#it'll just sink to the bottom of their memories until it's just “something they did once”

[juneboat]

so anyways the latest rtgame video makes me want to cry /very pos

[imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl]

Dangerous Love (Pt. 13 of 13)

Pairing: Bruce Wayne (Batman) X Harley Quinn's sister!Reader

Word count: 1.7 K

Summary: You're Harley Quinn's sister, Havoc, one of the many villain's of Gotham. But you've been caught, and has been tortured constantly for an year in Belle Reve. But when your think your life can't be anything else than the nightmare you find yourself into, Bruce Wayne, the Batman, takes you in for a project. He has a program to rehabilitate villains, and you're his lab rat. But soon enough confusing feelings start getting in the way. You know falling for Bruce is stupid. But can you keep your heart under control?

<- Previous part (12)

{Justice League - DC Masterlist}

×

Freedom

“Bruce! I'm back!” You yell as you push the door closed with your back, carrying the two bags from the supermarket. Alfred is driving the car to the garage. Today was the fourth time you went out all by yourself. Alfred has to drive since you still can't take your license, but you feel like you're doing well. He stays in the car while you buy the stuff you want, and it's actually good to be out there, with the people. “I met this sweet lady on the line and she was so cute. She told me about her grandson who's starting in the kinder garden this year.” You follow the sound of his voice coming from the living room, leaving the bags on the table at the main hall and making your way there. “She–”

The words get stuck on your throat when you see he's not alone. Amanda Waller and the other five people responsible for Belle Reve are here. You're frozen, busted because you don't know if they should know about all the freedom you're having. You look at Bruce, searching for any signs of what to do. His expression is calm, light, and he reaches out his hand. “Come here, sweetheart.” He says, and you take a few seconds to find your legs, making your way over him, taking his hand, noticing how yours are shaking.

“Is everything alright?” You whisper to him.

“I see Havoc is already allowed out. And apparently without your supervision.” One of the men speaks, his angry eyes on you. This one wants you back in your cell, being beaten up.

“She is. (Y/N) is adapting wonderfully well.” Bruce says. “This is not the first time she goes out without me, and there hasn't been any kind of incident.”

“I couldn't help but notice you engaged in a romantic relationship with her,” Amanda states, reading something on her tablet. “The rest of the world didn't recognize her, but we did. You've been seen with her in... Three different galas.”

“I'm well aware of the contract we both signed, Amanda. I made it. And a romantic relationship wasn't mentioned, which means it wasn't forbidden.” You hold tight on his arm as he speaks. “And yes, I've been to some parties with her, I believe you saw us on the news.”

“I don't need you to tell me about the contract, Bruce. I read it. And honestly, I couldn't care less about who you want to put in your bed.” She mumbles, typing something down. “Let's make it quick, Bruce. We're here for a reason, but Havoc isn't the only criminal we have to deal with.”

“Her name is (Y/N). And soon enough you won't have to deal with her anymore.” Bruce turns to you, placing a kiss on your lips. “I need you to wait upstairs, my love. You can't be present while we discuss this.”

Nodding, you give them one last look before walking away.

But you can't go to your room. You're too scared now. What if you lose what you have here? Your life with Bruce... If you're thrown back in Belle Reve... You can't handle it anymore, you'll die. Inside first, until your body gives up. So you move downstairs, a few steps so the wall is hiding you, sitting down and paying attention, trying to bring sense to their words.

“Mr. Wayne, eight months ago you took in one of Belle Reve's intern, (Y/N) Quinzel, also known as Havoc, to test a project of your creation. In which you tried to rehabilitate her, so that she could have a life out of her criminal actions, being able to be fully reintroduced into life in society.” The man speaks slow, and by the looks of it, they must be recording it. “Do you believe your project succeded?”

“Yes.” Bruce answers.

“Do you believe (Y/N) could be released to live among other people without causing any kind of harm, stealing, killing, torturing, or any other dangerous behavior?”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware that the condition for her release is you being completely responsible for her actions from now on?”

“Yes, I am.”

“It will be like a damn marriage, Wayne.” Someone says, and your heart stops. “Anything she does, she steals a freaking pencil, you'll have to answer for it. You'll be bound for life.”

“Good,” Bruce mumbles, and you hear some laughs.

“For goodness sake, Wayne. I get that you want to have fun with her. The girl is insane but pretty, I'm not blind. But–”

“I'm not having fun with her. And you will watch your tongue before talking about (Y/N) again.” A smile comes to your lips, and you cover your mouth with a hand. Every passing day you're more and more sure that Bruce is going serious with you. That he has a goal with your relationship, but it still warms your heart when he says something like that.

“Whatever you want, Bruce Wayne,” Amanda mutters. “I will need you to sign here. And your fingerprints.”

A silence falls, and everything you hear is your heartbeat. Bruce told you he was starting the last procedures to set you free once and for all, but you didn't think it would happen so fast. Guess he did had everything under control after all.

Your mind suddenly floats back to when you first got here, when you tried to run, when you attacked him so brutally. Back then, on the first days, you never thought you'd fall for him. And it took a while for you to even allow yourself to. Bruce, being Batman, the hero, could never have feelings for you. And it's true that the signs where there, when he touched you, or when he went to your room to dance with you, leaving the party behind... But you were so scared back then... That you'd have your heart broken for the very first time.

But it had a happy ending. An ending you know you don't deserve. You want to be with Bruce, you want the life you have now, to go to college next month, study and become a nurse. Find a job and... The rest you don't know. But you know it'll be good.

“Go get the girl. I need her fingerprints too.” Amanda speaks up.

You hear his footsteps as they grow closer. You stand up when you see him on the bottom of the stairs, waiting until he reaches you.

“Did you hear it?”

You nod, letting yourself fall into his embrace when he opens his arms. “I don't want to see any of them ever again.”

“You won't, I promise.”

“Bruce... A-are you sure you'll sign that thing? I heard what they said.”

“Hey...” He pulls away, just enough to look into your eyes. “I already signed and I don't regret it. This is the last step, (Y/N), don't let them get to your head.”

“Okay,” you mumble, tiptoeing to kiss him.

Bruce guides you back to the living room, and you try to keep your head up, fearless.

“Havoc. Put both your hands here.” Amanda says, her voice filled with anger and disgust. She doesn't want to release you, but she has no choice. Nodding, you place both hands on her tablet. You watch as the screen reads all your ten fingerprints, and your picture appears on the top. Then, a green X covers it, blinking, and then everything is gone. And now, with your hand still on it, the screen shows up a few dots, and the word ‘searching’. “It's done, Havoc. But don't you ever come back under my jurisdiction again... I won't give you any other chance. Even if another Kryptonian comes from the sky demanding for it.”

“(Y/N).” you simply say, stepping back until you're by Bruce's side.

“Of course.” She mutters. “Well, I believe this is it. Mr. Wayne, I believe we're done here.”

“You may now kiss the bride, Wayne.” A man says, and two others laugh with him. You sink a little, stepping back, letting Bruce's shoulder hide you.

“You won't get an invitation Mr. Rochford, but I'm sure you'll know about it on the news,” Bruce says and the men immediately shut up. “I must ask you to leave now. Our business is over. For good.”

“I wish you luck, Mr. Wayne.” Amanda Waller reaches out her hand and Bruce shakes it.

You stand there, watching them leave. It's ridiculous, but you feel like your chains are falling off. All the terror, the infinite days and neverending nights in that hell are over. You still don't like thinking about it, and remembering is painful, but you're glad that's what it is now: a memory. A distant, faded memory. Some scars will accompany you for the rest of your life, even though Bruce has you under some esthetic treatments to get rid of most of them. But you're ok with that, with the ones that will stick around. They'll be a different kind of badge now, a prove that you crawled out of that nightmare, and despite needing a little push, you did some of the work too.

“Why are you crying, my love?” Bruce asks when he comes back, but you haven't noticed the tears rolling down.

“It's nothing, I just... I'm happy. Truly, wholeheartedly happy, I...” He pulls you into his arms, holding you tight. “I love you so damn much, Bruce, but... I guess I love me too. Who I am now, who I want to become.”

“Whatever happens now, (Y/N), it's up to us. To you. You can make your own decisions, and I'll be here to support you.”

“I know, babe.” Pulling away, you jump up, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Life starts now, and... I want you in it.”

“Me too, sweetheart. That's why I had no trouble sighing that contract.” His eyes get darker, and you furrow your eyebrows.

“What is it, Bruce?” He's dead serious, bouncing you up to have a better grip.

“Marry me.”

Your heart stops, as the answer slides down your tongue. Enough with the nightmares. This life is way better than any dream you couldbever have.

×

@fionanovasleftnut @glitterypinkkitty @mybabyboytony @chipster-21 @agustdpeach @yaakimoon2 @chloe-skywalker @rosalynshields

[blackasteriia]

he's just getting to the point of coming back. it'll be a while until he's there. but he's getting there. he's present enough to see her trying to reach for something he'd left on a shelf that he'd considered easily accessible, and let it fall off of its resting place into her hand.

Static charged the air. A storm was coming. Outside, the winds buffeted thehouse and rustled the trees. The dishwasher churned in the kitchenand beeped, ending the cleaning cycle. The clock whittled away theseconds in a constant, paced, click. Xion laid on the couch, thecushions sagging under her weight. Her hands folded over her stomach,nausea twisting in her throat. An anxious poison built in her veins,soaking her bones. Her thoughts raced in circles. Around and around,intrusive, and unwelcome. Chased her down, pinned her beneath theirweight. Sleep remained a distant shore.

The clock chimed and she counted the strokes to midnight. Xion sat-up andthe blankets spilled off her shoulders to pool in her lap. She curledher legs underneath her. The soft flannel of her sleep pants ruckedat her ankles. Xion rubbed her hands down her face, scrubbing at hereyes. She groaned and growled, frustration bubbling-up. She slippedfrom beneath the covers. Her feet hit the cold wood floors with athud. Xion plodded from the living room and into the kitchen. Sheflicked on the lights and blinked to adjust her vision.

She walked to where the coffee maker rested by the sink, plugged into theoutlet. Xion filled the pot with water from the faucet. She boughtcoffee last week, cheap black grounds from the dollar store. Xion setthe maker to brew. While it boiled, she leaned back against thekitchen counter, elbow braced along the edge. The storm builtoutside, punctuated with brief drum strikes of rain and hail. Thunderrolled, deep and rumbling, the foundation of the house trembled. Xionhad left her phone to charge by the stove. She regarded it for amoment. A though punctured the cacophony of her mind, text Aeleus.Yet, as her mind went through the motions. Picking-up the device andwriting a message, she couldn’t compose words. There was nothing tosay. If he was asleep then he need the rest more than she neededcompany.

The coffee maker finished brewing. Xion poured coffee into a mug that shefetched from the cabinets. She sipped from it. The taste was bitterand awful, metallic, a bit like brown sludge. Her body metabolizedcaffeine far quicker than its effects set in, there was no reward inthe drink. It was warm though. Heat seeped into her hands, soothingand pleasant. It was a bit like a slap in the face, thedisorientating wake-up call she needed. A breath of fresh air afterhours of drowning. Xion drank half the cup. She left it in the sinkatop a precarious pile of dirty dishes that she was ignoring.

Xion left the kitchen and walked around the front of the funeral home. Shepassed the front desk and then entered the embalming room. Xionturned on the lights, illuminating the dark space. She tied her hairback with a rubber band then washed her hands in the sink. Afteryanking on a pair of disposable gloves, Xion retrieved the body fromthe fridge. She checked the files and paperwork. Her notes on whatthe family wanted, confirming the subject’s identity. She was a youngwoman with long blonde hair who died in the hospital of an opioidoverdose. Twenty years old and laid out on on a metal slab decadesbefore she should be. Xion planned on working on her tomorrowmorning, but her sleeplessness changed that.

Cold storage trapped the woman in the first twelve hours of death. Muscleslocked and stiff in rigor mortis. Her skin blotchy and pale turnedashen, and cold to the touch. The cuts, sores, and ulcers up her armsand throat told a story she no longer could. Xion used a disinfectantto clean the body. She massaged the stiffness from the arms,shoulders, and body of the woman. With the body prepped, Xion turnedher attention to the face. Using a special suture kit and thinstring, Xion sewed shut the jaw through the gums and nose. Put eyecaps to prop-up the eyes. She made a few adjustments to the face toensure a serene expression.

She was a small woman, not even a hundred pounds, so the embalming didn’ttake long. Xion worked the muscles to encourage the fluid into theveins. She could remember ‘Taker teaching her to do this. How toensure the body remained supple, life-like, and didn’t bruise orswell. All the little things that’d help the family mourn, theirfinal chance to say goodbye to their beloved. It was a carefulprocess but finished in less than an hour. Xion focused on the woundson the arms and hands. She’d need wax to fix those and some clevermake-up. She’d leave dressing for tomorrow.

Xion kept the wax in a cabinet above the counter but when she pulled openthe door, there was none. Xion cussed as she remembered. She used thelast of it last week on a different body and forgot to order more.Wasn’t on the to-do list. Her fingers tapped on the counter, lipspursed. ‘Taker never would’ve made this mistake. It’d take a coupleof days to order it too. Only if– an idea, traced along a longtrack of memories. It was worth a shot, otherwise, she’d have todrive an hour to a supply store tomorrow.

A month ago when Xion admitted this was her job now, she reorganizedthe whole embalming room. She lacked a full foot of her father’sheight and adjusted things to suit her. She thought she movedeverything to the bottom shelves, but now she was desperate andhoping. ‘Taker kept the old wax on the top shelves, she never movedit because she ordered new stuff. Xion stepped back, changing herperspective, and stood on her tip-toes. There on a top-shelf was anold jar of wax. Xion groaned to herself. She yanked off her gloveswith dramatic exasperation. Note to self: order wax tomorrowmorning, first thing.

Xion hooked a leg up on the counter and pushed-up to reach for the jar.Her fingers fell short by inches. Xion bounced on her toes as shefell, then lifted both knees up onto the counter. Gaze tracing-up,her eyes caught movement. The jar tilted and fell. Xion caught it inher lifted hand, her grip slipped and she fumbled with it. Xionbrought the jar against her chest and then palmed it, secured. Browfurrowed, Xion eyed the wax. That jar of wax was on the shelf.Four inches in, at least. Gravity did not tip it over into herwaiting hands.

Xion called bullshit.

Her eyes focused, noting the wood grain of the shelf before her. Slow hergaze shifted over her shoulder as she turned. Her vision tracked thewalls and cabinets and tools. The bleached white clothes. Washed outwith the monochrome of the barren equipment, tile, and walls. Softshadows piled in the corners, beneath the tables and chairs. A gustof wind and the house trembled. The frame settled. The hairs on theback of her neck stood. Xion acknowledged what’d she ignored forhours. There was a paradigm shift in the air, a change in theatmosphere. Cold seeped through Xion’s hands and shoulders. Asudden lack of loneliness. The home was no longer empty.

Xion put down the jar of wax and slid off the counter. Methodical andpatient, she returned the body to the fridge. She cleaned-up hertools and finished her notes. Xion turned off the lights on her wayout and returned to the kitchen. At the base of the stairs leadingupstairs, she paused. The upper floor laid in deep darkness.Untouched since she last cleaned there a week ago. Xion gripped thebanister and mounted the first step. The stairs groaned beneath herweight and stride. At the landing, she peered down the halls. Thedoors closed and the lights out. She dared not disturb the unsettledpeace.

After 'Taker’s death Xion sought the advice of the town wise women. Rather, the old ladies who gathered at the cafe for lunch and bridgeevery Friday afternoon. They consoled her on her, 'loss.’ These agedwomen, ears adorned by complex, dangling jewelry, taught Xion the art ofliving on. They told her to do as she felt ready. Things must remainas they were, until it is 'time,’ for them to no longer be. Xionwasn’t ready for anything. Everything was as 'Taker and Kane leftit. Preserved in careful detail– lacking only the men themselves.They weren’t here to maintain the boundaries of their space, soXion did it for them. The embalming room had practical reasons forthe change but the upstairs was a sacred place. Move an inch of itand the foundation of the whole house would crumble.

Xion entered 'Taker’s room in the North corner of the house. The hingescreaked as she shouldered it open. Moonlight spilled through thesplit curtains, illuminating the room in a pale light. Old posters ofbands, bikes, and favored wrestlers adorned the walls. A calendar ofHarley-Davidson’s from 2002 hung over the desk. A quilt laid on thetwin bed tucked even with the pillows. Left undisturbed on thenightstand was a notebook of measurements and bike designs. Labeledat the top: “XION.” The theoretical gift for her eighteenthbirthday, she assumed. One day she’d execute his vision– but notnow, she’d seen it all before and paid it no mind.

Xion had stashed 'Taker’s clothes in the wardrobe as they came through thewash. She peeled open the oak door and peered inside. Xion rifledthrough the clothes. Her hand landed on the smooth, weighted leatherof his old duster– The one he always wore. Xion pulled the coat offthe hook. She stepped to stand in the light and look it over. Xionworked the fabric in her hands. Aeleus found it in the truck, whereshe left it. It didn’t smell like 'Taker anymore, it smelled likethe soap she used to clean it. Careful not to crease it, Xion foldedthe duster into a square and tucked it under her arm. It’d be asuitable offering. A small change, a chip in the armor of theupstairs. Xion closed the wardrobe and slipped out of the room. Sheclosed the door behind her and turned the latch. She walked down thestairs.

In the mudroom behind the kitchen, Xion pulled on her boots and lacedthem up. She shrugged on her coat. She stamped out the back door andclambered down the porch step. An unusual chill nipped at her noseand cheeks. The storm had passed, leaving the desert frosted white,crisp and frigid. The clouds cleared to reveal constellations and afull moon. The sun long was gone and the heat dissipated from theland, there was nothing left but the cold. Her hands tucked into herpajama pants pockets. Xion’s boot heel crushed leaves and driedgrass as she walked north. She forded a stream, babbling over rocks,with a confident bound. A sparse stand of trees guarded the pathwayto the gate.

The gate of wrought iron was the furthest boundary of the yard. Threelocks of gold, silver, and iron, held it all in. 'Taker had keys,somewhere, but Xion never bothered. Her hand lifted from her side,the hilt of the keyblade slotted to the curve of her fingers. Steelmolded of her will, formed of her heart’s desire. Xion pointed theblade tip at the gate. Light flashed and the locks unbound. Xionpulled the chain and entered. She locked the gate behind her. Xionturned to her left hand and delved into the yard.

Four decades of life passed along the pathway. Tended lawns and thepristine tombstones marked a modern era. The dates fell backcenturies as she walked. To stone markers carved by unsteady hands, the finaltestament to names long faded. The cruel march of time marked inquarried marble, quartz, and limestone. Ravens raised a complaint intheir hoarse voices. They darted between the winter stripped boughsof the trees. Magic ran deep in the Earth. It saturated the soil andpermeated the water. The grass grew thick of ancient art, manipulatedby those long passed. A charge coursed the air, uncorrelated to theearlier storm. The hearts, souls, and minds of the dead still exertedtheir will here. The veil ran thin, gossamer dancing with shadows onthe far side.

A church of stone and wood rose between the trees. A monument to aforgotten religion and an unknown god. The doors were of a dark pine,hardened by five centuries of life. Xion used her full weight to pushthem open. Moonlight and shadows draped the insides of the church.Wooden benches lined aisles, askew and rotted. Someone had drawnprofane graffiti art on the West wall. A throne of iron sat on araised dais at the back wall. Ominous and yet mixed with such ahistory that Xion couldn’t help but feel familiar, comfortable.Xion walked the center aisle and then circled to the right of thethrone.

Dust, sand, and dirt, covered the trap door in pillows. An aero spellcleared it away so Xion could lift it open by the handle. Xiondropped into the black depth and landed on bent knees on the stonebelow. She stared down into complete darkness, so much that her eyescouldn’t adjust. Xion snapped her fingers and an orb of lightappeared. It hovered beside her as she walked down the steps. At thebottom landing were doors of cast iron, knockers affixed to each.Xion pushed them open enough that she could slide through and enterthe crypt.

Arches of stone bore the weight of the building. Each arch carved withsymbols, eyes, and patterns of lost rituals. In alcoves along thewalls were the dead of the Valdis family. Skeletal remains laid onshelves hewn from the rock walls. Coffins and caskets rested in rowsthrough the center of the first chamber. Xion walked further back,through a narrow catacomb, and to the furthest chamber. It was empty butfor three caskets on stone pedestals. Copper plaquesread their names and dates. 'Taker’s mother, father, and himself.Shadows slunk by as Xion approached . 

Inscribed on ‘Taker’s plaque, read:

                                   “Adam Joseph Valdis-Cowell

                                            “The Undertaker”

                              April 19, 1965 - November 16, 2003″

Forty days had passed and it felt like a good number, a solid number.Something Xion would mark on a calendar if she thought of it. Xionplaced the duster atop the casket. A sigh rolled through her as shesunk down, back to the stone pedestal. Xion buried'Taker in his ring gear and the keys to his favorite bike. Noembalming, no tricks of preservation, she’d let him rot away in hisdeath. Leave behind the bones, like his ancestors. It had felt wrongwhen she first prepared his body. Wrong, to see him still and cold.Like he could sit-up any moment and start talking to her. He was tooyoung, like the girl whose jaw Xion sowed shut an hour ago. It wasworse to lock him in a box and tuck him away in the dark.

“I’m sorry,” Xion said. She always began there, an apology tumbled-outbefore she could catch it. “I know Aeleus says it ain’t my fault. Ijustknow I can’t stop thinking of all the ways I screwed-up. Counting upall my little mistakes. If I made one less–”

Xion paused, she rubbed her thumb over her fingers in slow, comfortingcircles. She swallowed hard.

“Maybe, we wouldn’t be here at all,” Xion finished. “You’d be here. I’m not doing great with the home. I’m fine working on the bodies, it’s all procedures. My hands know how to do that, but it’s when I gotta talk and use my head, I keep messing up. The money and the people, and the orders, keeping everything lined-up– It’s so much to keep track of. I feel like I barely got my neck above water.”

A sigh rolled through her. Xion reached back and undid the ponytailfrom the nape of her neck. She snapped the rubber band back aroundher wrist. She rubbed her hands over her face and eyes. Her fingersthen worked up into her hair, pulling through the strands.

“Aeleus isn’t okay,” Xion muttered. She turned her cheek to the side. Theair was cold and stagnant down here. It was hard to breathe. “Hetries to hide it from me, but I can tell. He’s lost weight and he’snot eating. He doesn’t want to do anything but feel sorry. I don’tblame him. He’s lost you and now he’s stuck with me. Not how he’dthought it’d work-out, huh? It’s like, he’s trying to follow you andI don’t know what to do about it. I-I can’t fix it, what could I even say?!

“I’m just–” Xion’s voice broke, a high stuttered breath broke through her chest.Her hands lifted to her mouth to stifle a cry. Tears pricked hereyes, burned the corners and traced her cheeks. “I don’t know if Ican do this. Keep the home running. Help Aeleus– I wanted to get my GED, but I don’t think that’s gonna happen. If I stop at all, it’ll all come crashing downon me.”

She ducked her head to her chest. There was no swallowing the sob thatbroke from her. Xion buried her face against her knees. Her armsthreaded around her legs. Her shoulders trembled with each rackingcry, gasping for breath and bawling. It was an inevitable breakpoint.When all the things crumbled around her. The exhaustion and the fear.Rage, that she’d find one good thing and the universe would snatch ltfrom her. It was cruel and unfair, and no one to blame but herself.She broke it like she did everything– it should shock no one, leastof all herself.

In time she wiped her tears, left raw and hallowed-out. Couldn’t cryforever. Her hand massaged the back of her neck where tension formedat the base of her jaw. Xion whimpered and gasped, choking andhiccuping still at random interval. She clutched her knees to herselfand curled in tight. The best she could do for comfort. The silenceweighed on her, not even the wind for company. Voice still shaking,she sought to fill the crypt.

“I don’t know why I came here. Why I’m talking to your body,” Xionmused. As if there was someone left to listen to her rambles. Therewasn’t, she was talking to a liquefied corpse; A casket filled withbody sludge. Gatherings of bones and ashes. “Where I’m from, no onereally dies, they don’t even leave bodies. So long as you remember them,they stay with you. They remain in your heart– they go somewhereelse, where you can’t see them but they’re still there. I don’t knowif that’s how it is here. I can’t shake this feeling that you’restill around, somehow. Maybeit’s not you, as I knew you, but something’s left.”

Xion tapped her finger against her arm.

“Might be losing my mind,” Xion muttered. “Wistful think– But I knewyour magic, and when you died that night… it was gone. Now it’sback and I’m… an idiot.”

Xion laughed, low and in her chest. She leaned back, head tilting againstthe casket side. The slightest grin teased her lips. “Please,please don’t give me hope, daddy. I miss you. I know it doesn’t getbetter, we just get used toit. It’s never going to be the same without you though, and I just,I wish you were here.”

She sagged, hair rucking-up along the line of her neck. She’d no right tobe down here begging for forgiveness. His body was here, all he leftbehind. It was foolish to think that the physical proximity wouldmake any difference. The truth was she’d never hold his hand again,or hug him. It was just a year or so, she had with 'Taker, but it was the best of her life. All she had left was that last time, forty days ago. She had to get overit, accept it, move on. Somehow, someway, she had to. She pushed toher feet and looked down at the duster atop his casket, folded neat.Xion began to turn away.

She made it a whole stride before an invisible rope tugged her back. Somepsychological tether that brought her back to the casket. Shepicked-up the duster again. She thought she’d give it back to him, soshe couldn’t cling to it any longer. Start to strip the Jenga towerthat was the funeral home. One-piece at a time. It was the last thinghe gave to her and even if she did not deserve it, or ask for it, orappreciate it. She wasn’t ready for it to be gone. Xion stepped backfrom the casket. She walked out of the crypt, crawled back throughthe trap door. She sniffed and rubbed dust and tears from her cheeks.

Xion paused at the foot of the throne in the church. She sat down on thedais to let her eyes adjust to the dark. She placed the folded dusterat her side. For a moment she leaned back onto the cool stone.Exhaustion struck her like a bell chime. The physical and emotionalweight of past sleepless nights coming to toll. Her eyes closed once,twice, and sleep took her. Xion awoke, hours later, to birdsong.Sunlight streamed through the windows. Her back and shoulders stiff,her fingers cold. She curled on her side, arm wedged under her head.And the duster, tucked over her shoulders.