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january31st · 3 years

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In tune (Venable x reader): Chapter one

Summary: you arrive at the outpost and try to be the one to lighten the mood by making dumb jokes and playing the piano/singing, and accidentally get Ms. Venable’s attention.

A/N: this whole fic started because i saw the piano hidden away near the door in the music room in one of the first episodes, and then when Stevie Nicks sang later on i actually was so happy to confirm that it was in fact, a piano.

This has been sitting in my drafts for too long, maybe if i publish the first chapter i might feel forced to write the rest?

Warnings: Nothing too interesting happens in this chapter when it comes to Venable, i really got carried away with context and writing bullshit? Other than that if you think i should add other warnings please do feel free to say it

|| Masterlist || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 ||

~2200 words

Ever since you were a kid you managed to get yourself into the strangest situations, and they always seemed to outdo each other. About now you were starting to think you reached the peak of life experiences, after the apocalypse what else was there for you to see?

When the end came you weren’t too phased. You just watched things happen to you and accepted them, not that there was anything else you could do. But you didn’t panic. You didn’t cry for your lost life. There wasn’t much to lose either way.

You met Timothy eventually. You had time to think about all of these questions he kept asking you, but you didn’t really. For the most part you were numb. You knew he was trying to get to know you, given that you were in this situation together for a reason, and sure, you talked to him, you cracked a few jokes to ease the tension. You told him a bit about your life in the past year or so, and listened to his and to his plans for the future studying at UCLA.

After some time you came to understand that you two were supposed to be some sort of modern Adam and Eve, the new beginning to humanity. The both of you were told about your perfect DNA, and that just magnified the voice inside you saying that this was a big mistake. You didn’t say anything about it because this was the only reason you were alive, but deep down you knew this was wrong. You were sitting in someone else’s spot.

Sometimes you would look at Timothy and feel like there was a rock sitting in your stomach. He was good looking, sure, for a guy. But that was just the problem. You never had any actual relationships, you always distanced yourself from people. You did feel attractions, you did feel love, but not for men. You didn’t hate kids, but also didn’t want to have any. Especially not now with this guy you were stuck to. You also didn’t hate him. None of this was his fault, so you pushed the thought aside for the most part.

Two weeks later you were sent to Outpost 3, and soon enough you met the person in charge. Wilhemina Venable and her perfect everything. She showed you to your rooms and explained the purple-gray hierarchy, and at that you heard that voice again, telling you this was wrong, surviving And also being part of “the elite”?

Timothy asked a few questions, and you almost shivered at the tone in her voice. Very determined and void of emotions. You understood the sureness of everything she said and it didn’t leave any space for you to answer or question. You didn’t have anything to say really. You weren’t that interested in the logistics of this whole thing. If you started thinking about it you knew it would be hard to stop.

“The house rules are simple. You will refer to me only as Ms. Venable.” she said, looking straight into your eyes. She also said something about not leaving the building, not that you were planning on running away any time soon. The ice in her demeanour was impressive, you wondered for a second if her makeup and hair had looked this perfect when the bombs fell. If her outfit looked as crisp and if the grip on her cane was as strong, or if she was holding the cane at all. You could have assumed it was just an accessory, it didn’t look out of place on the hand of someone as elegant as her, but something told you otherwise.

You must have looked spaced out because Timothy was staring at you. She raised her voice just a bit, adding “No unauthorised copulation of any kind, under any circumstances.” And at that you felt that rock get a bit less heavy, relieved you wouldn’t be forced into it at least for now.

“The two grays you saw on the way in should work as a reminder”

Sure you were happy with the rule, but not everyone would, and it made you a bit uneasy to think about the tension that would form after a while. Killing people for it felt unnecessary and if there were other purples you knew there would be complaining to be heard. Just something else to look forward to!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On the first week there you mostly listened to the other purples blabber on about their lives, and all the things they didn’t get to do and all the money they didn’t get to spend on all these useless things. There was arguing all the time, no one seemed to agree on anything except all of what they lost, and pitying themselves for the situation they were in. You appreciated Dinah’s attempts at motivating everyone and keeping a positive mindset, but all of those empty words fell flat.

One day (or night? Or afternoon? You weren’t sure) everyone was sitting in the music room, purples in the couches, Mallory sitting on the floor next to Coco, some grays standing around and Venable at the farthest table seat from you, reading a book. You could sense the silence wouldn’t last long. It was only a matter of time until Mr. Gallant started complaining about the song playing on repeat, but before he could, you tried something.

“Let’s say we had a cat at the outpost”

Everyone looked at you curiously, a cat? Why would there be a cat?

“What would you guys name it?”

Coco looked at you as if you had just offended her family name “I don’t know why or how you plan to get a cat in here. Have you lost your mind Y/N?”

You chuckled at that “I don’t want a cat, it’s just a question, to get our heads away from the whole apocalypse thing”

She made a face at the stupidity of your question “I don’t know, probably Oscar or Felix or something”

“Ugh Coco don’t be basic. You know, I would name it Rip Taylor, or Larry Kramer. Or any of the great gay radicals of the 70’s and 80’s” Gallant said gettig more exited about the question.

Andre said “Judas, or Alejandro. Cats are traitors”

Gallant smirked “I see what you did there”

Evie leaned forward, cup swaying in her hand “I don’t know about cats but I quite like poodles. Maybe even a greyhound. I would name him Mr. Chandon. After the champagne of course”

“My grandma had a cat, she was called Pumpkin.” said Timothy.

Coco scoffed “Let me guess, was she orange? How original”

“Actually she was white” he answered with a malicious smile.

Coco tried to change the attention from that interaction “Alright, Y/N you asked the question and you haven’t answered it yet. What would you name it?”

You gathered everything in you to make a serious face. You waited for a bit until everyone had their eyes on you and answered “Fish.”

At that the room erupted with laughter, after a minute or so you wiped your eyes so that your makeup wouldn’t get ruined, your cheeks already hurting. You managed to straighten up a bit and looked across the room to Venable. You’d imagine she would call you all dumb and set a new rule that kept everyone from laughing, but instead she just looked at you with her eyes slighly narrowed, the rest of her face covered by the book.

“How about puppy?” Mallory said. Everyone laughed even harder.

Your voice was now high pitched, you struggled to get the words out all at once "You see… that's a great one, but i think Bark is even better"

"Come here Bark" said Andre, laughing harder still and slapping his knee.

You knew this would make you look stupid, because it was. But still you welcomed a laugh after all this time, and only something this dumb would work.

After that you took it upon yourself to keep people entertained. You wouldn't let your fears show in front of all these fancy people, especially not Venable. It would be much better if they thought you were funny and light hearted than to find out about the monsters you kept sitting in your room.

You knew she could crush you with a finger anytime, and you found yourself thinking about her way more than you should. Was it her looks? Was it the attitude? You had always been one to look in wonder at the strong confident women you met throughout your life. But you also convinced yourself you didn't need anyone.

The things you had lived through were more than enough to confirm it. You always managed to figure things out on your own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the third week you understood Mr. Gallant’s annoyance at the song constantly playing, even though you only had to assemble in the music room for the “Cocktails” once a day. Everyone was thankful about how oddly soundproof that room was, you couldn’t hear a thing down the corridor, and for that reason it would be mostly empty for the rest of the day.

Despite that annoyance about the song, you still spent quite some time there. Ever since you stepped into the room for the first time, the shelves completely lined with books called out to you. For a while, the free time you didn’t spend reading, you spent hovering about the shelves, registering the titles and reading the synopsis for the ones you didn’t recognise.

The other thing about the room that called out to you was the piano, just sitting abandoned. It would probably get very dusty if not for the greys who had to keep the outpost spotless. You were surprised no one had played anything yet, after all, you were stuck with a bunch of rich people, and in your head every rich person had piano classes when they were little. At least that was the type of rich person you always wanted to be.

You had been anything but rich before the apocalypse, but you did know some music theory. You were a band kid and played classical guitar since you were little, and you found yourself thinking about how lucky you were that your mom put you in those classes. Music did become a very important aspect of your life very fast, always the thing you could use to escape, to soothe whatever mood you found yourself in. The end of the world, of course, couldn’t come without irony, and the one thing that used to keep you sane was starting to have the opposite effect.

Piano was most definitely not your instrument. You loved to listen to it, but to play anything you needed a lot of practise. Still, by now you wanted anything to drown out the voice calling the occupants of interplanetary craft, so every now and then you would try to go by ear on the chords for a pop song you remembered, and mess around with it until some other purple entered the room.

One evening during the Cocktail hour Coco asked you to play something. “We all know you can play, just please, I’m so sick of this song” She said looking at the radio with a disgusted look on her face.

“Ehrm, I don’t actually know any piece all the way through. Piano isn’t really my instrument so most of the music I remember would also not sound right.”

“You don’t know it all the way through, but that means you know at least a little something. Go on darling don't be shy” Evie said, and you couldn’t help but feel uneasy playing in front of these fancy people.

You sat down on it’s large bench, you wanted to at least try something classical, to try and show them that you weren’t absolutely uncultured. Choosing Moonlight Sonata might have been predictable, but at least it wasn’t Fur Elise. The first movement was all you could remember, but it was the piece you knew the best. In the end you were met with applause, to your surprise.

“Ah splendid! I had no idea poor people even knew about Beethoven!” Evie was certainly one for theatrics, the way she overreacted made you giggle, almost letting you forget the shakiness in your hands.

“Play something you can sing to, I heard you sing before, you have a lovely voice” Timothy said with a big smile, and you realised just then how that sounded. When did he even hear you sing? By the way Coco and Gallant looked at eachother you could tell they had gossiped about you before, and the thought that the whole outpost might be thinking about it too made you want to puke.

To hide your discomfort you started playing the first song you could think of, and while you played the only thought on your mind was Ms. Venable. What if she thought you and Timothy had a thing? Would she kill you both without even hearing you out? Somehow that wasn’t the part that disturbed you the most, though you couldn’t quite understand what was. She didn’t hang around the music room much during the day, and when she did she would either hide behind a book or have an argument with someone and leave. Right now you hoped she wasn’t even looking at you and didn’t hear the tone of what he said.

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lucyintheskywithxanax · 4 years

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Morituri te salutant

Pairing: Wilhemina Venable x Fem Reader x Cordelia Goode

Requested by anon: wilhemina falling in love with the reader during the apocalypse and having to watch the reader die in her arms bc of smth then tempus infinituum happened but for some reason wilhemina still remembers the reader and what happened, but the reader doesn’t and is now dating cordelia

A/N: thank you anon for this amazing plot idea. I changed a few things from your original idea as I wrote the story. I hope you’ll like it. x

Warnings: death (but no one stays dead), grief, mentions of blood, physical violence, self-harm, English isn’t my first language

Word count: ≈ 13 000

“Wait,” Wilhemina said, extending one arm in front of you.

You ignored her warning and peeked inside the room.

“He’s in here,” you whispered.”Mead’s already here, too.”

“Alright. Wait for me outside.”

“Mina –“

“That’s an order, Y/N,” she growled, low enough not to be heard by Michael.

You pursed your lips.”I’m coming with you,” you growled back. “It’s not negotiable. I’m not leaving you with him.”

Wilhemina shot you a look, opened her mouth to protest, but before she had time to speak you leaned in and kissed her slow and sweet. You felt her smile against your mouth. You hummed softly, nipped her lower lip. When you pulled away, you brushed the back of your hand down her cheek, gazing fondly into her eyes.

“I’m not leaving you,” you whispered.

She hesitated. Nodded. You gave her a smile, and together you stepped into the room.

Ms. Mead was standing by Michael’s desk, whispering words you could not hear. They both raised their heads when you entered. Ms. Mead met Wilhemina’s eyes and nodded almost imperceptibly.

You planted yourself at Wilhemina’s side like a faithful soldier. Your body was buzzing with fear and excitement. You shot Wilhemina a sideways glance. How did she always manage to keep her face so perfectly blank? If it hadn’t been for the fire in her eyes, she might have been mistaken for a marble statue.

She was a mystery. She was your mystery. You bit your lip to hold back a smile.

In a few minutes you would be free. Free to love her, free to build a new life with her and the foundations would be made of respect and tenderness and trust. The price to pay didn’t matter. This kind of love was worth everything.

Michael’s blond hair shone in the dim room. The flickering light from the candles licked his cheeks and sparkled in his eyes. He looked calm, content even. What a fool he was.

You had to force yourself not to jump up and down with impatience as Wilhemina and Michael exchanged a few, bitter remarks. You wanted to reach out and grab her hand. Instead you folded your arms on your chest and scowled defiantly at Michael.

He stood up from his desk with a small, nonchalant smile. Tried to tempt Wilhemina with promises. Did he know he was about to die? Could he feel it in his soul? Was he trying to win her over now? What a fool he was.

“Ms. Mead,” Wilhemina said.

You watched as the robot pointed her gun at Michael. You watched as the look in her eyes changed, as her face hardened, her hand started to shake.

“Ms. Mead,” Wilhemina repeated, annoyance laced in her voice. She turned to face her.

What was Mead waiting for? Your body felt like it was on fire. Energy was shooting through you and you wanted to jump, you wanted to run, you wanted to do something, anything, to release some of it. What on Earth was Mead waiting for? Shoot him, you ordered her in your head. Shoot him, and let us go. Let us start a new life that will be happy and hopeful.

Michael cocked his head and smiled. It seemed to you that from far away came the sound of a door being slammed shut. And then Ms. Mead’s hand moved and she pointed the gun at Wilhemina’s chest.

You didn’t think. Something in you screamed in absolute fear and terror. You jumped in front of Wilhemina just as Ms. Mead pressed the trigger. The bullet sank into your head right between your eyes.

There was a gasp, from Ms. Mead, an amused smile, from Michael. He crossed his hands behind his back and looked with interest as Wilhemina dropped to her knees by your side, her hands hovering over your head from which blood gushed like water from a fountain.

“Well,” Michael said slowly, “that was quite unexpected.”

Another door slammed. Louder, closer. Michael turned his head, frowning. He pondered for a second, then nodded at Ms. Mead in the direction of the door. They left the room.

Wilhemina sat by your side, waiting. The floor was cold, and the coldness seeped through her clothes and made her shiver, but she didn’t care. She would wait for you to wake up. Michael had left, which meant you had plenty of time. She would wait faithfully by your side.

It was a perfect plan, she thought. You and her, killing Michael, you and her, finding shelter in the Sanctuary and starting a new life. Ms. Mead would be under her command. She would make her way up to the top, as she always did. You would be proud of her. She would go about her days knowing she wasn’t alone anymore, wake up every morning with a light heart, go to sleep every night in your arms. Until one day it would be safe to go outside, and she would feel the breeze on her skin again and finally know what you looked like in the sun.

Oh, what a fine life.

She ran her fingers through your hair. The flickering light from the candles shone in your eyes.

She didn’t know how long she waited for you to wake up. You had been so tired, she reminded herself, had been too excited to get much sleep the night before – surely you needed a very long rest. But you would wake up soon.

She ran her fingers down your eyelids, peering down affectionately at you.

A loud noise in the distance made her jump. Her grip on you tightened protectively. She waited, listened carefully.

Voices. How could that be? Everyone was dead.

The voices sounded angry. She was pretty sure one of them was Michael’s.

Meaning he would come for you. He would come to finish his work. She had to find him first, she had to stop him and make sure he would never try to harm you again.

Carefully, she laid you down on the floor. She brushed your hair back from your face, stroked your cheek with the back of her hand just as you had done to her a few minutes before. “I’ll be right back, my love,” she whispered, offering you a fond smile.

She gazed at your face for two seconds more before she got up and walked towards the voices.

She couldn’t see very well. Was there a mist in the room? She raised one hand, touched her cheek.

Why was she crying?

“Please,” she said to the shapes she could barely make out behind the mist and in the trembling light of the candles. “Please, my girlfriend won’t wake up.”

That wasn’t what she had meant to say. A sob pushed out of her throat.

Why was she crying?

She crossed the room towards the shapes, extending her free hand, repeating, Please – in a voice that was so broken it couldn’t possibly be hers – please, why won’t she wake up?

Her body knew exactly why. Her body had turned cold and was aching and shaking and aching. Her chest was so painfully tight she could barely breathe, heart beating like crazy but feeling dead and there was rage, rage rising like bile in her throat and pain, pain because you were – shut up shut up shut up shut up! her mind screamed.

She tried to take one more step forward, stumbled. One of the shapes rushed towards her.

And it was getting harder to breathe, heart suffocating, heart trying to kill itself because it knew that – shut up!

She dropped her cane, pressed both hands against her ears and shook her head.

There was a voice, there was movement. There were two hands gently landing on her cheeks and then there was cooing, someone asking questions. She blinked to try and see better, but all there was to see was a spot of yellow like blond hair and two dots like dark eyes.

The face turned, but the hands never left her face. They brought her warmth.

“Mallory made it!” someone shouted gleefully “Delia, Mallory made it! She went back!”

A cry of rage. Michael.

Wilhemina’s knees buckled. The warmth on her cheeks disappeared as she hit the cold floor and curled in on herself and wailed. Please let him kill her. She was alone again.

Cold. Voices crying and voices celebrating and voices screaming. And then that spot of yellow again, mere inches from her face, and someone muttering something in a language she didn’t understand. She sobbed, and a voice, sweet as honey, cooed, “It’s alright, shh, it’s alright. I’ll find her for you, I promise,” and then Wilhemina closed her eyes, and gladly sank into the nothingness.

When she opened her eyes again there was light. The sky was a bright, deep blue. Birds were chirping in the trees. People were laughing.

People were laughing.

She turned around, wide eyes taking everything in. The young couple cuddling on the bench. The kids running and chasing each other and clinging to their parents’ legs for protection. The mother, rolling her eyes but reaching down to pat the little blond head affectionately.

What the hell… ?

Wilhemina stopped a man and asked him what was going on. He shot her a confused look, glanced at her cane, back up at her face and frowned and hurried away as if she were a mad woman. She gritted her teeth against the familiar bitter anger that rose in her throat. Scum, all of them.

Except you.

“Y/N?”

She turned around again, expecting to see you emerging from behind a tree, smiling at her, your arms extended for a hug. She looked on her left, on her right. Behind her, before her. You weren’t there.

“Y/N?”

She stopped another man, demanded to know what day it was. Her heart froze in her chest as she processed his answer. The man frowned, asked her, was she alright? She looked awfully pale. She waved him away, took a few, unsteady steps, and sat down on a bench.

Breathe in, breathe out, she reminded herself. She closed her eyes, focused on the warmth of the sun on her face and shoulders. Breathe in, breathe out. If she could be in complete control of her body, controlling the outside world would be a piece of cake. That’s how it worked. So she focused on her breathing, until the panic in her subsided, and she could think clearly again.

She opened her eyes, looked around her. Fact: she had been sent back into the past. How? She didn’t know. Why? She didn’t know. She banished those unanswerable questions from her mind. It wasn’t helpful, thinking about them, it would only be a waste of time. All there was to hang on to was, she had been sent back into the past, into a world where you were still alive. For some reason, someone had decided to give her a second chance. She would be damned before she refused to grab it.

And so she roamed. For months she roamed. She quit her job, sold her house and left.

She roamed desperately, eagerly.

You had never told her where you lived before the Apocalypse. You hated talking about the past, about what was no more, because it made you so sad and so angry. Only the future matters, you would say. My future with you, darling, you would add. Holding her hand, smiling that cheeky, loving smile of yours that had her coming to you running, bursting through her own walls, ignoring every warning from her own mind.

She called hundreds of people, asked hundreds of questions. All she had was your name. In the streets her eyes would fall on someone who looked like you, a stranger who had your eyes, a woman who wore the same perfume as you had. Her hand would close on a shoulder and surprised eyes that weren’t yours would glance at her.

At night in motel rooms she would lie in bed and stare at the ceiling until sleep overtook her. Thinking of the next day’s plan, what she would do, where she would go. One step at a time. She couldn’t let herself think about having you back into her arms. It made her heart race so fast, as if it wanted to leap out of her and jump into your chest and stay there forever.

It no longer was hers at all, that heart. One day she realized it was completely, irrevocably yours. Sometimes she could feel it talk to her in your voice, calling for her, Where are you? Don’t give up on me. Come find me.

She had faith in her capacities. She was a strong, smart, stubborn woman. When she set her mind on something, nothing could stop her from getting it. She had never had anything to lose. Casualties didn’t matter; other people didn’t mean a thing to her. She would crush them under her feet without an ounce of hesitation or regret.

Then one morning she woke up, and in the afternoon she found it. Your name. An address in New Orleans.

The rest happened in flashes. The boarding of the plane, the landing of the plane. The jumping into a taxi and barking your address and clinging to the door handle because if she let go she would fall apart. She threw a wad of money at the taxi driver, forced herself to walk slowly and steadily up the front steps to your building. She knocked on your door.

Her heart in her chest was calling your name with every mad beat and weeping with joy at finally being home.

There was no answer. She knocked again, louder.

Certainly you were out. After ten minutes of waiting with her eyes fixed on the door, she turned around and contemplated her options. She would wait for you to come back home, she decided. But no. She couldn’t. She had to find you now.

She walked slowly and steadily down the front steps, came to a halt on the sidewalk and looked around her. It was the middle of the afternoon, the street was almost deserted. An old woman passed her, walking her dog. Wilhemina decided to go left, towards the city center, where perhaps you were working, or buying groceries, or sipping a drink at a coffee shop.

She walked straight ahead of her, eyes darting from one face to another. Her palms were clammy. She was way too hot. The sun beat down on her restlessly and lit up every face but none was yours.

Walked straight ahead. Crossed a street. Her heart was screaming your name and pulling her forward. Suddenly something told her to turn left. She turned left. A few feet from her there was a small swap shop, and in front of that shop there was a young woman, and that young woman was you.

“Y/N!” Wilhemina called.

Oh, thank all the gods in Heaven, she had found you.

She started running, heart pounding madly in her ears, face beaming, pain shooting down her back but she didn’t even feel it, for there was the sweet taste of happiness in her mouth and it occluded everything else.

“Y/N!” she cried, and this time you heard. You turned, and she was only a few feet away from you, she was just about to reach you and wrap her arms around you and pull you tight and crawl inside you and never let you go. Be happy. Be home at last. She had found you.

She didn’t notice your eyes narrowing in confusion and fear until it was too late. You jumped out of her way and she slammed into the window of the shop.

The shock winded her. She dropped her cane and was about to crash on the ground when one arm around her waist pulled her back on her feet.

“Careful. Are you alright?”

You pressed her cane into her hand, your eyes meeting hers in concern. And she laughed, because you were so beautiful, and she had missed you so much, and you were finally back into her arms and hers again.

“Y/N,” she sobbed, leaning in to kiss you – you put one hand on her chest and pushed her back.

Your touch was like a stab to her heart.

“Do I know you?”you asked. There was wariness in your voice, but your eyes were kind.

“Of course you do,” she scoffed, leaning in again but you removed your arm from around her waist and took a few steps back. You glanced nervously into the shop.

“I’m sorry,” you said, shaking your head and holding out your hands again, as if in surrender. “I’m sorry, but I’ve never seen you before.”

A dog barked, very near and very loud. That was the only reason why you didn’t hear the crack of the world as it shattered all around her.

“It’s not funny, Y/N,” Wilhemina growled, her fingers wrapping around her cane and squeezing.

You glanced into the shop again.

“I really am sorry,” you said slowly, cautiously. “But I think you got the wrong person.”

“Y/N,” she breathed. A whisper. Fear was coursing through her veins and this – this couldn’t be happening.

She had found you.

The door to the shop opened and a blond woman stepped out. You immediately closed the space between her and you and planted yourself at her side. Wilhemina saw your shoulders relax.

“Hey,” the woman smiled; she took your hand. You smiled back at her. Looked into Wilhemina’s eyes, and your gaze was almost defiant.

Wilhemina felt all the air and all the warmth leave her body.

She was sick. Her hand that wasn’t holding her cane pressed against her stomach and she almost bent over to throw up on the pavement.

“Do you need help?” the woman asked. Her voice was kind. Sweet as honey. Just as sweet as the day you had died and she had held Wilhemina’s face and promised her –

Wilhemina couldn’t speak. She gawped at the woman and gawped at you as her heart shattered and the world shattered and tiny pieces of it tore at her skin and crushed her bones.

I’ll find her for you, the woman had said. She had promised.

Wilhemina could have burst out laughing.

“Here, why don’t you sit down, honey. You look pale as death.”

“She claims she knows me,” – your voice, suspicious, distrustful. Sounding exactly like it had the first few days at the Outpost, when she didn’t know you and you didn’t know her, when everyone was a potential threat, when you would cry yourself to sleep and she wasn’t there to wipe your tears yet.

“I do know you,” she heard herself say – why was her voice so weak? She was being a child, she was making a fool of herself in front of a stranger, in a public space, for everyone to see. She couldn’t be weak, couldn’t lose her grip on her emotions like that – she couldn’t, she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t help it.

“I do know you,” she repeated; and this time it was angry. This time her voice growled like thunder and her eyes burnt and her chest ached.

The blonde’s eyes narrowed. She held out a protective hand in front of you – as if Wilhemina could hurt you. The very idea made her want to throw up again.

“I told you I don’t,” you retorted.

Wilhemina tapped her cane against the ground. For she couldn’t be weak. She couldn’t let them see.

Her heart had disappeared. It had been sucked out from her chest. It had left a gaping hole from which pain and terror oozed to spread throughout her body.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” the woman asked, voice still so kind and so sweet it was like a knife stabbing her in her chest over and over again – good thing her chest was empty. There was nothing to kill. “Is there someone we can call?”

“No, I – I’m fine.”

Fight, said a voice in her head. Stay and fight. Claim her back. The voice was adamant and angry. But Wilhemina saw the way you clang to the woman’s hand, the way you touched your shoulder to hers, the way you glanced at her for reassurance. And she saw the suspicion so clear in your eyes when you looked at her. Saw how your face hardened, brow pushing up slightly, body leaning away from her.

Your body had leant away from her when you had first met her at the Outpost. She had explained the house rules to you as you had tried very hard not to cry and every time she would come close to you you would flinch, and your eyes would widen in fear, your hands clench into fists.

She kept her head high. She shot you and the woman a sneering, scornful look. For she was strong. She had to be, or else the pain would sweep her up and throw her defenseless and already wounded right into the mouth of the world. That mouth had fangs. She was well aware of it.

She didn’t plead, she didn’t ask. She didn’t crawl at the woman’s feet sobbing, demanding to know why she remembered and you couldn’t. Demanding she put an end to this torture, free her from this Hell, reduce her to ashes. She didn’t circle her arms around your legs and refuse to let go.

She turned on her heel and managed to take three steps before a sob pushed out of her throat.

“Hey,” you called behind her, “hey, are you okay?”

She shook her head, batting your hand away as it hovered above her shoulders. She had to go or else she would break for all the world to see. She could feel herself losing control, she couldn’t hold the pain in, couldn’t stop it from flowing out and destroying everything like a wounded beast.

This had never happened to her before, not even once. She had no idea how to deal with it.

So she turned, bared her teeth, snapped at you even though she was choking, even though she was breaking and she had lost her heart. Except the words that poured out of her weren’t the ones she had thought in her mind. The words that poured out were “don’t” and “please” and “everywhere for you” and “took a bullet for me!” and “I love you”.

She only stopped because your eyes were wide and pained and she had never meant to hurt you.

She straightened her shoulders. Gripped her cane tight. Glared.

She left.

She was alone, again. And she was unloved, but still in love.

She bit into her fist and screamed.

For months she roamed.

She roamed blindly, carelessly.

She took hours-long walks in the dead of night in the most dangerous parts of cities. She crossed the streets on foot when the pedestrian light was red. Part of her wasn’t even aware she did it. The other part did it over and over again, for it was craving for the end.

The loneliness in her settled in her chest and became a familiar friend. The weight of it was comforting.

Some days she slept. Some days she didn’t.

She would survive, she decided. She had survived so many years on her own and she had been just fine. Nothing had changed. She could still do it. She would do it, because she was strong, and smart, and determined. When she set her mind on something, nothing could stop her from getting it. She would forget you, start a new life, learn how to be alone and fine again.

So she let the loneliness fill the hole inside of her.

She got a new job, bought a new house. One day at the supermarket, a woman flirted with her. A tall, stout, sweet woman with kind eyes and an insolent smile. She asked Wilhemina if she was busy, if she wanted to have a drink. She pretended to accidentally drop her purse so she could brush Wilhemina’s wrist as she bent to pick it up.

Wilhemina felt disgust rise in her throat but her body automatically leaned towards the woman, for her body was starving for touch and warmth. None of that, she ordered herself. She didn’t need touch. She was above those despicable, pitiful human needs. She thrived on loneliness. She hated people. People hated her.

So she gave the woman a look that was so scornful, so condescending – look at you, sad, sad creature – and the woman’s smile cracked and her face hardened.

At work she made somebody cry, and it felt good. It reminded her how weak everyone were, how strong she was.

One night as she couldn’t sleep, she decided to take a short walk in the hope that it would clear her head. A group of men sitting on a porch whistled at her and laughed and called her names. She tightened her grip on her cane, but didn’t stop. There was a bus stop across the street from her, and there was a bus parked in front of it, lights within, people within. The men on the porch stood up, jumped on the sidewalk, followed her. She didn’t cross the street to get onto the bus. She kept on walking, and maybe she slowed down, just a little. Maybe. She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure.

She remembered one night at the Outpost when she had been in pain because of her back, but she hadn’t complained, hadn’t told you because she was strong – one of the men knocked her cane out of her hand and gave her a shove – but you had found out anyway, must have read it on her face or seen it in the way she walked. You had snuggled up to her and stroked her hair, and planted soft, sweet, loving kisses on her collarbone – her face hit the cold ground and she tasted blood. The men jeered, laughed, clapped their hands. – Soft, sweet, loving kisses up her neck, on her chin, on her lower lip, captured her lower lip between yours. And she had turned in your arms and nuzzled your neck and you had let out a fond chuckle, tangling your legs with hers, stroking her arm, saying it would be alright, the pain wouldn’t last.

She didn’t try to get up. She lay on the cold, hard concrete with blood in her mouth but she didn’t weep because she no longer had a heart. She had filled the hole it had left with loneliness. She was doing just fine.

Until one Sunday morning when someone knocked on her front door and when she opened it the blond woman who had promised she would find you was right here on her threshold, meeting her eyes and giving her a smile.

Cordelia – as she introduced herself – said she had come to check on her. She had been worried about her. Wilhemina had looked so distraught when she had left the other day.

If Wilhemina wasn’t so strong and collected, she would have punched the woman right in her sunny face.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped. “Get out of my porch.”

Cordelia cocked her head and Wilhemina’s grip on her cane tightened because the kindness in Cordelia’s eyes did not fade.

“How did you find me?” Wilhemina asked.

Cordelia smiled. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve,” she answered. “May I come in?”

Wilhemina straightened her shoulders. “No, you may not.”

“Fine with me,” Cordelia shrugged. “We can talk on the porch. The weather’s warm.”

So she talked. She explained she had come all the way from New Orleans, where she ran a school for young witches. Witches. Of course. That explained the going back in time, the faint energy that seemed to emanate from this woman and engulf her like an invisible mist. Wilhemina glared at her, keeping her face impassible, trying not to glance down at the woman’s pale neck or slender fingers. Those fingers had felt so warm on her cheeks. Somehow, she remembered exactly the way they had wiped her tears.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she snapped, interrupting Cordelia. “Why are you here?”

“I told you. I wanted to check on you.”A sort of wistfulness fell on Cordelia’s eyes like a veil. “Y/N is worried, too. She wants to see you.”

It wasn’t fair, for Wilhemina no longer had a heart, and yet she ached. The woman was a witch, she reminded herself. Surely she had cast a spell on her. Made her weak.

She wanted to abuse Cordelia and slam the door in her face. Instead the magic – it was the magic, nothing else – made her say, “She does?”

Cordelia nodded, smiling kindly, and extended one hand.

Wilhemina took it.

On the flight to New Orleans she asked Cordelia more questions. Subtle ones, to know if she remembered anything from the Apocalypse. She didn’t. Wilhemina was half convinced she was playing with her. Or maybe she had meant to break her from the start. Maybe the kindness was a façade, and behind it lurked a terrible monster.

Wilhemina tried to find little signs of that monster. She shot Cordelia sideways glances, scrutinized her face. Maybe it hid in the thin lines on her forehead, or in the depth of her eyes, or behind her teeth when she smiled.

The woman was a good actress. Wilhemina didn’t find anything.

The house Cordelia lived in, the school, Robichaux’s Academy, was huge. One of the biggest houses Wilhemina had set foot in. And it was brimming with people. Every corridor and every room was crowded with girls and the girls were laughing, they were chattering, they had stupid, childish faces that wore goofy, innocent smiles.

Cordelia led her down several corridors and Wilhemina walked slowly, regally, keeping her head high and her back ramrod straight. She made sure she looked impressive. She made sure her cane tapped firmly and confidently against the floor.

Cordelia came to a halt in front of a door. She glanced at Wilhemina, then knocked on the door, waited a few seconds, turned the handle, pushed the door open.

Wilhemina decided she wasn’t feeling anything. She looked at you and her eyes were cold and inscrutable.

You stood up from your chair, welcoming her with a smile, and walked over to her and she had to force herself not to meet you halfway.

“Hi,” you said, running one hand in your hair nervously, oh God, just as she had seen you do hundreds and hundreds of times.

Her hands were shaking.

“Hello,” she answered, voice firm and cold, confident, strong.

Silence settled between you. Uncomfortable, terrible. Wilhemina’s mind went blank. She could hear her heart hammering in her ears – but she had no heart, she reminded herself. Silence stretched, until Cordelia cleared her throat.

“Why don’t you two have some tea outside?” she offered. “It’s a beautiful day.”

You let out a breath of relief. “Yes,” you said with a nervous laugh, “yes, good idea. Thank you.”

You led Wilhemina to the kitchen, making small talk, shooting her glances that were half shy, half intrigued. Her gaze drifted from your face to your hands as they put two cups on a tray, a kettle, as they filled the kettle with hot water, on your face again as you opened the box of teabags, on your hair as sunlight fell on it and made it glow.

You carried the tray outside and she followed. Her hands weren’t shaking anymore. Good thing she couldn’t feel anything, she thought.

Like the rest of the house, the garden was alive with girls. Girls reading a book on their own or practicing magic in groups. You selected a table in a corner in the sun, poured the tea, kept on making small talk. Wilhemina hummed, nodded, sometimes shrugged. Her eyes were veiled, unreadable.

“Would you like to spend the night?” you asked her, holding your cup of tea to your mouth, because you enjoyed feeling the warmth on your lips, you had told her once; and once she had rolled her eyes at you and leaned in and replaced the warmth of the tea with the warmth of her mouth.

“I’m taking the night flight home,” she answered coldly.

“Oh.” You made no effort to hide your disappointment. She pretended she didn’t feel joy at that. “Why don’t you stay a few days? It’s a long journey, you must be tired. You could take a break. I’m sure there’s a vacant bed somewhere, or you could –”

“Do you want me to?” she cut you off.

“Want you to stay?” You took a sip of your tea, swallowed. Your eyes avoided hers and focused on a leaf that had fallen on the grass. “I mean, yes.” You glanced up at her, gave her a smile. “I’d love to.”

She nodded. Your smile grew into a beam.

After that, you sank into silence again, but now it was easy. Now it was comfortable. As if ice had melted, and flowers were peeking out.

A few moments passed before you spoke again. “You said I took a bullet for you.” A pause. Your voice was cautious, but curious. You shot her a glance. “What did you mean?”

“I mistook you for someone else,” Wilhemina answered immediately.

“Someone took a bullet for you?” You sat up in your chair, blinking. “Wow. They must have really loved you. How lucky you are.”

For a while you studied her, a dreamy, wistful look in your eyes. Then you asked, very softly, “Did I know you, in another life?”

Wilhemina turned her head away from you. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped – or rather she had meant to snap, but her voice quavered, and her hands were shaking again, and she had finished her tea, so she excused herself. You nodded, eyed her curiously as she stood up.

She walked, slowly, regally, until she found a bathroom. There was a girl inside, doing her make-up; Wilhemina barked at her, ordered her to get out. After the door had slammed shut, she put her hands on either side of the sink and closed her eyes. She took deep, long breaths, until the shaking of her fingers on the cold porcelain subsided.

When she opened her eyes again, they were cold and dry and she congratulated herself. She walked out of the bathroom, sneering at the helpless, foolish girls. Already they knew they had better move out of her way.

During dinner, Cordelia introduced her to the girls. Most of them were ugly, ugly faces and ugly bodies they had tried to make beautiful with foundation and lipstick and pretty dresses. It made Wilhemina feel sick, the fondness in Cordelia’s voice, the way she coated every name with affection and pride. A modern Midas, turning the worthless into the precious.

“And this is Zoe.” Cordelia smiled fondly at one of the oldest girls. “She’s been with us for years now.”

Boring. Wilhemina raised her eyebrows contemptuously.

“And here’s Mary – say hi, Mary – and over there’s Queenie, and on her left, Mallory.”

Mallory. Why did the name sound familiar?

She looked at the girl. The girl looked at her.

Wilhemina grabbed her wrist and pinned her against the wall.

“What did you do?” she hissed in her face. “What the fuck happened?”

She wrapped one hand around Mallory’s throat, but before she had time to squeeze something burnt her fingers and something else pulled her away, hard. And then Cordelia was towering above her, voice cold and eyes flaring, but Wilhemina couldn’t see her very well for the world had turned a bit blurry.

When Cordelia had calmed down, Wilhemina asked to speak with Mallory in private. The girl folded her arms on her chest and stood in front of her without fear, but with a pained sadness in her eyes.

“I don’t know,” Mallory said, shaking her head. “I don’t know why you can remember. I’m sorry.”

“Could Cordelia have cursed me?” Wilhemina hissed.

Mallory frowned. “No. Cordelia would never do such a horrible thing to someone. If she did cast a spell on you, I’m sure she meant well. I’m sorry,” she repeated after a pause.

Wilhemina changed her mind and took the night flight home. Just to prove she didn’t care.

The night after, she went back to the place where the men on the porch had called her names and knocked her cane from her hands. They weren’t there. She waited, hoping they would come, hoping they would kick her ribs broken and destroy her so she could let herself sink into the pain. They didn’t come.

She wandered down back alleys, into all the darkest, narrowest, dirtiest streets. Nothing happened. She wanted to tear off her skin.

The night after that, the men were there. They recognized her. They laughed. Their eyes shone in the dark and their teeth flashed white. They left her coughing out blood and wheezing on the sidewalk, supporting herself on shaky arms. She didn’t weep.

She limped all the way back home, turned the key in her lock, pushed her door open. She didn’t realize the lights were on in her living room until she raised her head and saw Cordelia sitting on her couch.

“What the – “

She jumped, pressing one hand against her chest to calm the mad beating of whatever still beat in it. Cordelia took one look at her and frowned.

“What happened to you?” she asked, standing up and crossing to her.

Wilhemina leaned away from her.

“What are you doing in my house?” she snapped, eyes shooting daggers, but Cordelia didn’t seem fazed at all. She came to a halt mere inches from her and narrowed her eyes as she scrutinized her face. “How did you get in here?”

“Who hurt you?” Cordelia asked. There was an angry fire burning in her eyes that made Wilhemina shiver.

She tightened her grip on her cane, straightened her shoulders and managed not to wince at the pain.

“I’m fine,” Wilhemina snapped.

Cordelia’s eyes locked with hers. So dark and so deep and all she wanted was to curl up inside them and be safe. Wilhemina blinked, raised her chin defiantly.

The fire in Cordelia’s eyes died down and was replaced by concern. She turned, walked to the couch and reached into one of her coat’s pockets, from which she retrieved a small, round box.

She crossed back to Wilhemina and opened the box.

“What’s this?” Wilhemina hissed.

“Healing balm,” Cordelia answered, dipping one finger into the stuff. “One of my sisters made it. I always carry some with me, just in case.”

“I don’t need your help,” Wilhemina said.

Cordelia shot her a look.”Clearly you don’t. Hold still. There’s a nasty cut on – ”

Wilhemina slapped her hand away. “Don’t touch me,” she growled, low and angry.

“This won’t hurt,” Cordelia tried.

“I said, don’t touch me.”

Hesitation flicked across Cordelia’s features. Then she sighed, lowered her hand and wiped her finger on the inside of her wrist.

“Why are you here?” Wilhemina asked her. She didn’t want her here. She wanted her to leave, right now, leave her alone so she could sleep. So she could let the pain wash over her and take her away. She didn’t want to see Cordelia’s stupid face, didn’t want to see her smile, didn’t want to hear her say everything would be alright and there was hope still and other bullshits she was sure Cordelia liked to say.

Cordelia’s brow pushed up in thought. “I’m here,” she said after a pause, “because I know there’s something wrong.”

Wilhemina scoffed. “You mean with me?”

“I think something bad happened to you,” Cordelia said softy, cocking her head and staring into her eyes. “I don’t know what, I don’t know why. But I can feel it, and I want to help.”

“Why?” The words dropped from her mouth. She cleared her throat, said it again, louder, firmer.

“I don’t know,” Cordelia answered. A smile; kind, sad. “I can’t help it. I think we were meant to meet each other, you and I. I think there are forces drawing us towards each other.”

Wilhemina rolled her eyes at her. “I don’t care for your magic tricks,“ she snarled. “I’m perfectly fine.”

Oh, how she wanted to sleep. Make the goddamn woman leave, she prayed silently, to anyone, anything that would hear. Her head was buzzing. She felt her body reel as if she were drunk, as if she were on a boat. Her legs hurt, and she wasn’t sure she could stay on her feet much longer.

Cordelia’s brow furrowed.

“I’m fine,” Wilhemina repeated, tongue too thick, words too slurred – she felt like collapsing into the witch’s arms. Weak, said the voice in her head. So fucking weak.

Wilhemina gritted her teeth. None of that. She would not let this woman, who had taken everything from her, push past her defenses with her kind eyes and her kind smile and her good intentions. She didn’t need help. She had never needed help. She thrived on loneliness, she pushed people away, that’s what she always did, that’s what had made her succeed in life.

“If you’re still here in five seconds I will –” she heard herself snarl, but Cordelia interrupted her.

“Actually, Y/N and I are staying at the hotel down the street.”

“ – beat your brains out, Supreme or n – what?”

Cordelia shrugged innocently. “I’ve been promising her we’d go on a trip together. We figured you could take us on a tour of the city. You know, sightseeing and such.”

Wilhemina couldn’t speak. Her mouth had gone completely dry. She stared at Cordelia as she grabbed her coat and slowly, nonchalantly, put it on. All she could think about was, you were sleeping a few blocks away from her. In the same city. The same street. She didn’t know how to process that information. All she would have to do was walk a few blocks and open a door and you would be there, close enough for her to touch you and hold you and –

Enough, snapped the voice in her head. You weren’t hers anymore. She had lost you. You didn’t even know who she was.

“Tomorrow, 10 am?” Cordelia’s voice brought her back to reality. She met her eyes, blinked.

“I have work,” she said automatically.

“Tomorrow’s Sunday.” Cordelia smiled. “I’ll leave this here,” she said, setting the healing balm on the coffee table. “Just in case. Goodnight.”

Did she hear the door close? She wasn’t sure. For long minutes she stood frozen in the middle of her living room, her legs shaking, her hands shaking, her whole body shaking. She had half a mind to run to the hotel and claim you back. Claim back what was hers. Damn Cordelia’s magic. She had nothing to lose.

But then she remembered. She was better off alone. Loneliness had made her whole again.

She forced her aching body up the stairs and collapsed onto her bed. She didn’t change, didn’t wash off the blood that had dried on her face. She was too tired to move, too tired to do anything but pray for oblivion.

Every muscle in her body was screaming in pain. She focused on the weight in her chest, found comfort and reassurance in its familiarity, in the knowledge that the loneliness would never leave her. She could trust loneliness. Unlike people, it never left her. It never forgot her.

The next morning at 10 am her doorbell rang. She limped to the door and opened it.

Your smile cracked as you took her in.

“Jeez,” you breathed, “you look terrible.”

“You should have used the healing balm,” Cordelia said as way of greeting.

Wilhemina could have slapped her. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and sneered. “I told you I didn’t need it.”

“You obviously do,” you retorted, pushing past her and into her house. “Come on, lie down.”

“Excuse me?” she said with an incredulous laugh.

“I said lie down.” You nodded to the couch. “Don’t make me use force on you.”

She lay down. You dipped your finger into the balm and gently applied it on the cut on Wilhemina’s cheek. The tenderness of your touch made her insides ache.

“Where do you hurt?” you asked.

Wilhemina gritted her teeth, shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said sharply.

You gave her shoulder a gentle slap. “Don’t lie to me. Where do you hurt?”

She scowled at you, swallowed. Kept her mouth shut tight.

“Her ribs,” Cordelia said.

“I don’t –“ Wilhemina started, but you gave her a look and slapped her shoulder again, not hard enough to hurt, but it did silence her.

Your fingers hovered above her ribcage.

“Can I?” you asked her.

She nodded. She didn’t know why. She had never been good at refusing you.

Slowly, carefully, you lifted her shirt. The cold air prickled her skin. You gasped when you saw the bruises that covered her ribs like dead leaves. She averted her eyes from your face and stared darkly at the wall on her left.

You didn’t say anything. You scooped up the healing balm and gently massaged it into her skin. It burnt, but not as much as your touch did. She had to force herself not to break down and sit up and bury herself into you. Your fingers rubbed circles on her skin, between her ribs, on every bruise, your skin molten lava against hers. It seeped into every one of her pore and reduced her bones to ashes. And how she ached. She ached for more, for love and tenderness, for the feeling of your arms holding her and your lips on hers and your heart beating for the two of you.

She clenched her hands into fists to stop herself from pulling you close.

When you were done applying the balm, you met her eyes. Time froze. One of your hands came up to her face to trace the outline of her mouth. She swallowed hard, eyes wide and pleading.

She wanted to be held. It swelled inside her like a tidal wave, that need, violent and wild, she wanted to be held and loved and she wanted the pain and the loneliness to stop.

Shut the fuck up, she ordered herself. Quit being such a child.

Cordelia insisted you postponed the tour of the city and stayed home instead so that Wilhemina could rest. Wilhemina protested. Cordelia narrowed her eyes at her, flicked her fingers.

“Look, it just started to rain anyway,” she said innocently.

So you three stayed home. Made yourselves cozy. Wilhemina scowled as you and Cordelia settled in her house as if it were yours. You wrapped yourself up into a blanket and snuggled up to Cordelia with a happy sigh. You asked Wilhemina questions, about her hobbies, her job, and did she have a sweetheart? Your eyes stuck out above the rim of the blanket, your gaze relaxed and content. Cordelia combed her fingers lazily through your hair, listening to you speak, her eyes sometimes darting to Wilhemina’s face to glance at her thoughtfully.

That night Wilhemina went out and roamed. She walked until her back hurt and she thought her legs would give out. But they didn’t, because she was strong.

A few hours before dawn, she went to bed. She curled up as tight as she could because maybe if she made herself small enough the world would forget about her. She prayed for oblivion, but most of all she prayed for someone to take the loneliness out of her chest and give her back her heart.

And the next morning, Cordelia and you knocked on her door and smiled at her two smiles that were completely different but that both made her chest feel too tight.

Anger swelled into her, for who did you think you were, invading her space, bringing her breakfast and flowers, healing her wounds and asking her questions. So she tapped her cane against the floor and said something mean. Said something meant to hurt, to wipe that smile from your face. Except you rolled your eyes at her, and Cordelia shot her a look, and then you were in her living room and Cordelia was in her kitchen setting the table for breakfast.

And Wilhemina wanted to tear her hair out. She wanted to scream. She didn’t know what to do with all the anger and all the terror and all the pain in her chest. She sneered, and mocked, and snapped, and kept her face as unreadable as ever.

After breakfast, Wilhemina turned her back to you and sat on the couch with a book. She didn’t notice Cordelia staring at her thoughtfully, didn’t see her lean towards you and whisper something in your ear. You nodded, and as Cordelia turned to wash the dishes, you crossed to the couch, sat down on it and nonchalantly touched your shoulder to Wilhemina’s.

Your warmth seeped through her clothes. It hurt and soothed her at the same time. It stole the breath from her and made her throat close up and her whole body tingle and her eyes sting. She froze, blinking back tears, as voices in her head screamed for her to get up, to run, or maybe to grab her cane and smash your head; anything to make the storm in her disappear.

“What are you reading?” you asked, sweetly and innocently, peering at the book on her lap. You leaned forward, chin brushing her arm, and she snapped.

She rose, as calmly as she could, tossed the book at you disdainfully, and busied herself with drying the dishes.

That night when she went out, she found Cordelia sitting on the sidewalk in front of her house. She was dressed all in black, hair glowing in the dim light. Wilhemina came to a halt and looked down on her.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed.

Cordelia shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d take a walk with you.”

Wilhemina could have refused. She chose not to.

For a long time they walked in silence. The night was clear and quiet, stars shining far above their heads, the only sound the steady clinking of Wilhemina’s cane. Cordelia adjusted her pace to Wilhemina’s. She didn’t look at her, didn’t say a thing. She only offered company.

Wilhemina’s feet led them back to the men on the porch. They were there, laughing drunkenly at each other, and they shot her and Cordelia glances as they passed, but they did not call after them, did not mock, did not hurt. Probably they too could feel the power emanating from Cordelia; and some of them bowed their heads in awe as she passed.

When the clock struck two, Cordelia offered to rest on a bench drenched in moonlight. They sat side by side, not touching, not looking at each other. They didn’t speak.

“Do you love her?” Wilhemina asked you.

“Delia?” The mere mention of her name made you beam. “I do. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Turning darkness into light, finding beauty in the ugliest of faces. Of course you loved her.

You cocked your head, glanced at her sideways.

“I like you, too,” you said, with that cheeky smile of yours that never failed to make her insides melt. “That might become a problem.”

“You’re leaving tomorrow,” Wilhemina said matter-of-factly. “Soon enough you’ll forget about me. Here, problem solved.”

“Come with us.”

An incredulous laugh escaped her. “Excuse me?”

“There’s nothing holding you back here,” you said, holding her gaze.

“I have a job,” she hissed. “I have a home.”

“You have a house.” You gave her a smile, but your eyes were serious. “Come with us. We’ll find you a room. Cordelia could need help with the administrative – “

“I said no,” she snapped. “Or maybe you don’t understand that simple word?”

“Why not?” you insisted.

“Because you – “ She cut herself off.

Because you would tear her walls down. Because she had lost you, and she had lost her heart, and she had filled the gap it had left in her chest with loneliness.

Because she hated people, and Cordelia’s school was full of them, full of voices and laughter and the promise of love.

“What are you afraid of?” you asked her.

She scoffed. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Right. So come with us.”

“And settle with a bunch of pubescent fools who think they’re special? I’d rather rot in Hell.”

To her dismay, you laughed. But that shouldn’t have surprised her, really. You’d never been intimated by her snapping.

“To be fair,” you said, smiling at her, “some of the girls are pubescent fools. But they’re all lovely. I’m sure they’ll grow on you. Come on,” you nudged her arm, “move in with us.”

“I don’t want to,” she snapped.

And so, and so – you and Cordelia stood before her front door, saying their goodbyes. And when she glanced on the left, Wilhemina saw the loneliness waiting to slam the door shut and throw its fists on her face. It was a monster, and its ugly smile stole the breath from her. It made her shake, it reopened all the wounds the balm had soothed.

Cordelia followed her gaze but saw nothing.

“Well, then,” you said uneasily. “Feel free to come visit us sometimes.”

You hesitated, then leaned forward and planted a kiss on her cheek.

Suddenly Wilhemina wasn’t in her house anymore. She was at the Outpost, sitting on a chair before a roaring fire, telling you about her plans for the future, and you leaned forward and planted a kiss on her cheek. Before she knew what she was doing, she tilted her head and touched her mouth to yours.

That had been the first kiss she had shared with you. Back when she still had a heart, and it had swelled and sang, and she had pulled away trembling because she’d expected you to laugh, to say, Poor thing, but instead you had smiled lovingly at her and whispered –

“Mina?”

– Mina.

She drew in a shaky breath and realized she was crying.

A thumb on her cheek caught her tears. “Are you alright? Did I hurt you?” Your eyes, wide and full of worry. She shook her head, stifling a sob.

“I’m fine,” she said. Her voice was too raspy, so she cleared her throat. Straightened her shoulders, sniffled, tried to scowl.

“When did that happen?” Cordelia’s eyes were wide and – and was that tears in them?

“Excuse me?”Wilhemina asked.

“When did that happen?” Cordelia repeated. “The kiss? By the fireplace? When did you…“ Her voice trailed off.

Fear washed over Wilhemina. She had to fight the impulse to make herself small. Your eyes darted from her face to Cordelia’s as you tried to understand what was happening.

“What kiss?” you frowned. “What are you talking about, Delia?”

But Cordelia wasn’t looking at you. Her brow pushed up as understanding flicked across her face, and Wilhemina… she couldn’t breathe. She dug her nails into her arms, needing pain to anchor herself to, because she was falling apart. She was losing her defenses.

Cordelia couldn’t know. Oh God please, she couldn’t know. She couldn’t see her bare and bruised. She had no right to know about her failure. This was all her fault, she had no right to bask in her pain and point a finger at her and laugh.

Wilhemina tried to keep her mind blank, but images of you and her filed before her eyes, bright as fireworks. You and her. Moments of intimacy, moments of vulnerability, secrets whispered in the dark, smiles exchanged by candlelight, moments of trust and love she would never forget. She tried to fight it, but something – something like magic – seeped into her brain and raked it, searching every corner, blowing on the dust, demanding to know. Oh God, Cordelia couldn’t know.

Cordelia didn’t laugh. Her face fell, and the tears spilled from her eyes. “Oh my God,” she breathed.

The monster by the door came at Wilhemina’s rescue. It jumped on her and freed her throat so that she could scream, “Leave me alone.”

You took a step towards her but Cordelia called your name. Shook her head. The sadness in her eyes seemed to engulf her whole face.

“But I – “you started.

“Don’t,” Cordelia breathed. “Come on, love. Let’s do what she wants.”

You hesitated. But Cordelia was the Supreme, and you trusted her, and you loved her, and you would follow her to the end of the Earth. So, slowly, you turned around, and Wilhemina watched as you left and softly closed the door behind you. The light from outside was blocked.

The monster laughed and smashed Wilhemina’s head in.

The great thing about routine was, it helped Wilhemina keep a firm grip on her thoughts. No surprises, no great worries. Every day was the same. She would wake up at the same hour, go to work, go back home, sleep or roam the streets. Her work was demanding, and it kept her busy. She sank into routine like some people sink into alcohol. For relief.

Her new boss wasn’t exactly the brightest of women, but she was more competent than Jeff and Mutt had been. And more importantly, she didn’t give a damn how Wilhemina treated her other employees.

Abusing them was Wilhemina’s outlet for all the emotions she didn’t allow herself to feel. Every day she would remind them how strong she was, how weak and stupid they were. Every day she would hate them because it was easier than to let her own self-hatred consume her. They did not deserve her, she sneered, to silence the voice in her head that said she did not deserve them.

One afternoon she made a young woman cry. The noises that woman made as she sobbed and gasped sounded exactly the same as those that would tear their way out of Wilhemina’s throat when she would wake up, drenched in sweat and tears, in the middle of the night, from a nightmare in which she had seen you die in her arms again.

One week after you left, Wilhemina received a letter from Cordelia. It was short and kind, an apology. Wilhemina rolled her eyes as she read it. Then she read the last line: I can make you forget, if you think that could help.

She thought about it. Forgetting you and everything that had happened would indeed help her. She would be able to focus on herself again, focus on her work instead of spending every minute of every day trying not to think about you. She would be able to start a new life, and forget that she had ever been weak at all.

But forgetting you? Forgetting how it had felt to love and be loved? To be seen, fully, the ugly and the beautiful, the wisdom and the foolishness, and yet still cherished and treasured?

She didn’t know. She thought she’d rather not forget you. Besides, she was fine now.

The day after she received Cordelia’s letter, she received another one. From you. Her fingers shook as she opened the envelope and read the single sentence: My offer still stands.

She had fought you at the Outpost, too. At first she had refused to let you in, refused to believe you could mean well. She pushed you away, over and over again. But you must have seen something in her that was beautiful and rare, for you kept coming back. Until one day, the day that had led to that first kiss shared before the fireplace, when you had met her in a corridor and said, “Why don’t you come to my room tonight?”

She had come to a halt and glared. “I think you forgot the rules, Y/N.”

“But rules are meant to be broken,” you had retorted without missing a beat, that cheeky smile of yours creeping up your lips. “Come on,” you had whispered, and you had leaned in and brushed her wrist.

Her heart, that she still had at the time, had bloomed in her chest.

But she had glared, and kept silent, so you had shrugged and made to walk off, but before that you had flashed her a smile and said, “If you change your mind, my offer still stands.”

Wilhemina read that single sentence over and over again. Something new grew in her chest and wrapped around it like ivy. Hope. It was hope.

She wiped her eyes, looked around her as if she didn’t know where she was.

She had no idea whether Cordelia had told you what she had seen. The thought terrified her. Because she knew you, and she knew you would feel like you had to be with her. You would pity her, and she didn’t want your pity.

But then again, Cordelia had offered to make her forget. Telling you would make no sense then.

It’s not weakness, she told the voice in her head, if I go there to claim her mine. If I decide to wreak havoc, to break Cordelia’s heart, what if I killed her, Wilhemina snarled, louder than the voice, what if I killed her like I killed those morons at the Outpost? Would I be weak, then?

She packed a bag. Or rather, the hope in her chest packed a bag, jumped on a taxi, jumped on a plane. The hope in her chest watched the sky through the small window and the wisps of clouds and pounded in her ears.

Somehow she remembered exactly the way from the airport to Robichaux’s Academy. The sun was burning her face and blinding her as she shakily climbed the front steps. She snapped at the boy who let her in, demanded he led her to you. The boy hesitated, looked around for help, but there was no one else in the hall. Wilhemina took one step closer to him and he deflated.

A corridor. A door. A room, you sitting at a desk, peering up at her. The hope, pounding in her ears.

You stood up with a grin and made for her.

She would be strong, she decided. She was strong. She would keep her face unreadable, and she would glare, tap her cane on the floor, look down on you. She would say something mean and sneer.

She collapsed into your arms with a strangled cry.

You blinked in surprise, wrapped your arms around her waist to support her. Brought a hand up to tangle in her hair as she clutched your shirt in her fists and forced herself to take a breath in, and then she let out another cry for you smelled exactly as she remembered.

“Hey,” you whispered. You tightened your grip on her as a sob pushed up her throat. “I’m so glad you’re here.” A pause. “I missed you.”

The noise that dropped from Wilhemina’s mouth couldn’t possibly have been made by her. It was too sad, too broken, too needy. It terrified her.

She made to pull away, leave the room and never come back, but you pressed her closer into you and dropped a kiss on her hair.

So she stopped fighting. Instead, she gave in to hope. She let it swell in her chest and warm her up from the inside out, soothing some of the pain and adding more to it. She tucked her nose against your neck and breathed you in.

It could have been hours, it could have been minutes, as she stood shaking in your arms and you stroked her hair and waited patiently for her to collect herself.

When you met her eyes again they were rimmed red, and her cheeks were burning when you kissed her tears away. She took a sharp intake of breath, seemed to freeze against you. You gave her a smile, cupped her face, dropped a soft kiss on her brow, the tip of her nose, her lower lip. You pulled away and gave her another smile.

“When did you arrive here?” you asked her gently. She didn’t answer, only stared at you as if she couldn’t believe you were real. “You must be tired,” you went on. It wasn’t a question. She didn’t deny it.

You took her hand and led her to your bed. “Come on, lie down. Close your eyes for a bit.”

“No, I –“ She shook her head, swallowed. “I’m fine. I’m not tired.”

You gave her a look. Thought of another strategy. “Well, the truth is, just before you arrived I decided I’d take a nap. But it would be rude to leave you alone since you flew across the country just to see me. So please, don’t make me feel uncomfortable, and lie down.”

For a second you thought she would refuse. But then, to your great relief, she sat down on the bed. She waited for you to do the same.

She lay on her back, folded her hands on her chest and stared at the ceiling. You smiled even though she couldn’t see you, half amused, half fond. You turned on your side, watched her profile, admired the swell of her cheek and the line of her nose.

Wilhemina had not felt so alive in months. Every nerve in her body was set on fire, fingers twitching on her chest, wanting nothing more than to reach out and touch you. Wanting nothing more than to be held. Her skin had been haunted by the memory of your warmth and now she was pretty sure she would die if she could not feel it again.

She would never be able to move on, she realised. She didn’t want to. Why couldn’t she just close her eyes, and when she opened them again find herself back at the Outpost, with your lips on her lips and you remembering her, remembering that you loved and wanted her, that you had planned a bright future with her in it. That one day you had looked into her eyes and said you did not want a future if you could not have her.

Her throat tightened painfully. Tears sprang to her eyes again. She sniffed, blinked them back angrily.

Your breath out, your breath in. She could hear everything. The soft rustle of the sheet as you moved your foot. Were you asleep? She couldn’t see your face out of the corner of her eye. She would have to turn her head, look at you, take the risk of meeting your eyes. She couldn’t meet your eyes. Then you would see the unshed tears and the weakness.

She heard you shift, felt your arm drape lazily over her stomach. She forgot how to breathe.

You pulled her to you, giving her a squeeze, pushing your face against her neck and nuzzling her skin. “You know I really meant it,” you whispered. You dropped a kiss on her skin, just below her jaw. “I missed you. So did Delia. Please stay.”

Another kiss on her skin. Closer to her mouth. Wilhemina’s chest and throat felt so tight, too tight, she couldn’t breathe. The ceiling swam before her eyes. She bit the inside of her cheek, ordering herself not to cry, ordering herself to keep it together, just keep it together you fucking worthless piece of shit. She felt warmth on her chin where your fingers touched her, tilting her head so your mouth could meet hers.

She sobbed into the kiss. She tried to move her lips to kiss you back, but they quivered and parted on yet another sob that hurt her chest. You made to pull away to let her breathe, and she whimpered, pulled you back against her, pressed her forehead against your chest and choked and panted as she forced herself to stifle her sobs.

It hurt her whole body, it made her head throb, but she successfully held back any subsequent signs of weakness. No other sob or tear escaped her. When she had regained complete control of herself, she counted to ten and pulled away.

You stared at her worriedly, searching her face for any sign that could help you understand what had just happened. After a minute or two, you gave up.

Cordelia came back shortly after five. When she saw Wilhemina, she shot her a smile that shone brighter than the sun and made Wilhemina weak in the knees. Cordelia pulled her into a hug, warm and firm, and Wilhemina told herself she didn’t feel anything. Didn’t feel the way her heart – but she had lost her heart, all that was left was a pump that sometimes beat too fast – the way that pump fluttered, the way her skin tingled under Cordelia’s touch as she gently stroked the nape of her neck.

When Cordelia pulled back, her face bright as the first day of summer, eyes shining and smile beaming, Wilhemina forgot what she had meant to say and almost asked for another hug. Almost. She silenced the thought before it had time to leave her mouth.

Cordelia asked her a million annoying questions, such as, how was her trip, was she tired, was she hungry, had she eaten something since she arrived? She made her tea, which she insisted she drank, and that tea had to be magic for it filled Wilhemina with warmth and peace.

Then you grabbed Wilhemina’s hand and took her on a tour of the house. Cordelia followed you, offering smiles like flowers to her girls, laughing at what one of them said, frowning in sympathy at another’s woeful tale. You showed Wilhemina the classrooms, the piano room, the garden, the greenhouse. Wilhemina scowled at how messy the place was, nose crinkling in contempt. She snapped at one of the girls who came too close to her, glared when the girl told her to “chill”, and was about to call her names and let her know her mind when you rolled your eyes at her, smiling lovingly. Something in her relaxed, and her gaze softened.

A bed in a spare room was made for her. When it was time to sleep, you lingered in her door, making small talk, not quite daring to meet her eyes. She had rarely seen you act shy before. She sat on the bed, one hand holding her cane, the other resting on the sheet, palm up. She couldn’t stop her fingers from twitching.

Your gaze fell on her hand. For a second or two, you seemed to hesitate. Bit your lip. Met her eyes, and wondered at the sadness so wide you could see in them. Then she raised her chin and said goodnight.

Wilhemina announced she would stay one week and not a day more. You tried to convince her to stay longer, told her that spare room was hers if she wanted to. She wouldn’t hear of it.

It was a strange, peaceful week. You spent every minute of your spare time with Wilhemina, and Cordelia joined you in the evenings. When it was just you and her, you would take walks through the city, show her all your favorite places. Wilhemina would listen with attention and ask questions and sometimes she would smile. Sometimes, when you would glance at her when she thought you were not looking, you would see that sadness that seemed to darken her eyes, and you would wonder. Once you reached out and cupped her cheek, to try and see if touch would make it go away. It didn’t, not entirely, but part of it faded, and light sparkled instead.

When Cordelia joined you, something would wake up in Wilhemina and she would be snarkier, meaner, sometimes even cruel. All her negativity bounced off Cordelia and fell at her feet. The more Wilhemina snarled, the kinder Cordelia grew. It was a strategy you had seen her use with other people before, and it had always worked. Cordelia’s light would find its way through the small, almost invisible gaps in the other person’s armor and cling to them and refuse to let go.

You watched as Wilhemina fought and resisted and refused to yield. She was stubborn. But so was Cordelia.

One night you woke up to an empty bed. It was pitch black outside, no moon, no stars. Thinking maybe one of the girls had required Cordelia’s assistance, you got up, walked down the corridor towards the light you could see shining through the music room’s door.

Soft voices reached your ears, so you came to a halt before the door and peeked inside.

Cordelia and Wilhemina were sitting on the couch, side by side. Wilhemina had both her hands resting on her lap, and Cordelia had draped one arm over her shoulders. Wilhemina’s head rested on Cordelia’s shoulder.

You gawped at them. You didn’t know what you had expected to see, but certainly not that.

They were whispering to each other. Cordelia’s eyes were soft and sad, Wilhemina’s face as inscrutable as ever. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it seemed to you Cordelia was asking questions, which Wilhemina sometimes answered, sometimes shrugged off. At one point she rubbed her cheek on Cordelia’s shoulder, and Cordelia tightened her grip on her and pulled her closer.

You watched them for a few minutes, until Wilhemina’s façade crumbled. Her face softened and her eyes became vulnerable. So then you tip-toed back to your room, not wanting to be disrespectful, to spy on an intimate moment you had no right to witness. You slipped between the sheets, hugged Cordelia’s pillow, and smiled.

It seemed to you things changed after that night. It wasn’t a revolution, it wasn’t an earthquake that changed the surface of the Earth; but small things, like waking up one morning and noticing the roses outside have bloomed. Spotting the fragments of eggshells on the ground at the foot of the tree where the couple of birds had built their nest.

Wilhemina still threw snarky and mean remarks at Cordelia. But her eyes were kinder, less guarded. And when Cordelia poked her on the stomach once, she leaned towards her instead of away.

When the week came to an end, it wasn’t you who asked Wilhemina to stay. It was Cordelia. She sat Wilhemina down on the couch, kneeled in front of her and took her hand, as a mother would with a child. Wilhemina raised her chin defiantly and contemptuously at her behavior. She was about to say something, but Cordelia spoke first.

She said she loved having Wilhemina around. She said she could use an extra pair of hands to help with all the administrative tasks. She said you and her were not exclusive, and here you added that indeed you were not, and it would make you happy if Wilhemina decided to stay.

Wilhemina’s eyes drifted from Cordelia’s face to yours, dubious and sad, and again you wondered where all that sadness had come from.

Cordelia brought a hand up to cup Wilhemina’s cheek. She smiled, and said Wilhemina didn’t have to be alone anymore.

You lay your hand on Wilhemina’s shoulder. She titled her head up to meet your eyes, swallowed.

So, warily, she took a piece of the loneliness out of her chest and replaced it with a piece of you. The weight inside her shifted, changed. It didn’t feel lighter, it didn’t feel heavier either. But something changed. The texture, maybe, or the taste of it.

She had done it before. It was easy to do it again.

And then, she turned to Cordelia and locked eyes with hers. She hesitated. Should she? She hated people, she reminded herself. People hated her. Her gaze hardened. But Cordelia smiled, and her smile was kind, and it told her she wouldn’t hurt her. And Wilhemina believed her.

So she, very, very warily, took another piece of the loneliness out of her chest and replaced it with a piece of Cordelia. She almost expected it to burn her and destroy her from the inside out. Like a booby-trapped car, pieces of her flying everywhere in the sky. But instead it glowed. Instead it was warm, and it brought her peace.

The three pieces inside of her, the one that was yours, the one that was Cordelia’s, and the loneliness, shifted and tugged until they found their place, like pieces of a puzzle coming together.

And so she wept.

Her chin pressed into her chest and her shoulders shook as she wept for what she had lost. For her heart that was no more and the loneliness that had made her whole again and the love that had found her when she had lost hope. You snuggled up to her and Cordelia held her hand, chin trembling, thumb rubbing Wilhemina’s knuckles. You tangled your fingers in Wilhemina’s hair and cradled her head in your hand.

You held her as she wept, whispered words of comfort. She shivered when you pressed your chest against hers. One of her hands slipped between you and her to push against your ribs. She splayed out her fingers, pressed her palm against you to feel the steady beat of your heart. You planted kisses on her forehead, on her trembling eyelids. You planted a kiss on her cheek, and she let out a gasp, tilted her head, and touched her mouth to yours.

Tag list: @sapphicsarahpaulson @mssallymckenna @supremeinlilac @pluied-ete

#ahs #ahs imagines #sarah paulson #sarah paulson x reader #wilhemina venable x reader #wilhemina venable #cordelia goode x reader #cordelia goode #whilemina venable x cordelia goode x reader #fics

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