'til Death [Clover]

[Jesse Fforde]

BACKDATED: October 30th, 2016
___________________________

J E S S E . F F O R D E
Jesse couldn’t remember a time that he’d come back from the dead without someone there to greet him. He woke up, naked and cold on the bank on the river. This was one of the first times in a long time that he’d been as eager to return – radio silence from everybody above ground was a special kind of torture. Maybe the haste was what threw off his landing. He’d expected the morgue. He got the river instead.

There was no one waiting there with a tome. With clothes, or a welcome back. Jesse stood and stretched, before looking over his shoulder. Bells rang at the docks, the seaport nearby. Not only had he not woken up in the morgue, he was on the other side of the Quarantine Zone. At least he wasn’t inside. At least he didn’t have to go trekking through the sewers. He couldn’t be bitter. He was probably expected to wake up in the morgue.

Without any shame, Jesse clambered up the bank and out onto the street. His hair was ruffled and mud smeared over his inked skin. He had to walk past the docks, past the market, past several workers and couples and shoppers and revellers. People out and about doing their thin, not knowing whether to get as far away from the naked man as possible or openly stare at his brazen insanity. He did his best to tip his invisible hat – to even wink. If he walked fast, it wasn’t because he was naked, or that it was cold. It was because he was eager to get back to his people. To Clover.

When he stepped into the arboretum that made up the ground floor of the lair, he almost expected to be barraged with bullets and darts, poison, or even trapped in a cage. But there was nothing. Even when he took the elevator down, in limbo, he realised that the place was blissfully clear. No more traps. What did that mean?

He went straight to the apartment. Clover wasn’t there either. He went to the room and pulled on some pants and circled the place, warily. He didn’t find the note. Although he saw it, he didn’t read it. It didn’t cross his mind to. Instead, he focused on his wife. He wrapped the tendrils of his mind around the substance of her, and he tugged, summoning her to his side.



C L O V E R
He'd left her, and she hadn't forgiven him. She refused to count the number of days that had passed. She refused to go back into their home. Clover wanted to carve that part of herself out and leave it in the sun to burn. That anger, the anger that had poisoned her, had been the reason for the letter. She wanted him to feel exactly what she felt, and she meant to go to the greatest lengths imaginable just to cause him such pain. If that were the truth, she would have slipped her ring into the letter. If that were the truth, she would have moved her belongings from their home.

How close had she been to making the worst decision of her life? Inches. Seconds. Her blind fury had almost ruined them. But she'd had control enough to pack a bag and leave, rather than destroy the entire apartment. Clo had refrained from bathing the floor in broken glass and ripped linen. Her ring remained on her finger; the anger remained in the pit of her stomach. Why had he left her? Why had he thought it a brilliant plan to abandon his wife? Had he even been thinking? The fact that she couldn't answer those questions drove her mad.

Days later, she still felt the same way. She wanted to march back into the apartment, grab his belongings, and set fire to each and everything he owned, starting with his clothing and ending with the entire lair. Clo didn't do well with rejection, and that's how it felt. His letter made her feel as if he'd written her off, rejected her in the worst way imaginable. She wasn't important enough. She wasn't worthy enough. And so her written response had been aimed at making him feel the same.

Even dead, Jesse held control over her. Everything she did revolved around the lair that they shared. As she tightened the last screw on her second bear trap of the evening, she came to the conclusion that she was punishing herself more than punishing him. She'd left the home to escape the thoughts and memories, but they'd followed her right to Kenny’s. It wasn’t her first night coming to the realization, but every night, every single one, felt just as bad as the first. He was winning, and she hated losing.

The tug she felt had her gripping at the edges of the crafting table, but her strongest grip wasn’t enough. He’d summoned her. Even after she’d left him the letter telling him not to summon her, he’d summoned her. He never listened to her. As soon as she was in the apartment, she wanted to punch him, to do anything other than welcome him back.

“I specifically told you not to summon me, and you summoned me. I put it right near the bottom of the letter,” she instantly began, crossing her arms over her chest to try and contain her growing anger.



J E S S E . F F O R D E
Jesse’s arms were open. He was ready to pull his wife into a warm embrace – warm, even though their two bodies were cold. And yet, the reception that he received was as cold as ice, as cold as the snow that would soon start to fall outside. Winter was coming, though in this room, with this woman, he felt like it was already here.

Whatever relief and happiness Jesse felt at seeing Clover alive and well and thriving could only hold on because she wasn’t ranting about ten dozen other disasters that had befallen her and their lot in his absence. It didn’t mean that nothing had happened, but at least it meant it couldn’t have been too important. Although he knew he’d probably be punished for laughing, he couldn’t help himself. It bubbled in his throat as he shook his head, arms dropped uselessly to his sides.

“Letter? I didn’t read it. Didn’t think to. Figured I’d read it if you couldn’t be summoned,” he said, and then gestured to her form as she stood so steadfast in front of him. Yes, she was angry. She was furious – deep down, Jesse had to admit that he already knew. How could he not? She had the ability to visit him, and yet she had stayed away. He’d not seen hide nor hair of her the entire week. But, he did see that ring on her finger, and besides…

“… you still trust me, Clover. If you really didn’t want to be summoned, I wouldn’t have been able to,” he said. There were people he’d tried to summon in the past to no avail. It was a good thing, he supposed – if people could summon their enemies, combat would be an entirely different state of affairs. People would be more cowardly and dishonourable than they already were.

“Where were you? What’s happening?” he asked, hands lifting to rub at her upper arms. He couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help but give in to that need to touch her.



C L O V E R
His laughter stabbed her in the gut, but so did his admission that he hadn’t read the letter. Clo felt the overwhelming desire to physically assault him. She didn’t have her gun or a knife on hand. She hadn’t even thought to grip her screwdriver and wield it as a weapon. No, she stood before him, weaponless and enraged. Everything about him made it worse. His face. His voice. His presence. Clover wanted him dead again, and she wanted the opportunity to put him in the realm herself.

The more he spoke, the more she visibly recoiled. He touched her and she glared at him. At that point, she didn’t even need to think of justifications for her reactions. She felt the anger, and she acted on the anger. “You left me. You decided it was a great idea to run off and die. I needed help, and you weren’t here.”

Curse words. There were so many curse words that came to mind, and she wanted to blurt them out in run-on sentences. Did she trust him? Did she want to be summoned, despite telling him the opposite? How did someone just refuse a summoning? Clover’s glare softened and she simply frowned at him. Her expression might have made him think his touch had finally worked, that he’d finally cracked her hard exterior and reached a point where they could just enjoy one another’s company. That wasn’t true.

“I packed some of my **** and went to stay at Kenny’s. It was leave or destroy everything you own,” she admitted. There was a quick shrug of her shoulders, and then dropped her arms to her sides. Her next words were just as straightforward. “I also thought about killing you. That’s still an option, especially if you refuse to listen to me.”



J E S S E . F F O R D E
Jesse shook his head. Clover had the gall to be angry at Jesse for summoning her when she’d told him not to, but she’d left when he’d asked her not to. She’d left, but it was only anger. It was classic Clover anger, and he’d got through to her before. He’d got past her anger before, he’d got around it. He’d coaxed it out of her, he’d let her take it out on him. Was this going to be a theme, every time he came back from the dead? Stabbed and shot and… now what? What was she doing to hit him with next?

His arms crossed over his chest. It looked like there’d be no affection. There’d only be arguing. He didn’t want to argue. He wanted to talk like a reasonable adult. And so he took a deep breath and he fought hard to keep his temperamental nature at bay.

“No. I was fit and healthy and at my peak. I left the letter in case, because I knew that Doc was not there alone. Against Doc, and Doc alone, I actually thought that I would win. I am ashamed to admit that I did not,” he said, slowly. Calmly. He narrowed his eyes and licked his lips, considering.

“I was sick of sitting around and doing nothing. You were killed, and I just sat here. Everyone else was being attacked, and I just sat here. You know how frustrating that is? Asking them to come out and face me, to duel honourably, only to have them decline and hide behind their brick walls where I couldn’t find them, or get to them. And finally, finally I got an opportunity. It was bad timing, but I took it. This isn’t the first time you’ve been dead, you’ve come back before. Why did you need me so much this time, compared to the other times? What’s happened?” he asked.

Something must have happened. There had to have been developments that Clover was not telling him about. There had to be some other reason that she was acting this way. Surely, right?



C L O V E R
Clover understood arguing. She loved verbal exchanges above all else, especially when the heated conversations rose and fell, mimicking ocean tides. Where she wanted to argue with Jesse, she just wanted to scream, to say and do things that made no sense. The type of argument she wanted would have resulted in no gain. They would have been at each other’s throats for hours, maybe even days, and Clo still wouldn’t have felt understood. Instead of raising his voice, he spoke in what she might have considered a calm manner. He was trying too hard. They were both trying way too hard.

Jesse made sense, and Clover hated when he made sense. When he made sense, she made no sense. They couldn’t both make sense. But she refused to surrender, to give in to the possibility that he was right and she was wrong. When he spoke about her death, she sucked in a breath and averted her eyes, refusing to look at him. Instead, she found something interesting in the corner of the room. She didn’t want to think about her time in the shadow realm; she didn’t want to remember the many lonely hours she spent in that wasteland.

“The wounds weren’t healing,” she muttered, her voice barely audible. “I had five bullets buried in my ******* skull. One, two, three, four, five--in succession. I came back thinking I’d have some help, but no. You went out chasing a possibility of success. If I would have known, I wouldn’t have bothered to come back. I wouldn’t have left Raven to come back to you. I would have stayed there with her and been there for her. Because what’s the difference when I’m ******* alone!”

She pronounced the last word with a stomp of her foot, as if that made everything more understandable. Clo had been angry with herself for leaving Raven, angry with herself for trusting Jesse to be there. There were accusations of selfishness, but the same could have been applied to her. Instead, she let out a long sigh and allowed her shoulders to droop.

“You admit it was bad timing, but you didn’t care. All you cared about was the possibility. You had a chance. I came back to you, but you were gone. I tried summoning you, but you were gone. We’re never on the same page, Jesse. I get a note? That’s all I get? I don’t even know what else to say, because I just want to scream obscenities at you until you get the message. You let me down.”



J E S S E . F F O R D E
There were plenty of reactions that immediately rose to the service, but Jesse had rarely been an impulsive speaker. So many years with no speech at all, he had always had plenty of time to think about what he would say, if he could. It served its purpose now, that ability to stop and think. His first reaction was defence. He heard those words, that she could even think about not coming back, that she would have stayed dead, that Raven was more important to her. The latter might not have been true, but it’s what he heard. And yet, it’s not what he responded to.

“I’m sorry. But was your mission any less suicidal? You went for her and I didn’t stop you. You convinced me to let you, and I’d have done the same thing but you weren’t here. Because I’d let do what you thought you needed to do. Because that’s what this relationship is supposed to be, isn’t it? We give as much as we take?” he asked, releasing a heavy breath in a sigh, shaking his head as he stepped back. He needed space. Arguments weren’t his forte. He liked to shut down and walk, he liked to close himself off until he’d had enough time to calm down and think about it. Space, in the very least, was a requirement.

“You aren’t a kid. You don’t need me to coddle you, do you? You have the ability to draw spirits to you, same as I do. You have the ability to heal yourself, same as I do,” he said, spreading his arms wide to glance down at his own body. It was relatively wound free, except for a reddish scar over his heart that was merely hours away from healing. Nearly good as new.

“I’m sorry that I expected that you would come back mostly wound free, as I generally do. I’m so very sorry, Clover, that I thought you would be able to take care of yourself. But, if I’d thought that you’d be in such dire need of help that you wouldn’t allow me to feel useful, wouldn’t allow me to do something when everyone in this ‘family’ was being slaughtered because of something I had done? Should I have just stayed here to become your nurse, Clover? To be everything that they accuse me of being? To be as dishonourable and worthless as they are?” he stopped.

So much for taking his time, and thinking before speaking. He sucked in a breath.

“I love you. You are my wife. I did not intend to abandon you, but thank you for letting me know that you’d so quickly abandon me,” he said. He wanted to walk away. He wanted to slam a door. He wanted to flip a table and smash a lamp against a wall. But he didn’t. He stood his ground.



C L O V E R
Just as she’d feared, he wasn’t listening. He didn’t understand. Maybe she wasn’t communicating properly, or maybe her arguments made no sense at all. Whenever he made her doubt herself, she knew she was pulling away. Every violent thought dispersed, replaced by the same poisonous doubt. He knew exactly where to shove the knife, and she couldn’t take it anymore. He loved her, but he wasn’t listening. He loved her, but he wasn’t understanding. And suddenly, it was all her fault.

Normally, she would have picked his words apart. She would have allowed the anger to further fester and rot her insides. But then, faced with his words and his mere presence, she folded like a cheap suit. The thought of apologizing came to mind, but she wasn’t sorry. She wasn’t sorry that she reacted in such a way. She wasn’t sorry that she ran off. She was sorry that he couldn’t put himself in her shoes.

“You’re right,” she laughed, a bitter surrender to his words. “I can and will take care of myself. It’s my fault for thinking this marriage was a partnership and that I could rely on you. I don’t need you to hold my hand. For five ******* seconds, I thought you might want to. I’m sorry I assumed. If we’re trading insincere apologies, you have mine.”

There was a moment when she wanted to just stop herself and say exactly what crossed her mind. She was done. She was done with accusing and done with arguing. Clo just wanted to deliver the traps she’d been working so hard to build and leave. Again. She wanted to run away and hide, like a big coward, because life had become too difficult to bear. Maybe arguing wasn’t as fun as she imagined, or as she remembered.

“I’m done,” she sighed, finally relying on her gut instinct. “I don’t want to argue with you. This time, it’s making things worse.” Clover pressed her hands to her face and groaned, entirely unsure of what to say next. Was she supposed to say she wanted to get more of her things? No. Was she supposed to say she missed him? Probably not. What was she supposed to say? When she pulled her hands from her face, she just stared at him.

Clo couldn’t be bothered to reply to the I love you thrown out between other sentences. Of course she loved him, but she was exhausted. She couldn’t help but regret giving in to the pulling sensation associated with a summoning. What if she’d simply ignored him?

“I was there for you. I was holding your hand. I was watching you cry. I was there. I dropped **** for you. You always come first. It’s okay if it’s you. It’s fine when it’s you,” she said. “Just forget it.”



J E S S E . F F O R D E
The words hit him like a ton of bricks. No, like ten thousand tons, not all at once but in a wave. A tidal wave of blunt objects pummelling him head to toe and back again, threatening to crush him or send him tumbling over a cliff. It was a strange sensation, the way he still stood his ground but managed, in some form, to give way. The wall that his arms had formed dropped from his chest, and if he thought that Clover would have welcomed it, if he didn’t think it’d earn him a sharp slap to the face, he’d have cradled her jaw in his palms and kissed her.

Because so often, he relied on actions to speak for him. So often, he couldn’t think of the words, or the words that he finally decided upon weren’t enough, or only made things worse. What Jesse had always had was pride, and he didn’t like to admit when he was wrong. He didn’t like to admit that he’d done something wrong, or that he’d done something stupid, idiotic, reckless. He didn’t like being spoken down to, and his defensive mechanism was sarcasm and distance. The disapproval of others were only sparks to start a raging bushfire.

If it were anyone else, Jesse might have just scoffed and left regardless of whether he thought he was right or wrong. But it was Clover’s very words that kept him glued to the spot, like roots tangled around his limbs and holding him tight.

“No,” he said. The word scraped over his tongue like cheese through a grater. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“No,” it came stronger this time. Although he still stood his ground and would not take back the things he said, Clover had done what she so often did not. What he would so often be forced to read in her journal, she now said out loud. She spoke the words to him, to him, and for that he had to be grateful. This meant something. It was a moment he couldn’t quite put into words, but it meant something.

“I still stand by the fact that I felt I had to do something, but I shouldn’t have jumped at that chance. At that time. I should have waited for you. I should have made sure you were okay before I abandoned my post,” he said. Abandoned, almost like he was admitting to it. He had been pacing that post for days, waiting for something to happen, waiting to be needed, waiting to be useful but the time hadn’t come. Those who had his blood running through his veins were independent, and though he had offered them his company in this, they hadn’t come to him. They hadn’t needed him. Aine and Tara had visited, he had talked with them, but how long could they stay waiting for a war to reach their doorstep? He had not seen them in the realm, as much as he wandered. In the time that he had waited for Clover, they had not been touched.

And in the moment that someone did need him, he had left. A note had replaced him. He recalled what it felt like, waking up on that river alone, with no one to greet him. His mouth went dry, and he shook his head.

“I’m a selfish **** and I didn’t think. Okay? I’m sorry,” he said. And this time, it was genuine.

[Clover]

C L O V E R
She drank in his every word. Clover had been expecting him to argue, to turn her words against her, so when he apologized, she felt paralyzed. She felt as if she were incapable of movement, incapable of blinking. Clo mapped out his face. She took him in. She should have been there for him, despite the fact that he hadn’t been there for her. Clo should have been the bigger person, even with her anger, despite the anger. And yet, she couldn’t find it in herself to truly forgive him. She was a bitter, vengeful woman.


“Thank you for apologizing,” she mumbled, the words spoken so softly she had to strain to hear them. Thank you, but I’m not done with you. Thank you, but I haven’t forgiven you. There were many different ways of interpreting her response, so she left him to do just that. Though she hadn’t forgiven him--she still felt the anger circling--she closed any distance between them and wrapped her arms around his waist. It was her turn to touch him, to prove to them both that she’d missed him.


Moments before, she’d wanted to kill him, and she still felt he deserved it, but she had the strength to let those thoughts float to the back of her mind. Clo knew she’d torture him. She knew she’d eventually get the opportunity to punish him, in one way or another. There were still things she had to clarify.


“I’m sorry, but I still want to hurt you, and I’m still angry with you. I’m sorry I just can’t wipe away how I feel. I know,” she stopped and sighed, “I know I’m probably blowing this out of proportion, but it hurts, okay?” Her arms tightened around him though, conflicting with her words. “I love you though. I love you too. It’s late, but I had to say it. I don’t want you to ever doubt that. I left because I didn’t want to ruin things, and I didn’t want to be alone. I left and I worked on traps. Isn’t that stupid? I wanted to get away, but I took this place--I took you--with me.”


There were times when Clo raged, but she’d kept the ring on her finger. She was terrified of taking it off, angry as she was. Clo had reached out to her friends to vent, and they’d been there for her. When she feared she would do something stupid, Athena talked her down. When she needed to escape, Kenny gave her a place to stay. She hadn’t destroyed the apartment. She hadn’t destroyed his belongings. She hadn’t burnt a single thing. She’d wanted to, but she hadn’t. That’s what mattered. Thoughts were one thing, and actions were another.


“I love you,” she repeated, just stressing the words. She didn’t know if she needed to make him feel better, or make herself feel better. Clo could have used the words to cover up the lingering hurt.




J E S S E . F F O R D E
A hefty sigh worked its way from Jesse’s lungs; he had relented, he had apologised. He had stepped into Clover’s shoes and he had seen how selfish he’d looked, how utterly reckless. Looking through her eyes was like looking through a lens of a different colour. It was too soon, and again too selfish of him to expect Clover to do the same; to be able to step into his shoes and understand why he did what he’d done. They’d had an understanding. They would each do their own thing, and there’d been no stipulations, no boundaries on that understanding. At least, Jesse hadn’t thought there were.


But he wasn’t going to argue it. To argue such a thing would prove his apology moot, his defensiveness would only be an irritant.


There was a letter, she’d said, and he was glad that he hadn’t read it. He wondered if he should, or whether he should just toss it straight into the fire. If he’d read it before he’d summoned Clover, how would it have coloured this discussion? How different would it have been? How angry, if he’d assumed she’d actually left him? She was reassuring him now of something he hadn’t yet fully realised. The panic barely had the opportunity to rear its head before it settled again.


And yet, he still didn’t know what to say. She was still angry, she still wanted to hurt him, and what could he do to make it better? Could he do anything, or would it be useless? His lips pressed to the crown of Clover’s head as his arms wrapped around her, returning the embrace that she had initiated. They were married, but that didn’t mean they were exempt from disagreements. There was always going to be arguments -- they were both tempestuous in their own ways, both stubborn. But for each other, they could make exceptions. For Clover, Jesse could sway.


“What’s it going to be this time, then?” he asked. The conversation was dropped. He wouldn’t defend himself and his apology had already been uttered. Just as she had berated him for the sale of the tome to begin with, now she would berate him for this, too -- he didn’t think he’d get any understanding for this, this one time. He’d just have to wear it, and his new public enemy crown like he always did. With stubborn pride, even though he just wanted to crawl under a rock until it was all over.


“Last time I came back you shot me. The time before that it was a knife. Or was it the other way around?” he asked, his tone almost amused, light. “I’m surprised you haven’t shot me already…”






C L O V E R
She didn’t know what she expected, what sort of reaction had crossed her consciousness, but his sense of humor hadn’t been involved. No, there were dozens of possibilities, ones she only acknowledged after his quips. She feared he’d reject her embrace, just as she’d recoiled at the thought of his touch; she feared he’d refuse to accept her lack of forgiveness, thereby leading to him retracting his apology and assuming it wasted. Clover didn’t know why her mind immediately went to the worst of places, but it did. She always choked on insecurities, whether Jesse knew of said insecurities or not. Beyond her acknowledged fear of rejection and her fear of an ongoing argument, she feared him opening the letter. His humor showed a step in the right direction, and if he opened the letter, any sense of humor would immediately explode, replaced by the same degree of anger.


“Mm,” she hummed, choosing to play along. She’d had numerous plans, each one kept together with the idea of causing him the most pain. And hadn’t that been the point of the letter? That had been the one thing she could do to cause him the greatest pain. The letter was meant to be better than blades and bullets. Every thought went around to that letter. She felt choked by the mere thought of him opening the letter, reading the words she hadn’t even bothered to print out, instead scribbling it down in such a frenzy that it took a few seconds just to recognize that yes, she’d used the English language.


“Don’t read the letter,” she blurted out. By that point, she couldn’t even remember what she’d written down. Words were flying through her mind, some of which the letter contained, and some of which the letter didn’t contain. She imagined horrible insults. She imagined herself throwing her entire relationship away. How angry had she been? What had she said to him? “I mean,” she tried, backstepping, “I’d rather you didn’t. That was--that was supposed to hurt you, and now,” she stopped.


Clo still had the flames of rage licking at her insides, but there was an evident change in the color, in the texture. She didn’t want to hurt him in the way that she imagined the letter would. She meant to stab him, to shoot him, to break his bones, but never to inspire the kind of fear she felt whenever she imagined what she’d written on that paper. There was a moment where she could have finished her sentence and completed her thought, but that moment had passed. Her words hung in the air, unfinished and all too incomplete.






J E S S E . F F O R D E
Well, this was different. There were no blades or bullets. Instead, Clover had intended to hurt Jesse with words. That was the right way to go about it if she really wanted to do some harm. She and Jesse shared some quirks and a resistance to pain was one of them. Not only a resistance to it, but a love for it. They often employed pain in the bedroom to heighten their pleasure. So what good would it do as a punishment?


Punishment via words, however, planted seeds of doubt? They would harm more than any blade or bullet wound. Flesh wounds healed and failed to scar. Wounds lashed by rhetoric could scar, however. There were plenty of scars that still remained etched into Jesse’s soul. Even if they were given by people he no longer cared for.


Clover’s adamance that he not read the letter only peaked Jesse’s curiosity. It shouldn’t have. Deep down he knew that her words could do the most damage, plant the worst kinds of doubts, but Jesse was a masochist -- and masochism extended beyond the physical. He unwound his arms from around her and took a single step back. He turned from Clover, gaze dancing over each surface looking for the offending piece of paper.


“Wasn’t that the point?” he asked, stepping away completely, now, to wander into the bedroom. Except it wasn’t a wander, it was a fast trot, given he assumed that Clover would be quick on his heels. She knew where she’d put the letter. She’d be able to find it quicker. Except that Jesse went to the place he’d left his own letter. It made sense, that Clover would have left it in the same place. And there, he found it. He snatched the note and held it aloft, ready to hold it out of Clover’s grasp if she tried to take it away from him.


“You don’t want to hurt me anymore?” he asked. He was smiling, despite the circumstances. Clover could stay as angry as she wanted. Though, he did try not to smile too much. He couldn’t help it, half the time. She was still here. She was here, and she hadn’t stormed out. She had allowed him to summon her. She didn’t want him to read the letter that had been intended to hurt him. She no longer wanted to hurt him. Not as badly as she did, anyway.


What shouldn’t he be happy about?






C L O V E R
Clever. Irritating. Curious. Irritating. Those thoughts flew through her mind at a million miles an hour, just kilometers gone in the blink of an eye. She judged him, from the moment he looked away to the moment he took his first steps back. He was curious, too curious, and she knew, even before he pivoted and took off on a hunt for the letter. She knew he wanted to open the letter, devour its contents, and stare at her with the wounded look she’d already imagined ten times over. He wanted to hurt himself; he wanted her to hurt him. And she had a feeling that he’d join her in the dark pit that had formed in her stomach. He’d realize that he could forgive, but never to the extent that she desired, never fully, and it’d mar their relationship for however it took for the wound to finally cease its oozing, mend its frayed edges, and scar.


When she followed him, she followed him with quick steps, as if she intended on ripping the letter from his hands and tearing it into the tiniest of pieces. Somewhere between their initial point and the point when he discovered the letter, her steps had slowed. She seemed resigned to her fate. He’d open the letter, she told herself. He’d open the letter, assume she’d been leaving him for good, and blame himself even more than he already did, even more than seemed possible. Or worse, he’d blame her.


“Don’t,” she stressed, eyeing him as he discovered the letter, as he held it like his most prized possession. She felt empty-handed without the same silent threat, without a copy of a harsh letter or the silent threat implied in said letter. “I was furious and I wasn’t thinking,” she defended. “I was hurt,” she continued. None of her words excused the behavior or the mocking tone in the letter. Oh, how she remembered the bite of the words and the silent promise that they were officially on an unofficial break. How did one even begin to announce such distance? And did that thought even make sense at all?


Clo wanted to snatch the letter from his hand, to grab at the paper until he eventually gave in and ceased his little game--it truly was a game to him. His smile reminded her of the irritation that rumbled at the back of her throat, revealed in a quick, deep growl. She balled her hands into fists and prepared to punch him, should he begin to read her words, but that urge slowly fell away. If he wanted to hurt himself, she thought, then let him. Let him experience the pain she experienced, both from his absence, from his letter, and from his previous words.


“You know what,” she said, frowning, “go ahead and read it. I told you not to. I tried explaining myself. If you still feel the need to play this game, then go for it.” She motioned a hand to the letter, as if urging him onward, playing the dangerous game his first steps, even his smile, initiated.


“I wanted to punish you by leaving. I wanted you to miss me. I wanted you to feel every single word. I wanted you to spend a week here without me. Because I’m horrible, okay? Because hurting people is what I know.” Whether he chose to listen to her or read the letter, she wasn’t sure. She was too busy feeling as if she were digging her own grave. “Because I’m so quick to abandon you,” she finished, using his own words. Saying those things hurt her, mostly because, at the time, she’d truly thought her punishment was fair. At the moment, she didn’t want to imagine the smile leaving his face. “I’m sorry.”






J E S S E . F F O R D E
The amusement only intensified -- from the way Clover seemed desperate, at first, that he not read the letter, to the defeat and defense that eventually coloured her tone. Was it reverse psychology or was it merely the fifty shades of desperation? Teasing came as second nature to Jesse, though this time he wondered whether it bordered on torture. Clover was squirming, she apologised. She went from fury to atonement in a heartbeat.


It made Jesse wonder if she was still mad at him, or whether she’d been lying.


It made him feel like he was right and she was wrong and he should have been crowing about it, proud and aloof. He should have been telling her it was okay, that she was forgiven. But the words didn’t come. They felt wrong. They tasted wrong. The tables had turned in a way that he had not anticipated. He would not go back on the things that he had done because despite the teasing and the smiling, he was still so furious. He was furious that he had done it to begin with, made to believe that it was all his fault. He was furious that people in this city could be so petty and conniving -- a combination that never did go well together. He was furious that those people were people he’d once trusted and put his faith in, had believed them to have his best interests at heart. He was furious that it still hurt, to realise that they never had.


He was furious that though there was no love for Tytonidae in this city, there was no love for him either. He could preen and crow all he liked, he could laugh and act proud to be public enemy number one, the lone wolf who -- to the public eye -- didn’t even have the support of his own bloodline. But when had he ever cared what anyone else thought? And if he was so ******* furious, why was he drooping now? Squared shoulders slumped, the grip on Clover’s letter loosened as his arms dropped to his sides. The grin eased into something more neutral.


“Don’t do that,” he said.


“I did spend a week here without you already, and it was torture. Imagine… imagine you were in my shoes, Clo. Imagine you’d done something, something bad. It was all your fault and it somehow spiralled out of control, implicating everyone you know and love. You decide to do something about it, and the only person to properly support you goes to confront the issue. They die, because of something you’ve done. And then at the end of that week, by chance, you have the opportunity for payback. Finally you have the ability to go and do something about the **** you started. You have a choice. A hard choice, to stay back and care for that person when she comes back because you’re such a coward when she is not, or you get up and DO something. I felt like I was honouring you more by acting rather than staying. I realise now that I was wrong. Maybe it was supposed to be apt punishment for my mistake that I remain and feel like a useless ****,” he said. He sighed, and rubbed at his temple.


“You’re not allowed to say sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said, finally. He said what he’d meant to say all along.






C L O V E R
At times, they operated as if they were printed on the same pages, the same story told in the same words; they operated as if they were the same person. Maybe they had found the point in which they differed. They had found the distance that separated them, defining them as two people instead of one and the same. Clover wanted to point out the difference, to argue that she would have claimed the crown of cowardice and been there for him, but she couldn’t rouse her voice from the dark chasm it had made its home. She wasn’t trying hard enough, wasn’t using the proper accelerant, to reignite the flames.


He told her a story, he painted a picture, and she still wanted to argue with him. She wondered if it said something about her. He’d laid himself bare and she still wanted to poke and prod at the obvious wounds leftover from his most recent endeavors. He led her along, stopping at every possible point, and she heard no other story, and saw no other picture. Perhaps it was more that she didn’t want to see his side of things, that she was capable, but unwilling.


“Fine,” she whispered. There was no volume to her voice, no rise and fall involved. She sounded as deflated as she felt. She’d wanted his anger. She’d wanted his disappointment. He’d given her a free pass, even admitted his own failings, but there was nothing freeing about the moment, or about the moments before.


In the silence following her pathetic response, she recognized that her own inner turmoil had ceased. There was no point in hate, no point in withholding forgiveness. Their mistakes had offset one another, like two opposites found on neutral ground. She could have pointed out the fact that something had changed; she could have pointed out that his words had inspired some sort of response. Instead of sharing with him, she lowered her gaze to the floor. She didn’t know where to begin, not with him and not with herself.


“Sometimes,” she began, “I forget that I have no control. I mean, I can’t control you and what you do. I would have done things differently. That’s me. I would have let them call me a coward, let them say whatever they wanted, and I would have been here for you. But I’m not you. I forget that you’re Jesse. And when you do things I wouldn’t, I get pissed off. I get so ******* mad. How dare you do what I wouldn’t have.”


At that point, she wasn’t sure if she was making any sense. She’d raised her head and tried capturing, and maintaining, his gaze, but she was all over the place. Clo tried to glue her thoughts together into coherent sentences.


“I should apologize for thinking I could punish you, and for forgetting that you are your own person. This wasn’t worth trying to **** over our marriage. It just wasn’t.”


There was no urge to snatch the letter, nor to grab him and hold him close. She’d just reached a point where she felt perfectly fine standing there, being there. She no longer felt like hiding, just as she no longer felt like attacking. Their mistakes had offset one another, just as their apologies had offset one another.






J E S S E . F F O R D E
This wasn’t worth trying to **** over our marriage. Out of everything she had said, those were the words that prompted Jesse to lift the letter, brow arched as he glanced between it and Clover. Was that what she had tried to do? Was that what the letter contained? Words strong enough to **** over a marriage.


If that was the case, did he care? Did it matter now that it was resolved? He hadn’t even had to read the letter. The argument was already over, and he’d already won her back. She’d already said it wasn’t worth it and that was what he focused on. He tried not to wonder whether she would do it again, whether she would give up and leave him at some point in the future. If there was one thing Jesse was good at, it was ******* up. It was the main article on his resume. Jesse Fforde, the **** up. And yet, he’d been lulled into a sense of security. On their wedding night she’d said he could never **** up enough for her to leave him.


Had she just tried to leave him?


The letter was brought up to chest level, his thumb pawing at the edge of it, tempting him to look inside. What if she had? Did he really want to read it? Did he really want to live with that doubt, and that fear? When he started to tear the letter, when he started to rip it in half, and then in half again, it would look like forgiveness. Forgive and forget. It would look like a grand gesture, that they could leave all this behind them. He hoped that’s what it looked like, because he didn’t want to acknowledge the truth. He tore that letter up because it didn’t matter what was inside of it. It was too late. The seed had already been planted. One day he would **** up and Clover would leave. He’d **** up so badly that even a summon wouldn’t work. He’d **** up, and he wouldn’t be able to get her back.


The shreds of paper were carried to the cold fireplace and scattered over the leftover coal and charred wood, ready to be incinerated the next time the fire was lit.


“This time, we agree to disagree,” he said, speaking to the fireplace. When he turned to face Clover his features were serene, no hint of his fear written on the surface. “But we agree that we’re okay. We’re okay,” he said, taking the steps necessary to close the distance between them. One hand on her hip, the other cupping her jaw, and lips pressed to her crown, he held her there.


“We’re okay.”