remember how old her son was. Probably not much older than Piper. Maybe even the same age. “Not with the mild winter we’ve been having.” She didn’t continue.

I nodded. It would’ve been cold enough to hurt, but not cold enough to release her.

“Can you tell how long she was out there?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Based on the bruising where she had been tied….” Her face grew dark and I had my answer. Night comes early this time of year. The fishermen who still fish in winter are few and far between, and the men that’d be out on Christmas eve would’ve been even fewer. No one would’ve been around to catch him doing it. No one would’ve been around to hear her cries. To save her.

Bridget mumbled something into the wooden desk. I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. She kept her head down, her forehead resting on her arm.

“Can you repeat that Ms. Monroe? Louder for the microphone.”

She lifted her head, her face was red and wet. She wiped her nose with her sleeve, leaving a trail of snot. “I finally realize the connection this morning. I woke up to a small pink package inside my front door: it had been slid through the mail slot. After I opened it, after I checked my phone, saw that’s poor child’s picture, only then did I realized the murders were connected to my charm bracelet.” Bridget looked down, ashamed. “I’m so sorry.” She said, her voice shaking. “I’m so so sorry.” She was asking for forgiveness, but not from me. She needed forgiveness from someone with more power to heal than me.

I looked down at the note that lay on my desk in a clear evidence bag. The words scrawled in red ink, “Why won’t you love me?”

We sat in silence for a moment.

“And that’s why you’re here, because you connected the murders with the charms.”

She sniffed, fresh tears flowing down her face. I looked at the yellowish smear of snot on her right sleeve, stretched out over the cloth like a burst bubble of gum sticking to the bottom of someone’s chin. “Marcus has been out every night this week. We usually go to dinner or a movie every few days, but he keeps saying he’s busy.”

“And you think he knows you like Nate and will target him tonight?”

She looked up at me, her eyes fierce with earnesty, the brevity of the situation hanging heavy in the air. “Nate’s a drummer.”

My office door opened and Detective Lancer came in. He closed the door solemnly behind him and looked at Bridget, his face tight with bad news.

“I’m sorry Ms. Monroe, but we were too late.”

A choked sob escaped her throat, and she dropped her head into her hands.

Lancer looked at me and continued, “we found the body at the music store on High St. It was officer Rodriguez's hunch. His kid takes guitar lessons there. He says it's one of the only places with practice space for bands in the area.” He handed me a photo of the crime scene. A young man with brown hair was dangled over the drumset, his face against one of the drums. The end of something wooden stuck out of his neck at a jarring angle: a drumstick had been forced through his jugular, exiting at the back of his neck. “The room was being rented by a band called The Rivals.”

A noise broke from Bridget that was part sob, part scream.

Lancer passed me an evidence bag, “we found this note on the body.”

I looked down at it and shuddered.

“We talked to the owner of the studio - who is understandably freaked out - and he said the victims been taking lessons from a local musician for months.”

I looked up from the note. “Sorry?”

“I guess the victim was in every night this week by himself, practicing. Something about learning how to drum as a Christmas gift. Said the guy’s girlfriend had a thing for musicians.”

Bridget stopped crying. She raised her head slowly, wide eyes looking at me with horror. We stared at each other as Lancer continued, shaking his head sadly, “poor guy. What we do for love.”

“The murderer…” I started.

Lancer shook his head, “The guy who was giving him lessons was long gone when we got there. We’ve got cars out looking for him now.”

I looked back down at the evidence bag in my hands. I recognized the handwriting from the other notes. This message was written in the same bright red ink:

Merry Christmas, my love. Now we can be together. Forever.

[readerwinterbarnes]

Square One

Gentle Touch Pt. 4

Bucky x OFC (Jules Carlson), Steve/?, OMC, Avengers

Summary: Jules works with Bucky some more and Bucky learns more about Jules.

Word Count: 5,544

Warnings: Touch-deprived, flirting, fluff, nightmares, attempted rape

A/N: Jules POV, Ok, so this timeline will be broken up into fragments, showing Bucky’s improvements and his growing relationship, connection with Jules. Eventually the team will find out the truth, hopefully, there’s no confusion.

I headed back down to check up on Bucky, still fuming from the incident that happened previously. None of that shouldn’t have happened, none of it. He shouldn’t have gone through what Rumlow put him through either, no one should.

Helen was sitting outside of his room going through files and writing reports. I sat down next to her and slouched in the seat, letting out a huge sigh. “How’s he been? His heart doing okay?” Helen closed the folders, placing them on the seat beside her, staring worriedly at him through the window.

“It was touch and go if I have to be honest. Not much longer after you left. He regained consciousness, had another full blown panic attack that put even more stress on his heart. His heart stopped and took us a good full two minutes to get it started again. We have him on oxygen so he can fully get the air he needs due to him being slightly weak from the earlier episode.” She leaned back, letting out a sigh of her own.

“We’re going to have to inform the others soon about this. Or at least a very slight summary, some warnings for what they should and shouldn’t do. We can’t have this happening again.” I nodded in agreement.

“We do, but I’m going to have to talk to Bucky about it first. Find out for sure what are the things he absolutely is not ready for yet or even at all.”

“Looks like it might be earlier than you think.” Helen nodded towards Bucky, who was beginning to stir on the bed, groggily reaching up towards the oxygen mask. “Go, Jules, I’ll stay out here for a while longer. You’re the one he’s the most comfortable around.” I stood up and headed into Bucky’s room, careful not to startle him into another attack.

“Bucky,” tired eyes met mine in recognition, “it’s me, Jules, do you remember me?” He slowly nodded and proceeded to try to remove the mask from his face, but I raised my hands to stop him.

“Leave the mask on, Bucky, it’s helping you breathe. It’s completely safe.” He ceased his movements and sunk back down into the mattress, watching as I made my way to the chair sitting on his right. Looking up at me as I stared down at him. He looked so tired, slightly in pain. Someone who was lost, trapped in a place with a lock but no key. “Do you trust me?” Again he nodded, which was good because he was coherent, making his own decisions and was aware of his surroundings.

Slowly, I leaned down and placed a soft kiss on his forehead, hearing him sigh underneath me. I pulled away and sat down, taking the book that laid on the bedside table. “Sleep Bucky, we’ll talk again when you wake up. Just relax and sleep, you’re safe here. I’m not letting anything happen to you.” I watched as heavy-lidded eyes slipped closed as he gave into the demand for sleep. So I sat there and read the book until I too had to stop and give my own body a rest. Not once leaving his side.

I woke up not due to the machines soft hums and beeps, but to something poking my shoulder. Mumbling in my sleep, I groggily swatted the object away so I could go back to sleep, but the poking continued, so I glared at the source responsible.

“Oh, so you are alive. Thought I’d have to call 1-800-REVIVE.” Bucky was staring at me with a smile and clearer eyes than yesterday. I groaned, but stood up and stretched out the stiffness from my muscles, cracking my back before heading over to the coffee machine in the back corner.

“Ha ha very funny, glad to know someone’s awake and ready to start the day,” I said as I filled two cups of the hot black gold I eagerly wanted in my system.

“Yeah, ready as I’ll ever be I guess,” Bucky replied as I sat back down, kicked my shoes off and rested my feet on the bed at an angle so I wouldn’t disturb the IVs. “What happened to Mr. Grouch Face? I remember you breaking his nose before I blacked out.” Placing the cup down, I reached behind me for the folder Tony made a copy for me and pulled out the agreement form.

“Yup broke his nose, his glasses and his massive dick ego,” I handed Bucky the form to read who took it with a raised eyebrow, “and got promoted, well kinda lost my job and got hired for a much better one.” I watched as he read through the form, face unreadable at first, before it broke out into a small laugh, then dropped down to a low hum.

“So what happened to him?” Bucky asked as he handed the form back over to me.

“He’ll be transferred to a different SHIELD location, a far location, and if he messes up even once, he’ll lose his job and get stripped of his occupational title,” I answered as I slipped the sheet back into the folder and relaxed into the chair once again.

“So, what happens now exactly? You give me a huge therapy lecture, sign me off to a bunch of medication?” I looked at Bucky concerned, I had patients who would often react like this after they had a relapse or a panic attack. It was heartbreaking to see them like this, the verge of giving up on treatment altogether and just let the therapists do whatever they wanted. But that wasn’t what I was here for, I wanted Bucky to know that he was in charge of his own decisions and that I wanted him to get the best help he could, comfort being a priority.

“No to all of the above,” I leaned forward and crossed my arms on the bed next to his arm, “I thought I’d ask you where you’d like to start. Go back to square one, start where we left off, give you time to process everything we’ve talked about like I promised I would. But it’s up to you, I’m here to help you in any way I can, but I won’t make the choices for you unless I believe I absolutely have to.” Bucky watched me, trying to see whether or not I was lying or not. When he decided I was speaking truthfully, he answered me.

“Square one, but...can we, can we skip all the stuff I already told you? I don’t think I’m actually ready to go through all of that again.” He nervously picked the fuzzy clumps off the blanket, hesitant to look at me.

“Of course we can skip that. We can focus on a different part of your therapy, we can focus on just the touch aspect. Do regular, but small, everyday activities and engage in physical contact. We could start off small, like sitting together and watching a movie, or -”

“A kiss on the forehead?” Bucky’s innocent face, but teasing eyes watched me as I blushed slightly.

“O-Or that, but we’ll work our way up from the small things.” I pushed aside the remark in hopes of moving along in the conversation, but boy was I wrong.

“So, moving up as in full body skin to skin contact? Or are we meeting halfway?” I felt my face grow hotter in embarrassment and glared at Bucky when he started to laugh.

“Y-You should, you should see your face! Oh man, that was, that was good.” Luckily, I was quick to repay the favor.

“Sure if that’s what you wanted. Or I could just slide my silky smooth body over yours, trail my fingers through your hair as I whisper breathlessly into your ear, ‘I just farted.’“ I said with a straight face but rejoiced when Bucky’s own face turned beat red, eyes wide with shock.

“Ha!” I pointed at him, smiling in victory, “Now you should see your face. Man, you weren’t expecting that now, did ya?” Bucky held his hands up as a sign of truce, returning my smile.

“What happened to the sweet, innocent therapist I had? Surely you aren’t her.”

“I grew up with four brothers and worked with complete idiots, so I’m not so sweet and innocent as many believe.” I felt relieved when Bucky smiled and laughed as we talked, letting his body fully relax into the mattress. Knowing that we were already off to a good start.

“Sorry to crush the awkward moment, but time to get serious again.” I stood up and searched through the menus for the cafeteria the room provided. “What would you like to do as a start?”

“Eat, watch a movie and, um...maybe stay with me? And we could just...talk? Never mind, sounds like a stupid idea.” Bucky looked away with a frown, but I was having none of that.

“First of all, stop right there. The idea is definitely not stupid and yes I’d love to join you. This is good Bucky, really good. We’ll go at your own pace and just let me know when you’re ready to move on to the next phase.”

“Okay, yeah...yeah, I-can I pick the movie? I heard Die Hard was a good one.” He asked, excitement shining clearly through his eyes. It struck me that this man who went through so many traumatic events, who was never given the power of choice, still managed to smile and crawl his way into my life.

“Think you can stay up for all six? Or are you too old and need your beauty sleep?” He gasped in mock hurt.

“Ouch, that hurt. Jules, I thought you were my friend. Beauty sleep my ass, let’s order a shit ton of food because I’m fucking starving. And the answer to your question is yes, let’s watch all six, not like I’m going anywhere soon.” I handed him half of the menus, while JARVIS cued up the first movie.

“Thank fuck I grew up with brothers.”

“Why’s that?”

“I learned how much food I can eat without getting sick and still manage to function afterward.” I took one last quick look at the menus before giving JARVIS my order along with Buckys. As I waited for the food to arrive, I swapped out my chair with the big arm chair, throwing my feet up on the bed again, making myself comfortable.

“Thanks for, for everything, Jules.” I turned my attention from the screen to focus on him.

“You have nothing to thank me for Bucky and I’m here for you, whenever you need me.” We were interrupted when our food was delivered with Helen trailing in behind to check up on Bucky’s vitals, then leaving shortly afterward. We ate as we watched, content and relaxing after the rough ordeals. When we began the second film, I noticed Bucky’s hand inch its way towards mine. I didn’t move because I wanted to see what he would do and smiled to myself when he linked our pinkies together. It was a step, to someone watching it looked small, but to Bucky, it was a huge step. He made the first move, he made the choice to initiate the contact and I was more than happy with the gesture.

Bucky was getting released today after three extra days and I was currently heading down to meet with him. However on the way to the elevator, I bumped into Steve who was straightening his shirt horridly, belt still was undone and a rosy tint to his cheeks.

“AH! Oh, uh hi Jules, how are you?” He asked as we made our way into the elevator. Steve straightened his clothes as if nothing happened, but I just watched him. The flush on his face, the belt, shirts askew, his button down missing a few buttons, his hair standing on end, but the biggest clue was the tip of a purple bruise peeking out from the neck of his shirt.

“Me? Oh, I’m fine, Bucky gets released in a few minutes so I’m just going to meet with him and continue therapy.” I didn’t mention anything about his appearance, but he was definitely not going to hear the end of this. “How ‘bout you though? Looks like you just got out of bed.”

“Yeah, yeah, I uh woke up late and I have a meeting with Tony. Something about a new feature on my suit, then I have to train some of the new recruits today as well.” Yup Steve was definitely hiding something and I was determined to find out what that ‘something’ was, but all in due time.

“Well show ‘em new recruits how serious we need them to be Captain.” I shouldered him, which also gave me a view of his neck. Fading red lines, obviously from fingernails, were running down the back of his neck.

“Will do, but seriously, how’s Bucky doing? Helen said he had a panic attack shortly after we brought him in.” I sighed and leaned against the wall of the lift.

“He’s, well, we’re....we’re pausing on the previous subject, focusing more on the actual physical contact approach. So we’ll be taking things slow, like sitting next to each other, touching hands, side hugs, that type of thing. Baby steps or until he feels ready to take a much larger step.” The elevator stopped on the med floor, but I made no motion of leaving right away.

Steve turned to me, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, it’s just, I hate having to do this, but I have to talk to Bucky about some...rules and guidelines we...I have to give to the rest of the team.” I said in a rush but was hesitant to look into Steve’s eyes, already knowing this was going to hurt him.

“What kind of rules Jules?” I could tell he was trying to keep his voice level, but a hint of his Captain America voice leaked through.

“Steve, what Bucky went through was more than traumatic. Touch scares him, any form of physical contact that sets him on edge will, not can, will trigger a multitude of things. The rules or guidelines are mainly for Bucky’s mental state. Uh...a protective hedge so to speak so he can feel comfortable around the team enough. However, the team needs to be informed of them so they know what to do and what not to do.” I looked at Steve and could see frustration bubble deep underneath the surface.

“Stop that right now, Steve Rogers and listen to me,” Once I could tell he was calmed down, I continued, “I know this sucks, I get it. You’re his best friend, you want to help him, keep him safe, and protect him. I. Understand. But if you really want to help him get past this, you need to listen to me and trust me. Trust Bucky and the decisions he makes. He needs his friend to support him, so do that. It’s not going to be easy. Hell, he might bounce back to square one after we took five steps forward. It takes time and I’m not one of those therapists who sets the time it takes to get them to where they need to be. It’s all on the patient, but if Bucky needs to take baby steps the whole way to get there? Then we’ll take the small steps as they come.” I looked behind me to see Helen and Bucky already waiting for me at the end of the hallway, watching us. I really needed to wrap this up.

“Just give him time okay, Steve?”

“I’ll give him time, thanks...thanks for letting me know, Jules. Or I would’ve done something stupid.” I knew this was my opportune moment and I was going to take it.

“You’re not stupid, Steve, well, besides the fact that you might want to check for injuries the next time you wake up. Others might get suspicious.” I replied while gesturing towards the hickey on his neck. Steve checked his reflection and immediately covered his neck, the flush returning. “Must’ve been a rough night last night. Oh, I know how to sew buttons too in case you’re wondering.” I said over my shoulder as I headed towards Bucky, smiling with glee as the doors closed to a gaping Steve.

“Hey Helen, Bucky, how’s our dark and brooding patient this morning?” Bucky frowned and grumbled.

“I’m not brooding, I’m a deadly assassin who’s being lectured...again.” Helen crossed her arms, totally unfazed by Bucky’s attitude.

“Uh-huh, well Mr. Dark and Brooding here has just been waiting anxiously for you. He’s good to go, I had a copy of his file sent to your office about what medications he can take if need be. Hearts all strong and healthy and he has agreed to your request of being pulled from missions until you give him the go ahead.” I nodded at Helen.

“Thanks, Helen, come on Buck, let’s leave her to her doctoral duties and go grab some breakfast.” I began to lead the way when I felt something brush against my hand. I looked down to see his right hand inched towards mine. So without saying anything, I just stick out my pinky to him and smile when he wraps his own around it.

“What were you and Steve talking about? He probably hates me, he has every right to.” Bucky said the last part quietly I had to strain to hear it.

“Why would you think that?”

“I pushed him away, I’ve been avoiding him, hiding from him...lying to him.” I stopped our way towards the kitchen where I could hear the voices of the others.

“Hey JARVIS?”

“Yes, Ms. Jules?”

“Could you have our breakfast sent up to my office please and Code B-JURN,” I told the AI as I headed us back to the elevator.

“What does B-JURN mean?” Bucky asked as the doors slid closed.

“It means that no one will be disturbing us in my office unless they want to be sent down to Helen for major injuries. I had it placed for both my office and my floor since that day. Luckily no one’s been stupid enough to go against it.”

“Why?”

“It’s supposed to make you feel comfortable whenever we’re in a session. As a warning to others and a safety for you.” The lift fell quiet as it continued upwards until Bucky’s voice cut through the silence.

“You’ve used it before. That’s why you chose it.” I don’t say anything right away, stepping out of the lift when the doors finally opened. I made my way towards my office but was stopped when Bucky took my hand in his, pulling me to a stop. This was the most physical contact he initiated in the past few days, so it took me by surprise when he grabbed my hand.

“Did I say something wrong?” His voice small and insecure.

“No Bucky, it’s not,” I sigh and look down at our joined hand, his was large, strong, calloused but yet soft and gentle. Contrasting against my small, dainty one. “Let’s sit, I need to sit.” I steered us towards my office, kicked off my shoes and let gravity suck my body down into the couch cushions, Bucky doing the same on the opposite couch.

“Code JURN was something I - we used on our street corners, bars, streets, hotel spots when we’d try to pick up a client. Uh, when, it was back when I was a hooker, whore, street treat, take your pick. The more money you offered, the more us girls were willing to do. It was easy money, I could make five hundred easy in one night, more if I actually wanted. But us girls always stuck together, had each other’s backs if one of us felt uncomfortable in any kind of situation.”

“So you guys came up with code names?” I nodded, finally registering that our breakfast was already delivered and decided to pick at the eggs.

“Alice, she was one of the first girls who approached me, gave me pointers, introduced me to the other girls, ya know, she was one of the first ones to find me after a night gone bad. I got picked up, was supposed to go the hotel for the night, that type of thing. But we never did, instead he told his driver to stop in an alley - he was a big money type person - and he wanted to have a threesome with me and his driver, which was not what I agreed to. Not unless he paid extra, which is what you had to do at the start.

So imagine my surprise when his driver hops in the back and they both start getting frisky with me. This was only my fourth client by the way, so I thought this was normal up til the point when they began to get more urgent. Long story short, they tried to rape me, almost succeeded if it wasn’t for Alice and some of the other girls. They found the car in the alleyway, recognized the license plate and took action. We always hide crowbars and bats in our areas for things like this, so they bashed a window, scared them shitless, took what they owed me, helped me out of the car and the creeps left with a promise not to turn us in if they wanted to keep their dicks in one piece.

So that’s where Code JURN came into play. We each had our own, mine was Code Jules-Unavailable Right Now. To others, it didn’t mean anything, but to us it did. If any of us had a bad or sick feeling about a client or someone who’s willing to pay for a quickie, a full night, wild night, whatever, if they gave off a vibe one of us would steer the person away while another would text their own code to them as a warning to lay low for a while. It helped, kept us safe, made us feel safe.” I felt nervous, uncomfortable. I’ve never told anyone this before, well besides my own therapist who helped me move past it.

“You added me to your code, Code Bucky-Jules Unavailable Right Now. That’s why you added it, to make me feel safe here.” Bucky looked at me, still trying to take it all in that someone would even do this for him.

“Yes, I did. I hope that’s okay, I can change it if you want.” He shook his head, smiling softly.

“No, I like it. Makes it sound like we’re spies or something.”

“Well technically you are a spy, so it would be the spy slash assassin and the evil mastermind.”

“Bucky and Jules, the Dynamic Duo.” I pointed my fork at him in excitement.

“Yas! I like it! I can see the headlines now; ‘The Mysterious Dynamic Duo Strikes Again! Who Are They and What Are Their Plans?’ I think it fits.” We both ended up sprawled on the couches holding our sides as we laughed. I haven’t heard Bucky laugh at all, so just to hear him be free like this felt really good, made him look good too.

“You’re amazing you know that?” Our laughter slowly died down as I glanced over to where Bucky was laying down, a complete satisfied look on his face.

“You’re pretty amazing yourself too. Even though you have an ugly ass.” His head whipped towards me, a playful hurt look on his face.

“Ouch doll, that really hurt. JARVIS, Jules is being mean to me! If you must know Jules, my ass is awesome. I can prove it to you if you want.” He started getting up and began to unfasten his belt.

“No! Don’t, I don’t want to be scarred for life from all the wrinkles and sagginess!” I squealed and covered my eyes.

“My ass doesn’t sag and it doesn’t have wrinkles. Their smooth, firm and are the perfect roundness. I worked hard for this ass.” I swatted his butt away from me when he playfully wiggled it in my face.

“Fine, fine, your ass is the best ass I’ve seen, but shake your ass somewhere else you goof.” He turned around and sat on the floor beside me instead of returning back to his previous spot. He reached for my hand again, which I willingly took, watching as he fiddled with my fingers deep in thought. We stayed like this for who knows how long, lost in our own thoughts.

“How do you do it?”

“What?” He asked me, curious blue-grey eyes watching me.

“How come every time I’m around you I feel...at ease. It’s like I’m drawn to just be near you, want to touch you, not like that but like this,” he gestures towards our clasped hands, “all the hurtful touches disappear when I’m with you. I don’t understand. When you helped me that first day, it felt as if your touch alone was pulling me out from the touches that were drowning me. It’s like I need your touch just too even get through the day.” I wasn’t prepared for that confession at all. I knew that my presence helped him, but I wasn’t aware of the full extent of it.

“I don’t know, maybe I saw myself at first. Someone who was lost, desperately seeking for help that they weren’t sure how to find. Leo Buscaglia once said, ‘Too often we underestimate the power of touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.’ “I held his hand in both of mine, putting all my focus on him and him alone.

“Bucky, you were deprived of something that everyone needs in their life. For the full 70 years Hydra had you, they took a lot from you and twisted the physical contact you craved, turning it into something you absolutely feared. How you reacted that day was completely understandable. That’s why I want to help you, I want to help you so you no longer fear the contact that others offer.” I waited as Bucky let everything I told him to sink in. Hell, everything I told him in the past, what hour? Was a lot to take in. Plus we could afford to veer off topic for one day, we could continue on the next day, so, for now, we’ll take this as a well-needed break.

“What do we do now then?” I squeeze his hand once, then reach over to the side table and pull out my Stark Tablet opening up the notes app.

“Well two choices, either we continue breakfast and finish watching Die Hard or we can finish breakfast, order in for lunch, cut to the chase and get one object out of the way.”

“And what would that object be?” Bucky asked as he reached for his own breakfast, which was well beyond cold now, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Um, it, it would be how we’re going to inform the team. So, we’re going to have to set up rules, guidelines for the others to follow so they’re prepared on what not to do around you so they don’t accidentally switch on a panic attack.” His hand froze mid-way on bringing a slice of toast to his mouth.

“This is only if you’re ready. They won’t need to know the full extent of what happened or none of it at all, but after what happened before,” I thought back to the major panic attack Bucky went through. How scared he was when the asshole and his minions barged in here and almost causing his heart to fail. “I can’t have that happening again Bucky, I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared and pissed off in my whole life.”

Bucky finished his breakfast at his own pace as I let him think about the next step we needed to take towards his recovery. Overall it was a baby step, but to him, it was as if he was going to be taking a full leap over a cliff. I would never put him in a position like this ever, but his health and safety were a priority at the moment and this would make sure that the others would know to back off and not do anything stupid.

“I would come up with the rules and everything? Whatever I come up with they would have to respect it?” He finally spoke up after a few good minutes.

“Yes, or they would have to answer to me and that won’t be a good thing. I’m pretty sure Tony showed them the footage of the meeting I had with Fury, Roberts, and Tony. You are my patient first and foremost and if I feel your life and safety are at risk from anyone I don’t care if they’re Avengers or not, it won’t end well for them. And if SHIELD decides to step in then I’ll be more than happy to show them who they’re dealing with.” The tension in the air dissipated as Bucky smiled at my protectiveness over him and how threatening I was trying to be.

“Could we maybe, do you think we can do that tomorrow? I kinda, I want.” He seemed to struggle to actually get the words out into the open. Face furrowed in frustration when he failed to do so. Placing the Stark Tablet aside, I uncurled myself from my spot on the couch and kneeled beside him, brushing aside the hair that covered his face.

“What do you want Bucky?” I asked him quietly. This was about him and what he wanted, not what I wanted.

“Can I, I want,” I waited patiently, not wanting to rush him into answering me, giving him all the time he needed. “I want to watch Die Hard with you, stuff my face with all the pasta I want, I want my fucking life back, I want the nightmares to just go away and…” He looked away sheepishly.

“And what Bucky?” Now curious to know what else he wanted.

“You to kiss my forehead every once in a while...it’s probably stupid, but I, I kinda liked it.” If you would’ve asked me that day if I ever thought he would make a permanent residence in my life, I wouldn’t believe it. But now, now I do.

Without saying anything, take his face in my hands and lean forward to place a gentle kiss on his forehead. “Then you shall get all the forehead kisses, hugs, hand holding sessions you want. Just never be afraid to ask for it. And yes, I’d love to finish watching Die Hard with you and you will get your life back, but for now we’re going to be lazy.” I stand up and pull Bucky up to his feet, then proceeded to whip out blankets and pull off the couch cushions onto the floor.

“JARVIS cue up where we left off and could you do a double,” I stared at Bucky who was standing there all confused, “no a triple order of the pasta place on the corner?”

“Right away Ms. Jules. Would you like extra garlic bread as well to go with your order?”

“You know me so well J!’ Once I deemed the floor, now covered in blankets and cushions, satisfactory, I plopped down and patted the spot beside me.

“Get your ass down here old man, we’re going to watch movies, pig out and get fat on bread and pastalicioiusness.” For a second, Bucky just looked down at me with concern, but then a smile cracked on his face, followed by him laughing.

“Old man my ass, have you even seen Steve? He’s old as fuck, he definitely needs to get laid or something.”

“About that, I think he already is.”

“What?! No way, who is it? Is it someone we know? That punk, how come I’ve never noticed this?”

“I have no idea who it is, but he definitely got some serious action last night. When you saw us in the elevator a while ago, he was obviously sporting some hickeys and nail marks from his passionate fuck session with his mysterious lover.”

“Did he really have a hickey?”

“Oh yeah, he thought he might’ve been all sneaky about it. He also had a little gait to his walk too. Ooh not to mention the faint smell of perfume either. So believe me, I 100% determined to find out who this mysterious gal is, but for now,” I got up when a knock sounded at the door, thanking the delivery man who brought over our food, “I’m starving. So eat, be lazy and we’ll focus on brass and nails tomorrow.”  This was the perfect way to end the day. With a plan set for tomorrow, Bucky could just relax and just be himself and focus on nothing except for right now. I already knew this wasn’t going to always be this easy, but I’d consider this as a huge win.

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[sending-the-message]

Why won’t you love me? by meltingalphabet

“Even though I was with Marcus, I wanted Nate to notice me. I didn’t realize that it’s not always nice to feel wanted. I have my boyfriend - sorry - ex-boyfriend, to thank for teaching me that.”

I wanted to stop the tape, remind her to stay focused, but I could already tell this statement was going to be a long one. This was far from how I wanted to spend Christmas day, but I understood that she needed to tell someone the whole story, her story, and it wasn’t worth it to rush her.

“Marcus isn’t bad… I wouldn’t have dated him if he was bad” she emphasized the word, as if it were a sliding scale and “bad” was the extreme. “But, I guess I’m not as good a judge of character as I thought.” She looked pained.

I cleared my throat. She sighed and looked back up at me. “I started dating Marcus about a year ago.” She thought for a moment, “yeah, pretty much exactly a year ago. He had been crushing on me for… well for forever. My longterm boyfriend had broken up with me the week before our office’s annual Christmas party - I remember because I was annoyed I didn’t have a date to go with - so…” She groaned at the memory. Her face scrunched as if she tasted bile at the back of her throat and was about to be nauseous, “I drunkenly made out with Marcus under the mistletoe. It was late and I was a mess. But the next morning I woke up and Marcus had bought coffee and a croissant from the bakery down the block. We didn’t even have sex, he had just… put me to bed. He even slept on the couch. Yeah, he’s a little… obsessive, but…” you could hear the air quotes, “he’s sweet. Or, at least I thought he was. But he took care of me and… and I guess that was the first time a guy’s ever really done that. And, well” she paused, “I guess that’s what I needed. I am almost forty and, as my mother constantly reminds me, I’m not getting any younger.”

I nodded, feeling more like a therapist than a police captain. I touched the button on the side of my phone, seeing if there was any word. Wondering if I would be more needed elsewhere. But it was Christmas and the force was out seeking a homicidal maniac, for the first time with an actual lead, so I sat back and continued to listen to Ms. Monroe’s story.

Her eyes were locked on the back of a picture frame on my desk. It was a picture of Myra, my wife. Bridget’s eyes were focused but also, not… They were focused on the black back of the picture, but her mind was far, far away. I resisted the urge to take the photograph, to hide it in my desk drawer, to keep her cold, focused eyes away from my wife. I thought of Myra, pictured her sitting on the couch, watching Love, Actually for the third time this season. God, I hate that fucking movie.

“Then I met Nate.” Her voice was breathy and her eyes glistened at the mention of the name. If she was an anime character, this is the part where her big wet eyes would reflect penciled in twinkles radiating inside her giant pupils. She was still looking at the back of my wife. The back of her picture. Before I could stop it, my hand shot out and nudged the picture forward, towards me. Bridget looked up, startled. The spell broken. She blushed slightly, and continued, “Nate started working at our company a few months ago as the IT guy. His official title was helpdesk specialist or something.” She waved away the nonsensical title as if it irritated her. “He replaced Terry, who left to go work at some stupid startup that I know will be bankrupt in six months if it isn’t already.”  Bridget rolled her eyes. She said Terry’s name as if it had coated her tongue in an unpleasant lemon flavor. Apparently, Ms. Monroe did not approve of Terry. Her nose was turned up into sneer as if he were the human equivalent of discovering shit on the sole of your shoe. She leaned in towards me, her eyes looking up at me conspiratorially. She lowered her voice, “he was a republican.” She quickly sat back upright and looked at me gravely. I nodded my head as if in understanding. There was no need to tell her that I too, am a republican, and no, I’m not a piece of shit, but thanks.

She nodded back at me, her focus loosening again, as if her hate of Terry had been the only thing normalizing the situation. She stared down at her fingernails. “Nate is…” she trailed off, picking under her thumb nail. “He’s perfect.” She finally finished. She looked up at me, not sheepishly like I would’ve expected, but with a sad kind of longing that made her look much younger than she was. “He’s young and handsome. Smart, kind. He’s the drummer in some punk band. I’ve dragged Marcus to a few of their shows.” She gave her fingers a small secret smile. “They’re terrible.” Her voice was light with laughter. The voice that people only use when discussing the quirks of someone they love. “He just… He has so much life. So much character. I can feel him enter the room without seeing him, without hearing him. I can just feel his presence.” She looked up at me and we stared at each other for a moment. I had nothing to add to this school girl crush, so I did what years in the force could never teach me but two daughters and wife could: I stayed quiet and waited. “See, Marcus doesn’t really have any hobbies. He doesn’t even have a favorite type of movie. It’s not that we disagree on whether to watch a romantic comedy or an action film, he just has no opinion. He watches what I want to watch and likes what I like. Unless you consider painting tiny figurines of wizards and dragons as a passion.” She snorted.

I do consider that a hobby, but I didn’t say anything.

Her blue eyes danced above my head as she eyed the dusty corners of the small beige office. I sat patiently, waiting for her to continue. She didn’t. There was a reason why Deputy Black wanted me to conduct this interview.

I cleared my throat. “And Nate is the man you believe to be in mortal danger, correct?”

She nodded, her eyes widening with fear. “Have they found him yet? Have they found Marcus? Is Nate ok?” Raw anxiety formed broken jagged paths through her voice.

I touched my phone again, out of habit more than anything. I knew I hadn’t received any updates. “No news yet, but we’ve got almost the entire force out tonight. We’re doing everything we can to prevent another death. In the meantime, please continue with your stor…” I cleared my throat again, stopping the word short, “statement.” I amended.

“I should have broken up with Marcus. It would’ve been the adult thing to do. Break up with Marcus, ask Nate out, then go from there. But I’m an idiot, a coward, and idiotic coward.” She looked exhausted, “I didn’t want to break up with Marcus, because…” her eyes darted to the side of the desk, “I wasn’t sure Nate was into me and I didn’t want to be alone.” She admitted looking up at me, her eyes pleading for forgiveness, “not again.”

I nodded.

“But that’s why I think he’s in trouble.” Her voice was louder, stronger. Her tone serious, grown confident with genuine fear.

“I know, Ms. Monroe. We’re doing everything we can. Please, tell me about the gifts you mentioned earlier.”

“Yeah, the gifts.” She shuddered slightly, almost imperceptibly. “I think Marcus knew I was into Nate. I mean… I tried to hide my crush. Like I said, I don’t even know if Nate thinks of me that way, so I try to treat him like just another co-worker. I guess more than just a co-worker, but still just a friend.” She looked briefly guilty, and then continued, “I started getting small presents last Thursday, December 14th.” She nodded towards the charm bracelet sitting in an evidence bag on my desk. “The day of the first murder.”

I couldn’t stop the image from flashing into my mind: Helen Roger hanging limply from one of the tall oaks in the park. A jogger had found her body at about eight am during his routine morning run. Her neck had broken with the impact. A coldness creeped from my spine as I remembered her pale face. Her eyes were much too large, bulging from her eye sockets. They were turning a white I never want to see again. Her pupils grey, no longer searching for help, but gone forever into the void.

I ignored the cold sweat forming on my brow and took a large silent breath to slow my heart rate before I asked, “what was the present exactly?”

Bridget tapped the evidence bag with a long fingernail painted a festive red. “It was the bracelet and the partridge in a pear tree charm.”

Helen’s swollen filmy eyes popped into my mind.

I steadied myself and swallowed. “And you think the charm was a message? That Mrs. Roger was the partridge in a pear tree?”

Bridget nodded, her eyes wide. “I didn’t realize at the time, but now it makes sense. It’s a pattern.”

“You mentioned a note before, but you no longer have it, is that correct?”

“Yes. The box was sitting on my desk when I showed up for work, wrapped in a soft pink paper. There was a note that read ‘To my true love on the first day of Christmas.’ And it was signed, ‘your admirer.’” Rosey splotches grew over her cheekbones.

“But you didn’t keep it?”

“I.. I didn’t want Marcus to find it.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want him to get jealous.”

I studied her for a moment, one eyebrow raised. “And what made you believe that Marcus wasn’t ‘your admirer’? Wouldn’t that have been your first suspicion?” Now I was the one with air quotes in my voice.

She shrugged, “women just know, you know? Marcus isn’t creative enough to do something like that. He bought me socks for my birthday. A bracelet, let alone a charm bracelet, is not like him.” She picked at her nail, eyes trained on a coffee stain in front of her. “But I guess I was wrong.”

“What did you do with the bracelet?” My internal voice chided myself for asking the question, since it was more out of personal curiosity than professional necessity.

“I hid it in my desk drawer.”

“So Marcus wouldn’t find it?”

She nodded.

“And you continued to receive these… presents. One every day, correct?”

She swallowed. “I didn’t realize they were connected to the murders until yesterday.”

“I understand, Ms. Monroe. You had no reason to suspect anything. Please describe each gift for me. In the order you received them. They’re all here in the evidence bag, correct?” I asked.

“Yes, they’re all there.” I noticed her gaze caught everywhere but the bracelet, sitting between us like a disowned child. “I received the charm with two turtle doves that Friday.”

“December 15th.” I added.

She nodded. “Like the first gift, this one was wrapped in the same pink paper and was sitting on my desk when I arrived in the morning. It was the same day you found that couple.”

Mrs. and Mr. King had been found that morning at the bird sanctuary up the river. The caretaker had discovered them as she began to open for the day. They were both in their late twenties, married for four years, Mrs. King’s mother explained to me on the phone later that day, her voice wet with tears. I didn’t tell her that they had been found naked, Mr. King positioned on top of Mrs. King in a staged act of intercourse. The wooden handle of a small knife stuck out from her breast.

“Cause of death for Mr. King was poison, surprisingly enough.” The coroner told me. Surprising because poison victims aren’t often staged like this, as a calling card to the cops, or the victim’s family, or to the victims themselves. Or maybe just as a giant “fuck you” to the living.

“Was Mrs. King poisoned as well?” I asked.

The coroner shook her head. “No, she died from the stab wound. I’d say about a half hour after her husband died.” She picked up the picture of the bodies from the crime scene, examining it like one would a painting at the Louvre. “It’s a macabre Romeo and Juliet. Him poisoned, then she stabbed, taking her life to follow him into death.”

“Why position them as if they were having sex then?”

She looked up at me, her forehead scrunched in thought. Finally, she said, “I think it’s one final expression of their love for each other.”

I shook my head in disagreement. “No, that’s not it… love can’t be staged by a madman. I think… I think it’s a power thing. Like rape. He forced them to make the ultimate sacrifice as lovers, and forced them into a position of intimacy and love. A scene that should be personal and private, but he put it on display.”

“Their love raped and soiled for the masses.” She nodded, the photograph hanging loosely in her hand over the corpse of Mrs. King, a white sterile sheet covering the shame the killer exposed for all to see.

“And then the next day you received the charm of the french hens.” I said, no longer asking. The story obvious from here.

Bridget nodded, her face pale.

The sisters. Three elder sisters had been abducted from Sandy Hills Retirement Home early December 16th. Sometime after 3am according to the nurses on the nightshift, one of which had helped the eldest sister use the restroom around 2:45am. Their bodies were quickly discovered in the manger scene outside of St. Peter’s downtown. Their bodies had been positioned so that they were kneeling around the statue of baby Jesus. Their ankles were tied tightly together behind them, and their wrists were tied in front of them. The soft skin of their inner forearms turned up towards the sky, long red lines forming angry crosses on each of their wrists. They had been murdered there, in the manager, their blood painting the holy scene as large sticky pools formed around the crib. Their delicate faces and bodies bruised. The smell of hot iron mixing with snow was strong, filling my nostrils like angry bees attacking my sinuses. It was then that talk of a serial killer began to echo through our minds, our meetings, and the media around us, leaking out to the town, creating fear and panic during the happiest time of year. The theatrics alone connected the murders, despite each victim and scene contrasting drastically from each other. Until this month, three murders in as many days had been unheard of here.

“Then on December 17th you received the four calling birds charm?”

“Yeah.” She said, her voice strained. “It was a small metal charm with four birds in a nest.” The children's choir. He hadn’t killed just four, he had killed all seven. None of them had yet seen their thirteenth year. Their choir director found them in the school’s auditorium, where they were going to rehearse for the Christmas show. Their tongues had been cut out, fishing line threaded through the tips and formed into a loop so the sick bastard could hang them from the tree that decorated the left side of the stage, like dry, thick ornaments. Their bodies sat on the benches where they would’ve sang that very night, blood staining the metal ridges on each surface, so thin and close together that the blood would be almost impossible to completely remove. The overflow dripping from the open sides of the benches, falling to the polished wooden floor with a thick drip. Drip. Drip.

“There was a note with that one.” Tears formed around the edges of Ms. Monroe’s eyes.

I waited for her to continue.

She cleared her throat and recited, “four calling birds, voices sweet as honey, pure as snow, for my true love, may I admire the echoes of your song for years to come.”

“And let me guess, you threw that note out too?”

“I didn’t realize…”

“It’s ok, Ms. Monroe. I believe you.”

On December 18th, Mr. Harold Goldberg was found slain in the backroom of his jewelry store, his throat cut from ear to ear, his fingers removed except for his thumbs and each digit placed in one of the candlestick holders of the menorah on his desk, blood coagulating at the base of the gold symbol for Divine wisdom. The coroner informed me that his fingers had been removed before his throat was cut.

“I didn’t realize…” she repeated.

On December 19th we received a call from a house off of Longfellow road. The owners of the home were in the process of finishing their basement, and the construction workers had arrived that morning to find human intestines hung along the bare rafters like a Christmas garland, small twinkling lights wrapped around them, winking at their audience. I remember my stomach sinking like a rock when we got the call, the images of the other murders still so fresh in my mind. When we arrived the men showed us to a section of brick wall that had not been completed the night before, the mortar still fresh. It took three hours for us to catalog, and then remove the bricks, careful not to disturb the body we knew to be inside. One of the men identified him for us: their contractor, Peter Zinferd. There was a large cut from his sternum to his genitals, the skin of his stomach open like the cardboards walls of an advent calendar, exposing his insides, which were disturbingly empty.

“I didn’t realize…”

Elizabeth Turner, lead ballerina for the community theater’s upcoming production of Swan Lake, was found December 20th floating in a fountain at the middle of the park. She bobbed in the red water like a lightless buoy. Her feet had been cut off pre-mortem.

Bridget began to sob.

Two women were found brutally dismembered in a room at the Blueberry Inn downtown on the 21st. They were only identifiable by their shredded maid uniforms, clinging to what remained of their torsos. Jill Thompson and Mary Higgins had come in to work at 8am that morning and were found at 10am. How the bastard had done it so quickly and quietly is a mystery. Instead of fanned splatters, their blood was in solid, purposeful marks as if the murderer had painted the walls with their body parts.

Ms. Monroe’s body heaved up and down, her slim shoulders shaking with the force of her cries which echoed off the plaster walls of the small office.

We still hadn't been able to identify the girl we found in an alley on the ninth day. She was outside the emergency exit of Tiger’s Paw, a dance club near the heart of the city. Her head had been removed, her neck now a jagged raw mess. Seeing the bone and muscle reminded me of walking into a butcher shop, the naked meat a moist red in the cold white light. She was wearing a tight black dress and strappy heels. She had wanted a night of thoughtless fun, a night to lose herself to overpriced alcohol and loud music. Maybe even lose herself to the sexual embrace of another. Yet, instead, she has lost all identity. Without a face, it was difficult to estimate her age, but I could tell she young, probably about the age of my eldest who just celebrated her twenty-first birthday in November.

Bridget sniffed loudly, her body still racked with sobs that escaped her mouth sharply in short bursts like coughs. She calmed herself enough to continue, but I had to struggle to catch her words, “I should’ve noticed. I should have realized Saturday. That… that poor man.” Tears streamed down her face. She couldn’t continue. Mr. Jason Larson, the manager at a big box store. His eyes had been gouged out and shoved deep down his throat, his heart removed. Using a sharp blade, the killer had cut a deep slit into the base of the organ, which was placed with care at the top of a Christmas tree.

“I should’ve realized the connection!” Bridget cried suddenly, startling me out of my reminiscence. “I should’ve seen it!” Her voice rose with a cry.

She stopped and breathed sharply, hyperventilating. I stood and was beside her in two steps. I placed my hand on her back and lowered my face so it was level with hers. “Ms. Monroe, it’s ok. Try to hold your breath. That will slow your body and hopefully your breathing.”

Bridget closed her mouth, her lips pressed tightly together. Her body shook with the effort, but she locked eyes with me and refused to let herself breath.

“Good. Very good, Bridget.” I patted her on the back softly. After a few moments, she let the air inside her lungs escape with a violent explosion. But she was able to inhale deeply and slow her breathing. “Better?” I asked.

She nodded and I returned to my seat. Bridget looked shaken. Both her hands cradled the styrofoam cup of coffee in front of her, her knuckles turning white with her efforts to stop them from shaking.

“Hindsight is 20/20.” It was a stupid thing to say, but it’s all I had. How was she supposed to connect her bracelet with Mr. Larson being found in the display window of the Lord & Taylor where he worked.

Mrs. Monroe straightened her neck which gently rocked beneath her head, as if her head was suddenly made of lead and she was too weak to fully support it. “I… I didn’t realize until the next day.” Her throat was rough and raspy with pain, the bottom of her right nostril glistened with snot. She inhaled deeply as she tried to resolve herself, then continued, her voice still weak, but calmer. “There was a note on the eleventh day. It came with the eleventh charm: a small silver woman holding up one of those flute things you always see Peter Pan or Peter Piper with - I can’t remember which. Then I saw all these facebook posts about her, the girl, Piper.” Tears started to blur her words again, her voice rising an octave, “She was only six years old.” A sob choked in the back of her throat as she lost all of her strength and fell into her arms which rested on the edge of my desk..

Piper. Poor Piper. So little and frail. Her mother reported her missing at 4pm after trying to pick her up from school. She had waited in the pick-up lane for ten minutes before asking one of the teachers supervising if her daughter was running late. The teacher went into the building and returned moments later to say that Piper’s teacher had seen her leave the classroom at her usual time. The mother, a Mrs. Carol Dosher, immediately panicked. Staff searched the school for the young girl, but she was nowhere to be found. We came as soon as we were called, hyped up on the knowledge that someone was going to die that day, but no one knew who. Our stomachs twisted as we realized that the only thing we knew for sure was that we would be too late. Always too late.

Her body wasn’t discovered until 5am Christmas morning, this morning, even though it felt days, weeks, months ago. A fisherman saw her as he was walking down the pier. He had pulled her out of the water, a job I’m ashamed to admit I’m glad I avoided. She had been tied to the leg of one of the docks, so he cut the ropes with his jackknife, tearing them with the blade urgently, not noticing as it cut dull grey lines into her thin arms. Dark blood oozed out lazily, stiff from the cold and the absence of a heart beat.

The coroner said that she had been alive when the murderer left her, but that the tide had made sure she didn’t survive the night. High tide was at about 3am that morning, so her mouth and nose wouldn’t have been fully submerged until then..

“Would she have frozen to death before the water got to her?” I asked, keeping the hope from my voice to try and sound professional. I internally begged the heavens that the child went with the numb death of freezing instead of screaming herself hoarse as the cold water slowly ate at her, rising over her chest, tightening like a vice around her ribcage, threatening to break it with it’s cold strength. Unfamiliar fingers of frost reaching up her neck, searching patiently for a way to invade her small body, to take it as their own.

“Unfortunately, no.” The coroner’s voice was quiet and soft as she kept her eyes on the file in her hand. I tried to remember how old her son was. Probably not much older than Piper. Maybe even the same age. “Not with the mild winter we’ve been having.” She didn’t continue.

I nodded. It would’ve been cold enough to hurt, but not cold enough to release her.

“Can you tell how long she was out there?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Based on the bruising where she had been tied….” Her face grew dark and I had my answer. Night comes early this time of year. The fishermen who still fish in winter are few and far between, and the men that’d be out on Christmas eve would’ve been even fewer. No one would’ve been around to catch him doing it. No one would’ve been around to hear her cries. To save her.

Bridget mumbled something into the wooden desk. I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. She kept her head down, her forehead resting on her arm.

“Can you repeat that Ms. Monroe? Louder for the microphone.”

She lifted her head, her face was red and wet. She wiped her nose with her sleeve, leaving a trail of snot. “I finally realize the connection this morning. I woke up to a small pink package inside my front door: it had been slid through the mail slot. After I opened it, after I checked my phone, saw that’s poor child’s picture, only then did I realized the murders were connected to my charm bracelet.” Bridget looked down, ashamed. “I’m so sorry.” She said, her voice shaking. “I’m so so sorry.” She was asking for forgiveness, but not from me. She needed forgiveness from someone with more power to heal than me.

I looked down at the note that lay on my desk in a clear evidence bag. The words scrawled in red ink, “Why won’t you love me?”

We sat in silence for a moment.

“And that’s why you’re here, because you connected the murders with the charms.”

She sniffed, fresh tears flowing down her face. I looked at the yellowish smear of snot on her right sleeve, stretched out over the cloth like a burst bubble of gum sticking to the bottom of someone’s chin. “Marcus has been out every night this week. We usually go to dinner or a movie every few days, but he keeps saying he’s busy.”

“And you think he knows you like Nate and will target him tonight?”

She looked up at me, her eyes fierce with earnesty, the brevity of the situation hanging heavy in the air. “Nate’s a drummer.”

My office door opened and Detective Lancer came in. He closed the door solemnly behind him and looked at Bridget, his face tight with bad news.

“I’m sorry Ms. Monroe, but we were too late.”

A choked sob escaped her throat, and she dropped her head into her hands.

Lancer looked at me and continued, “we found the body at the music store on High St. It was officer Rodriguez's hunch. His kid takes guitar lessons there. He says it's one of the only places with practice space for bands in the area.” He handed me a photo of the crime scene. A young man with brown hair was dangled over the drumset, his face against one of the drums. The end of something wooden stuck out of his neck at a jarring angle: a drumstick had been forced through his jugular, exiting at the back of his neck. “The room was being rented by a band called The Rivals.”

A noise broke from Bridget that was part sob, part scream.

Lancer passed me an evidence bag, “we found this note on the body.”

I looked down at it and shuddered.

“We talked to the owner of the studio - who is understandably freaked out - and he said the victims been taking lessons from a local musician for months.”

I looked up from the note. “Sorry?”

“I guess the victim was in every night this week by himself, practicing. Something about learning how to drum as a Christmas gift. Said the guy’s girlfriend had a thing for musicians.”

Bridget stopped crying. She raised her head slowly, wide eyes looking at me with horror. We stared at each other as Lancer continued, shaking his head sadly, “poor guy. What we do for love.”

“The murderer…” I started.

Lancer shook his head, “The guy who was giving him lessons was long gone when we got there. We’ve got cars out looking for him now.”

I looked back down at the evidence bag in my hands. I recognized the handwriting from the other notes. This message was written in the same bright red ink:

Merry Christmas, my love. Now we can be together. Forever.