Path of the Vampire forum

OOC: Backdated to September 22nd

<Jesse Fforde> It’s strange, the way the universe works. The way he’d felt like he was staring into an abyss, walking toward the edge of a cliff that he could not see. And doing so by himself, on his own, because there’s no one else around who could understand, or possibly give a ****. Life had grown stagnant, bereft of excitement or fascination. Bereft of passion. Even Kaelyn and Rhett with their humans - he can’t bring himself to act, when he should. He should hunt them down and kill them. He should refuse to allow either of them to see their chosen partners unless they intend to be turned. But he hasn’t done that. Why? Because there’s no one breathing down his neck telling him that he should.

He half wonders whether he should leave those rules behind. It is how he was taught from the very beginning and he’d refused to accept any other path, or even to think there could possibly be another path. Another possibility. Maybe all that is required are some apologies. And a refurbishment of his own beliefs.

As he crosses the road and makes his way around the corner to Clover’s house, he recalls the conversation he’d had the night before with Cosette; he had not got angry with her about her absence. She had explained and he hadn’t taken anything personally. He had said he understood, and she had apologised. It’s as easy as that, surely. Don’t take **** personally when people react in the only way they could be expected to.

Acceptance. That’s what Jesse has been practicing. And it seems karma is rewarding him. Ursula has come back. Victor is more active - even though he still hasn’t seen the guy. Kenlie is apparently around. Cosette has returned. And now Clover, too. Jesse isn’t naive or optimistic enough to think that the universe is somehow rallying now, near his time of need. He doesn’t question it. He just goes with the flow.

Standing on Clover’s doorstep, he waits a full minute before he lifts a hand to knock, knuckles thudding against the wood three times. She’s family, he tells himself. She’s family, and one of the only members to offer any kind of meaningful help, rather than offering just a bandaid. Of course that’s why he’s happy to be here; happy to know that she is here. And that she has agreed to see him. Surely, enough time has passed that things won’t be awkward? Doesn’t matter. He won’t allow any awkwardness. It’s out of the question.


<Clover>Assertive. That was her word of the day, despite the fact that she had yet to complete her journal entry. She tapped the end of her pen against the paper. One. Two. Three. Four and five. For the past forty-five minutes, she’d stared at the blank pages, making constellations from pure white and blurry blue lines. Assertive.

Sighing, Clover dropped her pen onto the pages and slapped at the cover of her notebook. She watched the pages fall and fold like an accordion. When the book had closed, she slid her bare legs off the couch and sat up in her seat. She rested her elbows atop her thighs and leaned forward, burying her head in her hands. Her last entry had been rather morbid--she’d been rather morbid. She’d spent weeks trying to drag her thoughts from her mind and lay them across paper, but she couldn’t translate. She had nothing left to say. Not yet.

Letting her hands fall, she stared out into her dark living room. The light from the television made long and intimidating shadows upon her walls and windows. She couldn’t remember when she’d turned on the television, but she was glad for the little light and noise offered by the cheap, meaningless shopping network. She wanted to go into the sewers and scavenge for parts in the mausoleum. She thought about changing out her shorts for jeans and simply slipping out the backdoor. But she had company on the way. She’d done the assertive thing and asked to hang out with Jesse.

Clo grabbed the remote from her coffee table and flipped through a few of the stations until she found a relatively enjoyable movie. She’d seen the flick more than a dozen times, but she held a fondness for the cult classic. She used the movie as a distraction to deaden her mind, thereby soothing her nerves. She hadn’t left the city, but her lack of activity and involvement made it seem as if she’d left the city. She felt as if she’d left the city. Not long ago, she’d had a movie night with Victor, Esperanza, and Kaelyn. Staring at the screen, Clo remembered when she’d fallen asleep on them and woke up to an empty room. So little time had passed, but everyone had made such big changes. What had changed with Jesse? What had changed with Clover?

Before her third-person evaluation could continue, she heard someone knocking on the door. Clover pressed the bottoms of her palms into the edge of the couch cushion, poised to stand, and waited. Athena wasn’t home and Clo doubted the woman was expecting company. Of course it was the result of her assertiveness. She pushed herself off the couch and walked around the couch, her bare feet silent on the cool marble floor. Without saying anything, she turned the knob, swung the door open, and took a step aside for him to enter.

“Hey,” she finally spoke, her voice softer than usual. She hadn’t spoken much lately and, up until that point, had been content to text. She waited for him to come in before closing the door behind him. She looked around her living room as if it would tell her what to do or where to go. “Do you,” she began, rubbing her palms on her shorts, “uh, want something to drink? I don’t have blood. I mean, I do. Not here. I did.”

Taking a deep breath, she held up a hand, silently asking for a moment. When she lowered the hand, she tried speaking once more, “I don’t have blood bags. I really don’t have anything to offer you, but I thought it would be polite to offer?”


<Jesse Fforde> The door opens, and Jesse steps inside. It would have been reasonable for his attention to drift to the inside of the house; the last time he’d seen it, it had been an absolute wreck, with no electricity and broken furniture strewn all over the place. It takes him a few seconds to take stock of his surroundings, however; his attention at first remains upon Clover, gaze dropping swiftly from head to toe and back again. There’s nothing creepy about the once-over; it is what it is. A man making sure that someone he cares about, who he hasn’t seen for a while, is all in one piece.

Clover greets him, and Jesse smiles. It’s not a smirk or a grin. It’s not something fake and masked, but a genuine smile as his body warms to the company. Blood of his blood. It’s the same with all of them; to a lesser extent with those he did not sire personally, but with anyone spawned from his own blood, he feels an enveloping comfort. Their proximity soothes all his frazzled edges. With Clover, however, there’s less of a mask. The comfort is heightened by his ability to be himself. Even if he is unsure what Clover’s absence had meant.

Only after the door is closed does he turn to take in the house; now clean and welcoming, even, with the TV playing in the background. He’s about to go and make himself entirely at home, but his ears prick as he turns back to Clover. He stares at her, as she bumbles through her offer. He blinks, brows rising toward his hairline before his smile broadens, and he laughs. It’s a low, husky sound. It’s not derisive. But he is thoroughly amused, regardless.

“It’s fine, really. I don’t need anything,” he says. “I was going to bring a bottle or two with me, from Arbor, but I know how you don’t like it,” he says, recalling all those times Clover had shied away from even the sight of blood. He doesn’t want her shying away from anything tonight. He doesn’t want it to be awkward or uncomfortable.

He takes a breath that he does not need, the silence billowing momentarily as his eyes don’t leave Clover’s face. It’s almost as if her awkwardness is catching. And Jesse has to remind himself that he doesn’t get awkward. He has confidence, and surety. He clears his throat. “So how long did it take you to clean this place up properly? It sure is a sight better than what it was,” he says, finally quitting with the staring and wandering the space just beyond the front door.


<Clover> She didn’t like what the blood did to her. The implication and understanding resided beneath the surface of his words. She’d opened her mouth to add onto his words, but the words died on her tongue. For once, her silence had absolutely nothing to do with what he did or didn’t do, said or didn’t say. She simply decided the words weren’t worth the effort. She had so much to say to him that he would eventually understand her shifting relationship with blood.

Clover didn’t notice the silence that fell between them. She noticed his staring. She had to wonder if he expected her to drum up some sort of topic of conversation, to serve as a hostess for the evening she’d requested. Crossing her arms over her chest, she looked in any other direction.

“Yeah,” she managed, trailing off. She had to roll her eyes at her own failure. She’d contributed absolutely nothing to the conversation. She moved away from the door and went to sit on one of the sofas. Pulling her legs up onto the cushions, she leaned back in her seat and watched him survey her house. “After everything that happened, I hired a cleaning company to scrub everything down. Most of the time went into buying furniture. I didn’t want to bother with the place, honestly. I looked into selling it.”

Narrowing her eyes, she cast a quick look around the room, scanning from floor to ceiling. The place was clean and still smelled fresh from all the new furniture and decorations; however, she couldn’t keep from frowning. “It’s not that I don’t like being on my own. I like having my own place. I even thought that maybe,” she stopped and shrugged her shoulders, “I thought maybe it was because it was big and empty. I asked a friend to move in with me, thinking it might help out. It’s better.”

She’d found herself toying with the bottom hem of her shirt, picking at a stray strand of fabric that had come undone. She wrapped it around her index finger over and over again until the string finally snapped. Clo dropped the string onto the edge of the coffee table and looked up at him with an arched brow.

“Do you understand what I’m trying to say? I don’t think it made much sense. It’s my home, but it’s lacking something? It feels off. It could just be the memories though.”


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse follows Clover’s cue, and wanders into the lounge to take his own seat. He circles like a cat might - mainly because he was going to sit right next to Clover but decides against it, and instead sits on the other sofa. All the while, listening to what Clover has to say.

It doesn’t bother him that she had thought about selling the place. Of course he doesn’t dwell on the fact that if she had, she probably still won’t have moved into Limbo - the new lair built on the Eastern edge of the city. There is an apartment there, just hers. He does wonder whether she’ll ever use it, but he doesn’t ask. He knows he needs to amend his ways, and his selfishness is one of the things that needs to take a hike.

He has an inkling of what she is trying to say; the clarity she offers is helpful, and Jesse nods. He’d been staring around the place, imagining the memories that might cling to it, but of course he can only remember the ruins. The arguments. But the need to stay regardless. The lights are brighter now. It helps him to focus.

“I get it,” he says, bright-blues twisting back around to land on Clover. “It’s kind of what the other place feels like, these days. Number twelve. Used to be so full of people, and now it’s not. Because of the Circle, I suppose, but no one goes there much either. I know what it feels like to be alone in big places that were once thriving,” he says with a small shrug. “I feel like it was a waste of money. The new lair. It’s just another…” he stops, clears his throat, and pulls the corners of his lips into a sudden smile.

“People have their own things. They’ll use it when they need it. Point is, I get it. Maybe you just need to invite people around more often,” he says, glancing sideways as if expecting this friend to come waltzing out of one of the rooms at any given second.


<Clover> Clo leaned forward and snagged the remote from atop the coffee table, using it to turn the volume down on the television. She lowered the volume until the silent figures merely flitted across the screen. She’d watched movies with Victor and Kenlie, but had she watched a movie with Jesse? She had to wonder if he enjoyed something as normal, something as mundane, as watching movies, especially made-for-television movies. She placed the remote back atop the coffee table and mimicked Jesse’s actions; she looked around her apartment as if she expected Athena to surface from a bedroom.

“I invited plenty of people. It’s always open to the people I like. I just prefer going to their places. Have you seen Vic and Kenny’s place? I guess it’s just Vic’s now,” she finished, her lips twisted for a frown. “I’m sure you already know about that, and I’m sure you know about his,” she paused and motioned at her face, “interesting change in appearance.”

She didn’t really know if he’d seen Victor. Her sibling had seemed depressed, to the point of being a danger to himself, so he likely glued himself to his bike or his sofa. She knew he didn’t spend enough time with Jesse; he didn’t spend enough time with anyone. He was a loner, which seemed like a requirement in the Fforde family.

“I spent a lot of time there, at his place. Sometimes he knew when I was there. Sometimes he didn’t. You both worry me.” The last words came unbidden. She regretted them as soon as they’d passed her lips, but she couldn’t take them back. She couldn’t say that she’d accidentally worried about them or that she’d accidentally said those words while meaning to say something entirely unrelated to the subject. She just let her words hang in the air, the air undisturbed by the lack of noise from her muted television.


<Jesse Fforde> The silence creeps in like an old friend, causing Jesse’s ears to relax when he hadn’t know they’d been tense. If ears could be tense. Clover’s right - he doesn’t watch many movies. He has too much restless energy to sit for a few hours doing nothing. It’s part of his disenchantment with Grey, who never wants to leave the house, when leaving the house is all Jesse wants to do, a lot of the time. He’d just prefer to do things with other people rather than by himself. If he’s going to be sitting still, he doesn’t want it to be passive. He wants it to be active, drawing or painting or etching ink into someone’s skin.

The sentiment isn’t lost on Jesse. That Clover worries. But it doesn’t come as a surprise. Not really. It is the one thing that he has to remind himself of over the next couple of months, and it’s something that he’s wary not to take advantage of. Something that he doesn’t want to rely on, either. There are other people in his life who had told him they cared, and that they worried, but look how that had turned out. They’d got sick of caring. Sick of worrying, when he came to be too much. Now, he’s aware how irritating depression can be to those who aren’t suffering, and he’s taking measures to keep it to himself.

Thing is, Clover is one of the only ones he believes, at this point in time. Maybe Kaelyn, too. But Clover is the only one who’s entirely aware of the extent of Jesse’s problems, and the only one who’d offered help. Real help, not temporary help. He’d had his doubts, of course, when he hadn’t heard from her for so long. He still has his doubts. But again, he keeps them to himself.

“I used to check on Victor, you know. He didn’t like it. So I don’t anymore. Not physically. I know that Kenlie was moving out, but I also know that Kaelyn said she was going to give it another try. I knew Victor shaved his beard - he announced that to the whole family. But apparently it’s grown back already. He seemed happy enough to think Kenlie was around to go find to ****, so I’m guessing everything’s fine again, on that front,” he says with a shrug. “Victor’s made it incredibly clear he wants to be able to take care of things on his own. He knows where to find me, if he needs me. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt,” he says. There’s no hint of bitterness in his tone; these are facts he’d come to terms with ages ago.


<Clover> For some reason, Clo found herself shifting the focus onto someone else. She realized that the moment she mentioned Victor’s name. The conversation could have gone in either direction, whether that meant turning to her or to Jesse, but she took it somewhere else entirely. She’d invited Jesse into her home to talk to him, to see how he was doing and to share how she had been doing. When she opened up, it made him happy. When she made him happy, she felt a little less--her thoughts stopped there and she fell back to her default all over again.

“Yeah.” The same word she’d used at the beginning of their conversation, not long after he’d arrived. “He finds me when he wants me or I happen upon him. That’s the way it is with everyone, if you really think about it,” she smiled, going philosophical for a brief moment. She’d never even considered the fact that her relationships were built around desire, the desire to have someone or the desire to avoid someone.

Clo idly drummed her fingers on her legs. Her motions made no steady beat, since she didn’t mean to communicate with music. She had a nervous sort of energy whenever she found herself with nothing to say. She refused to call the situation awkward, but it quickly became awkward. She felt awkward. She told herself that it wasn’t because of past actions, or lack thereof, but because of her recent issues relating with someone else. No one really knew what she did in her free time, although she believed Athena had the best idea. Jesse could have guessed.

She fixed her gaze on him, dark eyes steady on his face. He probably knew. He probably left her alone because he realized that she had her own hobbies, hobbies that she wanted to share with him, and hobbies that she didn’t want to share with him. Guilt. That was one thing he always left her with, despite the fact that there were plenty of other positive and negative emotions. He always had a way of making her feel guilty without even trying. Guilty for keeping things from him. Guilty for lying to him. “His name is Anton.”

The name wasn’t enough for him to go on, but she didn’t want to tell him everything outright. She gave him a piece of the puzzle and waited for his response. Some part of her believed he could always read right through her, that his confusion was nothing more than a facade. She believed their entire relationship, however unusual, worked like a game of chess. His move.


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse cants his head to the side, thinking about it. They aren’t a cuddly family, that’s for sure. They all have spikes, and they don’t want to be honest with their feelings. They all prefer to suffer in silence. Maybe except for Kaelyn. When they’re feeling wounded they go off to be by themselves to heal. Jesse had tried to get them to be more open and trusting with each other, but it was a failed attempt. It’s something that can’t be forced, he’s come to realise. It has to happen naturally. So he’ll sit back, and hope that it happens naturally.

Truth is, Jesse hadn’t really left Clover alone. He’d sent his messages and he’d waited for her to respond. And she hadn’t. If he left her alone it wasn’t due to any choice of his own. He left her alone because it seemed to be what Clover wanted.

They stare at each other, both steadily. The corners of Jesse’s lips twitch upward. It’s not often that others return his stare, and Clover had been so intent on avoiding it beforehand. He’s stuck, wondering what it means that she should return it, now. What is it that she’s thinking? It’s almost as if she’s got something to say and she’s forcing herself to be strong before she says it. And when she does, the corners of Jesse’s lips lilt. His fingers clutch a little tighter to the fabric of the couch, the back of which his arm is draped over. One single blink and his eyes seem to harden, just slightly. His chest rises with the breath that he does not need, and he schools himself, inwardly.

He had asked no questions, and yet she had started to tell a story as if he had.

“Anton,” he repeats, voice low.

“The name of the reason why you’ve been so quiet?” he asks, modulating his tone so that it reflects curiosity. A desire to know what’s been going on in Clover’s life, rather than a desire to… what? Destroy it? Surely not. His fingers relax. He blinks away the hardness. The mask sits securely in place, after its brief malfunction.


<Clover> Anton. She still remembered the first time she saw his face. They shouldn’t have met and she shouldn’t have stayed. Talking about him meant talking about her failed experiments with blood bags and extracurricular activities. She hadn’t danced in weeks; she hadn’t been to either of the studios in weeks. Hesitantly, she nodded. Yes, his name was Anton. Yes, he was part of the reason why she had been so quiet. He wasn’t all of the reason. He wasn’t allowed to carry all of the blame. It was her fault.

She shouldn’t have tried to be something she wasn’t. She knew that. Pressing her lips together, she uncrossed her legs and tried to meet his gaze. She urged herself to say something, anything. Anton. They were talking about Anton.

“I met him weeks ago, around the time I started taking dance classes. It was an accident. I’d been hungry. I tried,” she paused, her shoulders slumping to show her own disappointment, or maybe it was shame, “I tried giving up feeding on people for blood bags and rats. I just met him at the wrong time.”

Accident. Mistake. She could have picked plenty of words to describe her firsting meeting with the human, but none of them were positive. None of them were what a first meeting should have been. She’d been hungry and she’d happened upon a human. Her own promises to herself meant nothing when presented with such a perfect meal. She realized then that her own thoughts, her own mental images, weren’t conveyed to her sire. To him, she probably appeared lost in her thoughts.

“He’s human,” she explained, leaning forward to rest her forearms atop her thighs. She tapped the heel of her right foot on the floor, her leg lightly bouncing. “And he knows who I am. He knows what I am. He knows about us. About,” she sighed, frustrated, “he knows about vampires.”

Her look said to give her time. Her look begged him not to judge her, not to scold her. She wanted to say something else, perhaps to yell at him before he had the chance to yell at her. Instead, she reminded herself that she’d cleaned her home and she had no reason to lose control. They were talking. Things were fine.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, a quick and well-aimed afterthought.


<Jesse Fforde> The main, singular, foremost reaction is despair.

The first urge is to get up and walk out. To fail to even slam the door behind him; just leave. That small voice that he’s done so well to keep banished perks up, screams at him before he puts a lid on it. Get up. Walk out. Don’t even go home, Jesse. You’ve failed. Of course they don’t listen to you. Why should they?

He shifts, so his feet are now flat on the floor, rather than one leg flung casually up on the couch as he faces Clover. No, now he turns away, hands ready to push his weight up from the couch, to catapult him toward that door. Instead, he appears to collapse; hands first rubbing at his face before his body slumps, fingers interlocking behind his neck. He breaks eye contact, first.

Don’t get angry, he tells himself. Bite your tongue, ******. Think before acting.

He half lifts his head; his knuckles press painfully into his eye sockets before he sucks in a hiss of breath and looks up. Hair now slightly askew, eyes bereft of the spark he’d walked in here with. He’d been happy to see Clover; he was looking forward to her company, perhaps for selfish reasons. He’d been swayed into a false sense of happiness, at Clover’s return. Cosette’s return. As if things were starting to get better. They were all coming back around again.

But now this. This, to remind Jesse of the problems he had yet to deal with. He’d handled it wrongly with Kaelyn and Rhett. He’d pushed them instead of helping them. Stubbornly set against the notion that they should be dating humans when they shouldn’t. And now Clover, too.

“I half wonder whether this is some kind of conspiracy. You, Rhett, and Kaelyn all finding humans to date just to… prove some point,” he says. Of course he assumes Clover’s dating this Anton. The word is spat, like it’s an offense. Weeks. She’d been gone weeks, and she’d named him as her reason. What other reason could someone have for being distracted so long by someone else? Jesse focuses on the fact that he’s human, and ignores…

“...and does he know that he shouldn’t know? That it’s a danger to him? That the ultimatum your sire would give to you is to either kill him or turn him?” he asks. It’s not accusatory. The questions are as gentle as they can be, no hint of anger. They are questions that need answering, if it’s advice that Clover is seeking.


<Clover> Even though they were still sitting across from one another, Clover felt him pulling away. His body language told her that he’d gone. Whether he went somewhere better, somewhere deep inside his mind, she couldn’t tell. She couldn’t tell if he wanted to ask her simple questions or hurl accusations. Before he spoke, she swore her heart started and stopped several times.

She didn’t notice that she’d stopped tapping her heel against the floor. She didn’t notice that she sat perfectly still, her body poised as if she would pounce on him the moment he tried to stand. He had all the freedom in the world when it came to losing himself in his thoughts, but she refused to let him leave. She had been prepared for screaming and shouting, for insults of every kind, but he went down a road she never expected. He began talking about Rhett and Kaelyn, one that meant absolutely nothing and another that meant--she wasn’t sure, so her thoughts stopped there.

“But,” she mumbled, so softly that the sound barely passed her lips.

Her mind felt as if she were seconds, minutes, possibly years, behind. Rhett and Kaelyn were dating humans. They were involved romantically with humans. Clover had to wonder if she would ever stoop to such a level, for humans were on a different level than vampires. The masquerade meant significantly less to her, when compared to her sire’s beliefs. No, when compared to Jesse’s beliefs.

Even with his views on the masquerade and his obvious disappointment, he maintained. She didn’t know whether it was a good thing or a bad thing, whether it was something of great worry or great meaning. He seemed tired. He seemed like he’d given up. He seemed--she didn’t know. She told herself she didn’t know. Of course she had some idea, but she told herself she didn’t know and pushed the thoughts aside, sweeping them under the proverbial rug.

“I’m not dating him, Jesse.” Clover tried her own gentle approach. Her voice was soft, almost soothing; she felt as if she had some obligation to set him straight and clear the idea from his mind. She didn’t think of Anton as boyfriend material. She’d thought of him as food, as a toy, and possibly as a childe. Possibly. Crimson had been such a mistake that the thought of another childe left a sour taste in her mouth.

“Are you,” she began, but she stopped herself. It was a silly question and they were on such thin ice. Her mind led her in another direction, a safer direction. “He knows. He’s aware. He’s alive because I let him live. Because I want him. He’s mine. Even if he’s not a vampire.”

She narrowed her eyes, thoughtful and so unsure of her words. Had she made sense? Had he understood? If Jesse didn’t understand and didn’t approve, then she knew what to do to solve the problem. She would kill Anton.

“He belongs to me even if he’s not with me.”


<Jesse Fforde> Every word is heard. Even that but, barely passing Clover’s lips. Jesse’s ears twitch like a cat’s might, his own body mimicking Clover’s in its intensity. But, she says, and Jesse’s head swivels just that tiny bit, brows quivering in their curiosity. But what? He doesn’t breathe as he waits for Clover to explain, to clarify. And he remains tense while she speaks, the words forming sentences in his mind that he understands, but simultaneously doesn’t want to. They inspire equal measures of sadistic pleasure and frustration.

He imagines a guy between twenty and thirty - bright features. Dark hair. Blue eyes. A perpetually confused expression carved into his stupid face. A face hidden somewhere in a dark hole; blood spilling from his temple, from a gash in his neck, from his wrist. But fully clothed, dirty maybe. With a bucket for his excrement in a corner. Jesse closes his eyes as the crease forms between them, slumping back into the softness of the couch. Defeated, and yet…

Tattooed fingers push the hair from his forehead. He breathes out, releasing the breath that he had been holding, eyes opening, still caught in their frown. Gaze dancing over Clover’s features as if something about her might give him some indication.

“What… do you keep him locked up somewhere? Use him as… as your own personal blood bag? Do you intend on turning him?” he asks. It’s not a judgmental question. He doesn’t ask as if he disapproves. There’s a hint of pride to his tone as he asked the questions, with a dash of hope. The frown remains, though, as he tries to do the calculations. He knows that Clover is a shadow, but…

“Or do you mean he’s like Mickey was? Like… Nancy is now? A thrall?” he asks. That would make everything absolutely kosher. But he has very strong doubts. There are other questions he could ask, but he refrains. They’re not pertinent to the discussion. It’s as if a switch was flicked; he’d walked in as Jesse the friend, and now he’s Jesse the sire. He has to ask the questions that a sire needs to ask. Not the ones that a friend might.


<Clover> Change the subject.

The three words circled around her mind, repeated with such a growing intensity that the rest of her thoughts became vague, jumbled whispers. She crossed her arms over her chest, but the look didn't last. She let her arms fall and her rigid posture fell along with them. Clo slumped back into the sofa and simply eyed him. Somewhere along the line, Jesse had stopped being her friend. He had morphed into her sire. And while her sire was a comforting figure, one she relied on during more than one occasion, she didn't need, nor did she want, a sire. Not then. She wanted Jesse.

Of course he’d set quite the scene. Had she kept Anton beneath her bed or behind the curtains or within the walls of her home? No, she hadn’t hidden him away. She hadn’t forced him into some sort of cage. Perhaps she had taken a single paragraph from Axel’s manifesto. She’d let Anton go and expected him to come back, or at least to remain under her watchful eye. A single paragraph really wasn’t enough for her to master the logic and adopt such a unique outlook on the world.

Mickey. Nancy. Clover narrowed her eyes, her mood slowly sliding south. She felt as if she were being dissected, the complete opposite of what she’d felt when she’d opened herself up to Athena, to a friend. Why was it always different with Jesse? Couldn’t he try some consistency? Couldn’t he try harder? Couldn’t he stop, for five seconds, and just listen, comment, and continue on with the conversation? She wanted to share. She had been afraid, at the very least hesitant, and his response served as the reason.

“I follow him a lot. I keep track of him. He’s not a thrall. He’s a human with wants and desires and feelings. He’s living his life.” She sighed, closing her eyes to release part of the tension.

Some of the things she’d done to Anton brought both pride and shame. She didn’t want to fail at being a sire, not again. She didn’t want to destroy the light in Anton’s eyes. She let him go because she hadn’t let the other human go, the human that had been so selfless, so very sweet. She just couldn’t say such emotional things to Jesse, not when he wore his sire hat and not when he finally placed it aside.

“You’re thinking,” she sighed once more, toying with the hem of her shirt, “that this is a problem. That it’s going to be your fault when this hits the fan. You’re probably comparing my situation with Rhett’s and Kae’s: Is it better or is it worse. And then you’ll say something, probably something along the lines that you trust me, but you’re also here for me, because you’re my sire. But you really mean you’re disappointed, or at least confused and slightly wounded. Because this isn’t in line with the masquerade and you support the masquerade; therefore, your progeny should also respect the masquerade.”

She’d rambled. Her eyes had gone from the bottom hem of her shirt over to Jesse and then slowly up to his face. She wasn’t sorry. She had so much more to say. “I invited you here as Jesse. I don’t want my sire right now. Okay? If you’re asking these questions, don’t ask to solve a problem. Let me. Just listen. Talk to me. Stop worrying.”

“Be here,” she smiled, though her lips barely turned upwards. It was a ghost of a smile, but enough to communicate that she’d meant every word.


<Jesse Fforde> The narrowed eyes are not missed. In all his dealings with Clover, Jesse has come to the conclusion that she is slippery; that if she does not want to say something, she will not say it. She will either be vague or she will lie. Not so much lately, but still. From experience, he has learned to dissect her words. To tumble them around in his skull and try to figure them out. To find out the meaning behind them, as if she has a habit of never telling him the whole truth. Maybe it’s not fair, that he should be so harsh. But it’s only because he wants more. Selfishly, he always wants the whole truth.

His lips come unstuck and he finds himself turning away from Clover; peering around the room as if searching for the tell-tale clues. Had she always been living with someone else here? Jesse doesn’t think so. It’s a recent development, that someone has moved in with her. A friend. She had asked a friend so that she does not feel so… empty. So that the house doesn’t feel so empty. Jesse doesn’t expect to find him, now, ensconced in walls or locked in a basement. But free to roam the area. A friend, who should be allowed to live his own life, but under watchful supervision. How better to do that than to invite him in? To live with him?

Where are the dirty old shoes, the jackets? Where are the sports magazines or the … the food? If there’s a human living here, there has to be food, right? Jesse’s nostrils flare, as if he might be able to just smell the testosterone. It takes all his willpower to stay seated, to not go looking, or rifling through the fridge. The bathroom would yield results, surely?

Instead, he turns back to Clover and tries to focus. What is she asking him?

There’s plenty that he could say to dispute the words that she wants to put in his mouth; he chews the inside of his cheek, deliberating. The silence yawns between them as his eyes gleam. As the thoughts fight each other in his head and he tries to focus. What is it that he feels? He might have been talking to Clover as a sire, but that does not mean, in any way shape or form, that he does not care. He shakes his head, finally, tongue wetting his bottom lip before he speaks. Quiet, slow, and calm.

“I don’t know if I told you why I quit Tytonidae. I don’t remember. If I did, though, I’ll repeat it,” he says, saying the words out loud because they’re what he needs to hear, too. He’s struggling to figure out what he should do and how he should act and maybe this… sitting and talking, might help.

“Tytonidae are a violent faction bent on punishing Masquerade offenders. I discovered that when those offenders were part of my own family, I defended them. I stood between them and the faction that sought to punish them. When I joined the faction I didn’t have you. I didn’t have Fforde. I had just me. Maybe Felicity and Axel, too. Maybe Abigail…” he trails off, but then lets go of the memories. It doesn’t matter who he had with him. The point is what matters.

“When being inducted into the faction they ask that the faction and its tenets become one’s first priority. The one priority that they hold above all else. I quit because I realised the Masquerade isn’t my first priority. My family is, whether they ******* appreciate it or not,” he says. He can’t help that slight twitch; that coiling spit of bitterness. He bites past it, swallows it down.

“I am here. I do worry. I don’t give a **** about the Masquerade. That’s not why I’m angry. I’m angry because Tytonidae still exist, and I am no longer a buffer between a breach of Masquerade and death. I can’t vouch for you. I can’t… save you. Or them,” he says, explaining without shouting. Clover probably knows all this already. But he repeats it anyway, just in case. Just in case she had forgotten.

“Courting humans - dating them or not - is dangerous. It’s dangerous to them. It’s dangerous to you. It’s dangerous to the family. To let it go and to let it happen means I’m allowing that danger to get close. To do something about it means losing the family anyway,” he says. This is his dilemma - the Catch 22 that he can’t get past.

There’s still a lot more he could say; a lot more that’s on his mind but he stops, mouth snapping shut. No, he’s vowed not to do that anymore. He shakes his head and holds his breath. Those are the facts.

“I’m sorry. Really, but I don’t think I have it in me to not worry,” he says. “And I’m not just saying that as your sire.”

<Clover> Clover bit down on her lower lip, her sharp teeth digging into the sensitive skin. The way he’d looked around her apartment made her uneasy. Had she left a mess? Had something escaped her cleanings? Had Athena come in early? No, those things were impossible. She’d made sure her place looked perfect, pristine, in fact, and Athena wasn’t due home yet. She had to assume he’d tired of the conversation, tired of it in the way that she’d tired of his behavior.

As he told the story of his exit from Tytonidae, she pulled her legs up onto the cushion. She’d heard the story before, possibly more than once, but she listened. She listened because she learned that it mattered just as much to the speaker as the listener. As much as Clover disliked Tytonidae, she had to admit that the faction had done some work in shaping Jesse.

“When you apologize, you should really mean it,” she replied, a brow arched. “You aren’t sorry for caring or for looking out for us, so don’t bother saying that you’re sorry. I’m saying that,” she stopped and sighed, ending the sentence with a slight shrug of her shoulders.

She really didn’t know how to tell him that he could remove the sire hat; or rather, she didn’t know how to use euphemisms to set him at ease. She wanted to tell him that she didn’t need him to protect her, to shield her from recourse. Clo had it in her to take responsibility for her choices. She wasn’t a child. She didn’t want Jesse to save her, but perhaps that job, that mission, made his existence worthwhile. Perhaps he needed that role. Perhaps Jesse needed to feel needed.

“Fine,” she corrected herself, trying to clear the air of her previous words. Her dismissive shrug had been leading to quite the change of heart, or so she believed. Clover wondered if she were saying it for her own benefit or for his. No, she corrected herself and followed along with his words because she would have wanted her childe--no, she would have wanted her friend--to be supportive. “You’re right. It’s dangerous.”

Talking to Jesse reminded her that she had more to her life than casual discussions. Clover felt like she had two parts of herself, two different people within one body. Sometimes, she felt as if her everyday self were nothing more than a facade to mask the monster underneath. Sitting there, staring at him, she wondered if he noticed. Maybe there was a shift in her mask; maybe he saw some sort of clue.

“I’m sure people appreciate you.” She felt herself slowly creeping toward her daily quota for niceties. Clo didn’t know what he wanted her to say. She wanted him to tell her what he wanted. Some people were like that. People requested company or activities; people requested specific words and reassurances and promises. “It’s just that people only want to hear what they want to hear.”

She certainly hadn’t wanted to hear about his aim to save her, to save the members of Fforde. Didn’t he know he’d set himself up to fail? No one could save them all, not every single time. He’d had experience losing. Honestly, Clover had no idea where they were going in the conversation. Was she supposed to comfort him? Was she supposed to offer to find Anton and turn him? Was she supposed to make a joke about the fact that he talked too much?

“I don’t know what the **** you expect me to say now.” Flustered, she snatched the remote once more and turned the television off. The humming noise, the sound coming from the television itself, ceased. Clo slammed the remote down on the coffee table, but not enough to break it, not enough to crack the glass. She wasn’t losing control; she’d been irritated by the noise. The excuses and explanations glossed over her actions.

She didn’t want to argue that she didn’t need him to save her. She didn’t want to argue that she had no problem with dying. She didn’t want to argue that she had no intention of killing or turning her human. She didn’t want to yell at him for acting like a detective. She didn’t want point out that they always seemed at odds. What she did want, more than anything else, was to feel like maybe, just maybe--no. They couldn’t have one pleasant conversation.

“I hate irritating you. I hate saying things that worry you. I don’t want to **** up another pleasant conversation. I try to say just the right thing to keep it all moving. I’m--” she stopped, her voice trailing off. She was. And then nothing. Her thoughts continued, but the words stopped.


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse smirks, and shakes his head. He opens his mouth to clarify, but stops as Clover continues. As anger sparks behind her words and in her eyes; as part of it is taken out on the remote control, roughly replaced on the coffee table. He watches her with the intensity of a laser beam, wanting to crack open her skull and sift through the thoughts inside; wanting to taste each of her emotions so that he could understand. Instead, her stress feeds his. And he has to try very hard not to erupt. He reminds himself of her previous request; listen. Be there. It makes it sound as if she wants comforting, but somehow the conversation has turned and she’s the one who feels the need to comfort him.

It’s shame that Jesse feels, more than anything else. He is not the victim here, but it seems to be his default setting. All the accusations of weakness, and of being pathetic - they resound in his skull on a nightly basis. Accusations that he denies and shoves down deep, but some nights, like right now, they come back. Because that’s how he begins to feel.

“I’m not apologising for caring. I’m apologising because I can’t do what you’re asking me to. You asked me not to worry, but I do worry and that’s not something I can just… switch off,” he explains, slowly.

“I don’t expect you to say anything. I don’t want empty words or wishy washy ******** that’s supposed to be comforting, but never is. There’s nothing I hate more than assholes who tell people it’s all going to be fine when it’s not. Why lie? Just tell the truth,” he says. Still, it’s not bitter. It’s how he’s always been, and it’s why Kaelyn goes to Doc rather than to Jesse. Jesse doesn’t offer comfort. Jesse offers blunt and honest truth. He laughs, then, because Clover is right. He understands. People don’t like it when they’re told things they don’t want to hear. Jesse’s not going to change that for the world, either. He’d never going to stop telling the truth. Maybe, though, he realises he may have to try to work on the method of delivery.

Just like now. He’s not going to tell Clover that she hasn’t irritated him, because this has just added another layer to the problems he has yet to deal with. He leans back and sighs, the sound heavy and frustrated, the breath cold as it exits his lungs.

“This isn’t about me,” he says, finally. “This is about you. So. Tell me about you. Tell me… so I can listen. And understand. And I promise not to judge, or to get irritated. Don’t worry about saying the perfect thing. Just say what you need to say. Get it off your chest,” he says. When he opens his eyes they are clear. There’s no anger there. They might look a little tired but they’re open. And as warm as they can be, given their sharp colour. He shifts upon the couch again; knee crooked, body turned to face Clover, elbow resting on the back of the couch to that his fingers can close into a fist, so his temple can rest against his white knuckles.

This is how it’s got to be, he tells himself. Don’t rant and rave about things that cannot be controlled. Don’t do anything, until a decision has been made. Silence was once such a good friend, and it needs to be a good friend again. Don’t talk so much, dickhead. Just listen. Like you used to.


<Clover> Disenchanted. Disenthralled. She went through various words, her mind crawling through the alphabet with such ease and intensity that it made the rest of her body feel frozen. None of the words she discovered matched what she was feeling. She'd gone from frustration to a state of weariness. She felt exhausted. She couldn't assume that he felt the same; she told herself that she couldn't judge him as if she were judging the cover of a book.

He wanted to listen to her, but she didn't believe him. She couldn't believe him. She didn't want a one-sided conversation, her voice interrupted by mumbled words of agreement or grunts of disapproval. She wanted him to talk about other things. She wanted him to open up, or rather to continue opening up. Clover wondered if he noticed how hard she tried to share more about herself. She wondered.

What if they were broken? As her thoughts wandered, she studied his face. She'd never really noticed him as a person. Skin and bones. Sometimes she thought of him as someone invincible; sometimes she thought of him as a project. He became numerous people with such a variety of personalities. Clo let her eyes trail along his jawline and then up along his forehead. She tried memorizing his face, if for no other reason than her own curiosity. There he was. He was no better than anyone else, no worse than anyone else. That was Jesse. He was Jesse.

And maybe she couldn't help him. Maybe all she did was cause problems. But he was there. He was sitting on her couch, offering her the opportunity to say whatever her heart desired. She could have droned on and on about shoes or pets or checkers. He said he would listen. She had the chance to share her space with a tamer version of Jesse and she wasn't sure if she cared for him, not when compared to other versions. Was he honest? Was he happy? Was he okay?

"I wanted to talk to you," she began, still studying his face, "and I wanted you to listen. I wanted to tell you what I'd been doing and where I'd been hiding. But as much as it's about me, it's about you. Most of the time, it's about you."

In the end, it was about Jesse. Jesse, skin and bones. She'd promised to be there for him and she found herself drifting away. Even as she studied his face, her eyes trailing down the bridge of his nose to his lips, she felt as if she were seated across from a stranger.

"We're going somewhere." It wasn't a question, not something he could avoid or something he could deny.

She finished the last part in her thoughts, careful not to speak it aloud, despite the fact that the words, the very meaning, was implied: "I promise not to ruin it this time."


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse feels it, the knife that Clover may not have intended to throw. Most of the time, it’s about you. That’s what he had turned into. With the discovery of his voice, he’d turned into a selfish, self-centered asshole who turned everything around and made it about himself. Had he once stopped to consider their reasons? Or had he immediately jumped to the conclusion that they chose to act the way they did to disrespect him?

No. That thought hadn’t crossed his mind. He doesn’t think they’re doing any of this on purpose. On purpose would almost be acceptable. But he had not stopped to ask why, or to try to put himself in their shoes. He could easily put himself in their shoes. He had been in that position once before, and he hadn’t liked the pressure. He is a hypocrite of the highest order and though it might not have been Clover’s intention, those are the accusations that he hears.

And he bows to them. He understands them. His eyes close and breath catches in his throat as if he has physically been hit; and he says nothing. He doesn’t argue with her, or contradict her. As much as he wants to agree, and tell her to pretend like it never happened - to just move on and start over, please, he doesn’t. He can’t. Because she’s telling him that they’re going somewhere. As if she’s planned it.

Jesse’s eyes open and he sits still for a few heavy seconds. Does he want to go anywhere? He’d come around thinking that they would just hang out and chat; that they would listen to each other inasmuch as they could, but he had not expected the news. He’d wanted to come around and… and do what? Something. And laugh. He wanted to learn more about Clover. Clover in a good mood. Clover as herself. He wants her to be comfortable so that she can be herself. He had wanted to see Clover, to just be with Clover, and he had wanted to be happy. And he’s not sure he wants to go anywhere, now that he’s no longer happy.

Eventually, however, he decides that he doesn’t want to go home, either. He doesn’t want to go to work. So he nods. And he stands, pushing his hands into his pockets.

“Where?” he says. One simple word, one question. He’s ready to go. Ready to hear whatever else Clover might want to tell him; or show him. Ready to keep his mouth shut, so as not to make anything any worse.


<Clover> In a way, she had already broken her promise. She could tell. As soon as he put his hands in his pockets, she knew. He’d gone through some sort of inner battle that left him raw. He asked her where they were going, but she hardly heard his voice and failed to acknowledge his question. She slid off the edge of her seat and wandered deeper into her home. The sound of her bare feet connecting with the floor served as a cadence, reminding her that she had some purpose. She had bulletpoints, a list of things she’d made up only moments ago.

First, she had to change her clothes. Then, she had to leave her house. She had two points, two things on the list. The end of the list, the main reason for the existence of the list, remained a blank. Where were they going? What had she been thinking? She’d been put on the spot. She’d been desperate enough to think a change of scenery would help the mood.

As she swapped her black tank top for a grey one, she ran through a list of possibilities. Where could she take him? What would he like? And with every option, she felt a little more helpless; she dismissed more options than she could count. She changed her shorts for a pair of black jeans and put on a pair of white Converse. She’d finished dressing, but she hadn’t finished thinking. He was waiting and she had nothing to offer him. Clover had absolutely nothing to offer.

As she made her way out to the front room, she contemplated another surprise or a big reveal. If she revealed her lack of plans, she would disappoint him and they would end their time together. If they started walking, she gave herself more time and came off as if she were surprising him. After all, there were places she could take him; there were always places to go in Harper Rock. There were always things to do. She just had some hope of finding something so very Jesse that he couldn’t help but appreciate it.

Clo mimicked his earlier actions and tucked her hands into the pockets of her jeans. Oh, she knew a place. She knew a place that meant something to her, a place that would mean something to him. They were so close to Larch Station that she considered taking it to Wickbridge, but she declined. Walking gave them some time to talk or some time to think. Walking gave them something that a quick journey couldn’t.

“It’s a surprise,” she finally spoke, using her voice for the first time since she’d announced they were going somewhere. She’d considered taking him to the hospital, to the asylum--she’d considered taking him to plenty of places that meant something to her. In the end, she chose a place that hadn’t created an emotional crevice in her life. She chose a place that she’d been wanting to visit since it had appeared in the city. “This time, we’re going to Wickbridge.”

She grabbed her keys from beside the door and opened it for him. She didn’t know what to say to him as they walked, but she knew she didn’t want to talk about Anton anymore. Neither of them needed a conversation built around irritations and unresolved issues. They’d ended things in a stalemate, or so she thought. She considered asking him about his friends or bringing up Athena, but she bit down on her bottom lip. She didn’t mind the silence then.


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse watches as Clover disappears into her bedroom, without a word. It doesn’t surprise him. Clover often doesn’t tell him what she is thinking or doing, or what she has planned. He half wonders whether she ever does have anything planned, or whether she just … does everything on a whim. As soon as she’s out of sight, Jesse sighs and pushes his fingers through his hair, straightening what might have got skewed in his previous tempestuous reaction.

The opportunity is taken to snoop. To step out of the lounge room and do a tour of the main areas of the house. What Jesse had not noticed when he’d first walked in was how much it had actually changed. Too distracted by Clover’s company and her consequential admission, he hadn’t realised that, along with cleaning up, Clover had also… re-evaluated her spaces. Where the kitchen once was, now there’s a desk. An office space. Jesse pokes into a couple of the remaining storage spaces, but he can’t find anything of interest. He can’t see any food. No milk. No cereal. No bread or basics. No snacks, or fruit. It satisfies him in a way that he can’t explain. He scents the air; he’s not much of a tracker. But there’s a scent attached to Clover. Not a bad one. Not a good one. Just a personal trademark. That, he can detect. And there’s another that he can’t. The friend, he supposes. The housemate.

Jesse takes a deep breath and holds onto it, wondering what the hell he’s doing. Snooping around, hoping to find something that Clover won’t tell him. Is there anything she’s not telling him? He shakes his head and bites his tongue hard enough to draw blood. He rolls his tongue around the taste; he can feel his teeth, sharp against his tongue. When did that happen? Doesn’t matter, really. The thirst is a constant. The sharpness comes and goes.

When Clover comes back out, changed, Jesse follows her movements to the front door. He wanders out from where the kitchen used to be, silent and nonchalant, offering absolutely no explanation as to to his own movements.

Jesse’s hands remain stored within his pockets as he follows Clover’s suggestion and steps outside. The fresh air fills his dead lungs and he laughs, a low sound crawling in his throat. “What is it with you and surprises?” he asks. He’s not averse to them. But he’s still not sure whether he’s in the mood. Rather than tell Clover this, however, he goes with it. He hinges all his bets on hope that the night can get better, and that they can regain their good humour. He does this by laughing at Clover’s surprise. By asking her the mindless question. By keeping that half smile on his face, even though it doesn’t quite touch his eyes yet.


<Clover> Something had changed. In the time that it took for her to change her clothes, something had happened. Rather than ask what was on his mind, to dig further at his walls, she focused on walking. She only needed one foot in front of the other. Wickbridge would make things better. She told herself that her surprise would reset their evening, to take them back to the beginning, before either of them had ventured down the rabbit hole.

“I like surprises,” she admitted, her arms crossed over her chest as if she were trying to stay warm. “It’s fun, and that’s what we need, isn’t it? Fun? This surprise isn’t an amusement park, but I like it. I think it’s better.”

Clover felt the anticipation crawling across her skin and curling in the pit of her stomach. She’d felt the feeling before, the feeling that they couldn’t walk fast enough. She wondered if they would ever reach their destination. The thought hadn’t crossed her mind that they might have to break into the place, that she might have to finally pick locks for a reason other than obtaining bottles of chemicals and coils of wire. But it was still early enough. They still had time. The irony in that thought was that they had nothing but time.

With all the time they had, Clo wanted to ask him how he was doing, how he was really doing. She wanted to ask him about his urge to sire. She knew if she asked him questions related to the subject that he would close up, that he’d pull away even more than he had already. She wasn’t cold, but she curled her arms even tighter around herself.

“My roommate’s name is Athena,” she said, the admission rather random considering their last subject. They were still halfway to their destination and she wanted to fill the silence. Nothing about the silence had been awkward, but it had been unwelcome. “She’s a lot like how I wish I could be, so I’m drawn to her.”

Her brows furrowed, she looked down at the edge of the sidewalk and stepped down onto the asphalt of the street. She wondered if she should tell him that she wanted to introduce them. She wondered if she should tell him that it probably wouldn’t happen anytime soon. Athena didn’t like him. It was her fault Athena didn’t like him.

“She’s a good friend,” she added, not wanting him to get the wrong impression. “She and Kaelyn don’t get along at all.” A small, mischievous smile found its way to her lips. She remembered the time the two ladies met and how she felt like cheering when the environment became tense, full of unspoken words and barely restrained violence. Clo thrived in that environment. “It was actually pretty amusing when they met. It was in Gresse’s.”

She hoped her words distracted him enough so he wouldn’t follow along with their path and calculate their route. While she had lived in the city for years, Jesse had more experience with the streets. If she didn’t distract him, she knew he would eventually pick up on their location and ruin the surprise.


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse’s mind, of course, immediately jumps to obscure thoughts. Athena. Not such a strange name for a modern girl to have, if one’s parents are interested in mythology. But he half wonders, sometimes, if people are affected by their names. Growing up with something that’s supposed to mean a specific thing, do they subconsciously start behaving the way their name dictates they should?

The necromancer walks alongside Clover, aware of the way she hugs her arms around her chest as if she’s trying to keep herself from falling apart. The casual nature of her conversation contradicts her body language. But Jesse doesn’t ask, immediately. He goes with the flow of the conversation, silently pleased that the family had used Gresse’s as a place to meet without him being there with them. It was the point of the place. Another failed project to help bring them all a little closer to tuck into his belt.

“Athena. Among other things, Greek Goddess of war,” he says. “If she lives up to the name, then you probably don’t have to tell me. She wasn’t interested in sleepovers or kids movies?” he asks. It’s a conversation he’s not averse to having; he likes to hear about Clover’s nights, what she does with them, who she spends them with. Jesse is relieved to find out that the housemate definitely isn’t this Anton; it doesn’t cross his mind that Athena could also be human. He doesn’t acknowledge anything else; he doesn’t pay any heed to the way the words drawn to her conflict with the relief of the knowledge of her.

It is, of course, a cue to continue. A silent inquiry, as to why the meeting was amusing, or why Athena doesn’t like Kaelyn at all. Although Jesse doesn’t agree with Kaelyn’s choices recently, that aside, he can’t deny that she has grown up, in her own way. She doesn’t rely so much on the approval of others. She doesn’t make herself out to be the victim as much anymore. Jesse finds her company to be less and less taxing; he is, in his own way, protective of her. He’s perhaps readying himself to defend her, to subconsciously build a defense against the faceless Athena.

There are other questions. But Jesse doesn’t ask them. His gaze watches the street in front of them, his senses alert to Clover’s movements so that he can follow her without looking in her direction. He doesn’t think about where they’re going; guessing isn’t his forte. Patience is one of Jesse’s virtues. Christmas and birthdays were never exciting for him; they were just another day. Maybe he lacks the ability to feel any kind of anticipation, now more than ever. There’s no point, in the end, to feel excitement about things that don’t come to fruition. There’s never any point in making anything feel like it’s going to be more of a revelation then it turns out to be.


<Clover> Goddess of war. Those three words really brought up examples of Athena’s confidence and passion, but no. Goddess of wisdom. That was Athena. Smart. Shrewd. The fact was that Clover was almost envious of the woman. Clo thought about correcting Jesse and admitting the fact that she was envious, drawing out their conversation about her friend, but she didn’t. He hadn’t been very talkative and she didn’t want to pry the words from him. When she saw that they were getting closer to the art gallery, she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans and kept her eyes on the ground. She watched the way her white Converse cut a path across the asphalt, the grass, and the concrete.

Even though the moon dominated the sky, the gallery had its doors open. The lights and noise within the building bled out into the quiet night, mixing with the hum of the city. Normally, the gallery had stereotypical pieces, classical pieces. Clo didn’t want to spend her night looking at classical art. She’d wanted something better, something modern. As she ascended the trio of steps to the building, she looked at the brick wall just inside the doorway. The section of wall had a checklist and a crooked smiley face: Spray paint, check; stencil, check; duct tape, check; good idea to paint on wall, check.

They had a choice to go left or right; the brick wall acted like a fork in the road. In fact, there were different types of displays in either direction, some of them set up on the floor and some of them hanging from the walls. There were all sorts of pieces, but all of them involved spray paint. The place was filled with graffiti.

Clover wanted to say something. She could have said “surprise” at any point, but she just looked at him and smiled. Her smiled conveyed a lot more than words; her smile wavered to show her uncertainty and her vulnerability. What if he didn’t like it? What if he hated it? They’d walked all the way across town to visit the exhibit. She’d put a great deal of thought into the surprise. And most importantly, she wanted to see the exhibit. She liked the exhibit.

The other people in the building seemed absolutely enthralled with the rough artwork around them. The building had practically transformed into a warehouse environment. Most of the walls had pieces of brick walls or plaster or glass decorated with the works of street artists. There were even portions of cars and twisted pieces of metal covered in paint, bearing the tags of the artists and their blood, sweat, and tears. Clover loved the art. She loved the fact that it was underappreciated and absolutely raw.

“It’s okay if you don’t like it,” her thoughts urged her to speak. “It’s okay if you don’t appreciate it.” Her thoughts developed whole conversations full of letdowns and littered with disappointments. Her hands were slightly slick with sweat and she rubbed them against the interior of her pockets, wiping away her own insecurity.

“Banksy might be here, or Posterchild?” Her words were more of a question than she’d intended and she wondered if he even knew about Banksy, if he even knew about Posterchild. Did he know? Was he as invested in the art? “****,” she finally chuckled, “this was ****, right? We can go.”

She was flustered, more embarrassed than anything. Every surprise was a piece of herself and it felt like peeling away a layer of flesh.


<Jesse Fforde> He gets no answers in regards to why Athena and Kaelyn didn’t get along. He assumes, in that case, that he was right. Not everyone is a fan of Kaelyn’s childish enthusiasm, but more and more these days Jesse finds that he enjoys it. The fearless optimism boosts his morale. When she’s optimistic, anyway. More often than not, she’s lamenting something or other that Victor has done. One of these days Jesse’s going to have to go and find out Victor’s side of the story. Until then, he’ll enjoy the company he can get.

The silence stretches until they reach their destination. Jesse doesn’t mind. There’s something intimate in being able to share silence with someone. Clover is so different from Kaelyn in that regard. Jesse’s pretty certain that this same walk with Kaelyn would have been filled with conversation. Frivolous things, maybe, but Jesse indulges her. He finds that he doesn’t really have to answer, most of the time. A couple of words here and there are enough to urge her to continue. Which is also fine by Jesse. He misses just being able to listen.

Their destination is a museum. Jesse’s bright eyes take in their surroundings, soon figuring out what this particular exhibition is. Graffiti, which is in itself a kind of art. Even though he can hear Clover rambling beside him, he stares at the wall that they stand in front of; the fork in the road.

Spray paint. Stencil. Duct tape… Who even needs stencils or duct tape? A darting tongue wets Jesse’s lips as he continues to stare, as his gaze slowly shifts beyond the front doors, to the pieces of art that exist within. Slowly, he shakes his head. With a nudge of his shoulder against Clover’s, he passes her and walks into the exhibit. The cogs are churning in his mind, the gears in his head shifting. Mentally, he’s making his own checklist. Acrylic. Oils. Watercolour. Ink…

Of course Jesse gravitates toward his favourite colours; the vibrant hues of reds and oranges. On one of the walls is a giant skull, encased by fire. Veins spew from the empty eye-sockets while piece of the skull have exploded skyward. Jesse cants his head to the side as he stares at the piece. It’s something he would do. It’s something so like him it’s not even funny. It speaks to him in a way that many things don’t. At first, he thinks it would make an awesome tattoo. But then - he realises it’s awesome just the way it is. Sprawled on a wall and spread out, given the space that it deserves.

“...I’ve never worked with spray paint,” he says quietly, assuming Clover has stuck with him. He doesn’t even look at her as he says it, still staring at the wall. He doesn’t have to say anything else. The suggestion is right there in the tone of his voice. He’s never worked with spray paint, but maybe he should start.


<Clover> Even after he’d nudged her, she remained standing still. She took his motions to mean that he approved of the venue, perhaps that he even liked the place, but she stayed behind to watch him walk away. She watched him as he cut his own path through the interior of gallery. When he found the giant skull stretched across the wall, she finally walked over to him. The skull dwarfed her frame, expanding out and up the wall. And while he might have fixated on the fire that burnt in beautiful shades of red and orange paint, she fixated on the differences in the rectangles and cuboids. The grey-colored rectangles were warped and their lines shaky, imperfect and yet pristine. She wasn’t much of an artist, but that had never stopped her from attempting to make something half as beautiful as the piece before her.

She barely heard him, and when she looked over at him, he had his eyes on the wall. She didn’t think the art, however beautiful, compared to the moment when someone admired the art. People lost themselves in the moment. They stared with unadulterated admiration. And in that moment, she learned a lot about someone. At least, she tried to learn a lot about someone. She tried to glean information from that moment, from his words and the look upon his face.

“So do it,” she replied, her voice just as quiet. She blamed the level of her voice on the fact that they were indoors or that they were in public, but it was because she thought that they were in a delicate situation. She was afraid that she would disturb the moment. When she tore her eyes away from him, she looked beyond him to a display behind him.

The boring tile on the floor gave way to a deep chasm. Browns, tans, and greys mixed together in a descent to the deepest black, a black parted by a teal-colored waterfall. Clo nudged him then, the back of her palm knocking lightly against his upper left arm. She’d moved toward the floor display that spread out beneath a wall of other art. A single wooden plank, also a part of the art, stretched across one corner, as people were encouraged to cross over the slim, ancient board. Clover went right over to the board and stood atop it. The piece wasn’t sectioned off, being one of the things that couldn’t make the journey to another location.

If it were another time, she might have asked Jesse to take her picture. She might have gone around snapping pictures of every little thing. Not that she was a photographer. She was terrible with cameras. Every shot included dust and flares and red eyes. Even though she wasn’t getting her picture taken, she stayed on that board.


<Jesse Fforde> If Clover had been looking for some place to take Jesse that would reveal to her a side that was so clearly him, then she had brought him to the right kind of place. Looking at him, one might not figure Jesse Fforde to be an art aficionado. That kind of assumption is reserved for the old and stuffy. For the tweed-wearers and over-the-glasses-starers. The lecturers and the elite. But Jesse does spend a lot of his time in galleries and museums, picking up ideas from the old and the new. From different cultures - seeing how the world thinks, rather than just this stuffy corner of Canada.

What Clover sees when she watches Jesse watching the art is a kind of calculation; the way he tips his head just so, the way his eyes dance over the different aspects of the visage - he’s not looking for meaning. Not really. He’s looking for technique. He knows how to blend with acrylic. With ink and with oils. Watercolours are his favourites, strangely enough - there’s something about the softness of them that immediately appeal. With this, though? Spraypaint, obviously - maybe chalk? Do they use just the cans as their tools, or do they have other techniques? Brushes to help the texture, or just their hands? He vaguely nods as Clover says he should do it. The plan is already forming in his head - there’s plenty of space at the new lair. No one’s going to care if he uses the walls as practice, right? He can order the spray from his own supplier - get it delivered to work. Claim tax…

These are the things he’s still thinking about when Clover nudges his arm. He glances sideways only to see her disappear from his vision; he turns the other way and watches her as she makes her way toward one of the other exhibits. One that he had not seen straight away, as it is plastered on the floor, rather than on the walls. A slow grin forms as he admires the optical illusion; it doesn’t cross his mind that he could take a picture with his phone. He’s still trying to deconstruct, looking almost dazed as he stares at the piece. Again, trying to figure out how they did it.

His eyes find Clover’s feet, however. She is not part of the art. She is real. Flesh and blood. He circles around, pulling his mind out of its concentration as he reaches out a palm - flat against Clover’s back, he pushes her. Just lightly. The kind of push that would throw someone off balance if they were standing on a rickety piece of wood, as Clover seems to be doing now.

Somehow, she seems to have the ability to bring out the childishness in him.


<Clover> She couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment she fell in love with the art blossoming below her sneakers, but the timing meant absolutely nothing when faced with the fact that she had fallen in love. Something about the coloration left her reeling. Even though she stood on the edge, she felt as if she were precariously perched, only seconds from falling. Wasn’t that how she felt most of the time? Wasn’t that how she felt before they started their journey to the gallery, and even when they’d finally entered the building? The optical illusion, particularly that optical illusion, became her favorite. Her eyes courted the artwork.

Clover wanted to pull Jesse over to her and point out her sudden passion. She’d found her own fiery skull in the small sinkhole, her own amazement in its rough edges and its wondrous blues. When she looked up, her eyes moving beyond the people passing by her tiny world, she saw him looking at her. She reasoned he’d been curious as to where she had gone, or maybe he’d somehow noticed the shine in her eyes. She had to tell him. She had to relay how she’d found something unexplainable. But it was explainable. She could point. She could gesture. She could hope the silence conveyed what words could not. He understood silence. He’d existed in silence. Both of them were capable of taking refuge in the silence.

She’d taken her eyes off of him and looked down once more, past the black jeans and white sneakers. When she felt a palm pressed against her back, she jerked her head up, prepared to lash out. She hadn’t even registered whether she would lash out physically or verbally. The little push surprised her more than the contact, so she did stumble. She stumbled off the tiny piece of wood and fell into the chasm. She didn’t go far. She didn’t fall as far as the artwork might have had her believing. Clover righted herself and narrowed her eyes at Jesse. Of course he had been the one to push her. He must have noticed where she stood and found some humor in his actions.

Clover closed her hand around a portion of his shirt and tugged him. They were apparently in some sort of game, pushing and pulling. “Let’s go,” she smiled, taking steps away from the floor art. They didn’t have to talk about Anton or Athena. They didn’t have to talk about her absence. They didn’t have to talk about his problems or her problems or their recent problems. What happened at her house had faded, disappearing to the back of her mind.

She led him toward a section of wall that a gathering of people had only just abandoned. There were body parts there, an arm and two legs jutting from the wall as if someone had been crushed. She loved body parts.

OOC: Backdated to October 18th

<Jesse> [T] I didn't stop. Kaelyn probably told you I was fine. But I won't be coming home if you're looking for me. Not tonight. I need to make sure I'm not being followed. I'm not making this about me - I'm just letting you know. If any of them ask. I'm fine. Just... laying low. Victor didn't go kill himself in a sulk, did he?

<Clover> [txt] I asked her to text me if anything happened, so I didn't get a text from her.

<Clover> [txt] Can we just

<Clover> [txt] Nevermind

<Clover> [txt] I'm glad you're okay

<Clover> [txt] I took care of Vic...

<Clover> [txt] I don't know if he's better or not, but at least he wasn't alone?

<Clover> [txt] Jesse, have you ever cheated on someone? Would you ever cheat on someone?

<Clover> [txt] Forget the last message.

<Jesse> [T] You always do that. You're so ******* vague sometimes. Can we just... What?

<Jesse> [T] I'm glad to see you've moved on.

<Clover> [txt] Oh **** you. Like you care.

<Jesse> [T] I could say the same ******* thing.

<Clover> [txt] I ******* care! I care a lot. I know that when everything was over, I was alone. Again. That's how it goes. Everyone takes and I get ****. I'm standing here, waiting, feeling like a complete idiot. And guess what? I still feel that way. So I don't need your comments.

<Jesse> [T] What are you waiting for? Do you want me to come to you and tell you that I need you? The others followed me but I didn't want them to. I wanted you to. But you didn't. But you're right. I'm being a selfish ****, as per usual. I hope you're happy together.

<Clover> [txt] I thought you needed time. I didn't think I would be much help. I trusted you to call me if you wanted me. If you needed me.

<Jesse> [T] No. That would be selfish. I don't have the right to be upset. Just don't worry about me. I'm fine. He can give you what I haven't.

<Clover> [txt] I worry about you all of the time because I care about you.

<Jesse> [T] I come to you. I try to give back. I try. But it's not enough. I get that now. I left last night because I couldn't handle the blood. I thought you would understand that.

<Clover> [txt] I understood you had to go! I know you try! I'm glad you try...

<Clover> [txt] I don't understand what's going on.

<Jesse> [T] Nothing. Nothing is going on.

<Jesse> [T] Why did you ask? If I ever have or would cheat?

<Clover> [txt] It's not what you're thinking.

<Jesse> [T] what am I thinking?

<Clover> [txt] I guess I just wanted to know if you understood or not.

<Jesse> [T] understood what?

<Jesse> [T] Your actions or his?

<Clover> [txt] I don't know what he was thinking or feeling and I really don't want to try...

<Jesse> [T] I don't understand. Why did you do it? Do you have feelings for him or was it just a need for physical comfort? Is he going to leave kenlie?

<Jesse> [T] Are you together now?

<Clover> [txt] No, we aren't together, and I don't know if he's going to leave Kenny. I don't know what he felt or if he felt anything. I didn't really sit down and talk to him yet. I'd rather not, actually.

<Jesse> [T] I didn't ask how he felt.

<Clover> [txt] No, I don't have feelings for him.

<Clover> [txt] I haven't told him that yet.

<Jesse> [T] So you did it because you were lonely? Because you are lonely?

<Clover> [txt] Yeah...

<Jesse> [T] I'm sorry.

<Clover> [txt] Why are you sorry?

<Jesse> [T] Because I'm angry. And I have no right to be. And I don't know what to do with it.

<Clover> [txt] Why are you angry?

<Jesse> [T] Because I'm jealous.

<Clover> [txt] I'm sorry...

<Jesse> [T] Why?

<Clover> [txt] Because I hurt you.

<Jesse> [T] How is that your fault?

<Clover> [txt] I don't want to hurt you, obviously.

<Jesse> [T] no. But you have needs too.

<Clover> [txt] Yeah. I guess this would have been easier if I were honest.

<Jesse> [T] so be honest.

<Jesse> [T] I'll start. You are the only person who understands. You get me. You knew what I needed. Grey tries, but she's only ever there to be a bandaid, and has never offered a cure. I need you. I shouldn't. It'll kill her. But I need you. And I don't know what to do about it.

<Clover> [txt] I don't feel alone when I'm with you. Even if we're arguing, even if you piss me off. And when you say that I trail off, it's usually because what I'm going to say might make you uncomfortable. Before, I wanted to say "can we just talk" or "can we just be together." I worry that I'm not good enough. I worry that I'll ruin you. I **** up so much and I don't want to hurt you.

<Clover> [txt] I was afraid that if I came too close, said things or did things that seemed flirtatious that you'd leave me alone. You'd stop talking to me or visiting me.

<Clover> [txt] I need you too... I need your smile and your smirk and the way you cover your face with your hands when I've said something so ******* unbelievable that you can barely stand to continue existing.

<Jesse> [T] Yes. I have. And I would. Is the answer to the question you told me to forget.

<Clover> [txt] You didn't have to answer it, you know.

<Jesse> [T] I don't care

<Clover> [txt] Do you feel any better?

<Jesse> [T] seeing as we're being honest - no.

<Clover> [txt] What will help you feel better?

<Jesse> [T] I don't know.

<Clover> [txt] I like torturing people when I'm upset.

<Jesse> [T] I'm in a basement covered in blood. I have hunters looking for me. Cops shoot me on sight. I've done enough of that already.

<Clover> [txt] What the ****, Jesse!

<Jesse> [T] Don't tell the others. They think I went home.

<Clover> [txt] I'm not telling anyone, but ****. You have to clean up your mess...

<Clover> [txt] Do you want me to come there? Are you at least remotely safe?

<Jesse> [T] I thought you'd be proud. I'm painting the town red.

<Jesse> [T] I'm safe enough.

<Clover> [txt] Of course I'm proud. But you still have to clean up when you're done. Although...I guess I don't do that either.

<Jesse> [T] I don't want them to think this is okay. This is not okay.

<Clover> [txt] Then as far as they're concerned, you're at home.

<Jesse> [T] I am. But I've stopped. I won't be able to come to Kaelyn's party if I keep going. So I'm just going to... Stay here. For a while.

<Clover> [txt] Will you do it again sometime? With me?

<Jesse> [Txt] Yes. I'm afraid to actually leave this room. But I don't want to be by myself. I don't want to see anyone. I don't want to make everything about me. I'm struggling.

<Clover> [txt] You're the beginning and center of this family. Right now? It's okay if things are about you...

<Jesse> [T] No. It's not. I'm not the only one who suffers.

<Clover> [txt] Jesse.

<Jesse> [T] Clover.

<Clover> [txt] It's about balance.

<Jesse> [T] I'm not balanced. Victor's all about ******* 'being there' but gets pissed off because I'm such a downer. He may have been kidding when he said he'd lock me in a room and kill me himself for being such an emo. But it might be an option, in the future. I'm not balanced. It's getting to the point where I think I'd be better off dead. See? I don't want to say **** like that. I don't want to hear that I'm pissing people off. But I suppose I'm bad at pretending.

<Clover> [txt] He's not going to do that. No one's killing you for showing more emotion. Do you honestly think you'd be better off dead though?

<Jesse> [T] Sometimes. Maybe no one's killing me but it's a burden. I don't want to be a burden. I don't want to be weak or pathetic or ... it doesn't matter. You're not coming, are you?

<Clover> [txt] You aren't a ******* burden. Summon me?

<Jesse> Jesse remains where he is. Sitting on the floor with his arms on his knees, the phone held loosely in his grasp. It's a basement. There are no windows. There's cobwebs and old furniture. He's tucked into the very back corner, his back wedged into the ninety-degree angle. His clothes are stiff with dried blood. His canines are sharp - they won't go away. He looks like some version of Carrie. He summons Clover, as requested. But stays where he is, as she appears.

<Clover> At least he was alive. She kept thinking that over and over again. But when she arrived, she turned in a small circle and surveyed her surroundings. The place looked unkempt and the smell reminded her of the scent that permeated the old warehouse near the southside of the city. She could see, even without the natural sunlight, but she still kept her hands out, a habit. When she saw him, she didn't say anything. She walked toward him and sat down in front of him, her legs crossed. "You look a little rough," she finally whispered.

<Jesse> How can he describe what it feels like when she arrives? He can see perfectly well - it's dark, but he's been there a while. He has acclimatised. She is like a wave of cold water after a day in the sun. She is like a cool breeze on a warm day. She is like a warm blanket in the snow. It's got something to do with the fact that she's family, he knows. But there's somethign different there, too. Something that he feels guilty about. But he can't help it. He clears his throat and licks his lips - he can still taste the blood there. He manages half a smirk. "You should feel me. It's like sandpaper."

<Clover> Clo tipped her head to the side and eyed him, trying to decide if his words were meant to be a joke, some sort of clever little pun, or an invitation. It wasn't the time to smile, but she felt the familiar tug at the corners of her lips and she couldn't stop it. "Clever." How did he feel? What was he thinking? The questions came to the forefront of her mind and simply vanished, replaced by minor things. She noticed the way he sat and smelled the old blood buried in the fabric of his clothing. She scooted forward and reached out toward his face, but she withdrew her hand. "I tried summoning you," she spoke, trying to start a conversation.

<Jesse> Jesse is aware of the way he's sitting - with the walls closing in on the sides and his knees up in front, as if he's trying to protect himself from something. When Clover scoots closer, there's the urge to both flinch away and open himself up. Conflicting things. Simultaneous. Although he might have tensed, first, he then lowers his knees, stretching his legs out in front of him and shifting, opening up the space beside him. Summoning. It's a trust thing, right? Maybe that means ... his features nearly crumple. But he'd had enough of that already. No one needed to see his tears. So he takes a breath. He gathers his wits. "I didn't know that was a thing you could do. When?" His voice is heavy. It's not husky, like it normally is. It's robust, slick - oiled by the copious amount of blood.

<Clover> When she achieved landmarks had never really mattered before, both because of her own insecurities and because of lack of interest. No one had really asked her about her abilities outside of crafting or stealing. "I'm not sure if I've mastered it yet or not. I don't really need to summon someone." She stopped herself before she began to ramble. There was always more time for discussing powers, that's what she reasoned. Clo bit down on her lower lip to keep herself from blurting something out, but that never worked. She rambled; she made sentences into nonsense. Looking at him, listening to him, made her want to talk even more. She wanted to spin life lessons out of silence. She wanted to build encouragement out of uncertainty. "Are you scared of yourself?"


<Jesse> There's a glimmer of a smile. Clover. Master evader of questions. Of saying so much in the middle to make the asker forget they'd ask that question to begin with. Does it matter when she tried? Does it matter if it were five minutes ago or twenty-four hours? Yes. And no. If it were the latter it meant certain things might not have happened. Or they would have, just with a different person. He nods. And then shakes his head. "Yes. I'm more scared of... this. Again. Of honesty. It never did me any favours in the past," he says. "Can you come sit over here?" he adds, gesturing to the cement beside him, as if it were the most comfortable throne in the universe.

<Clover> Fragile. That was the word. He seemed fragile. He looked as helpless as she felt. She had to wonder if he knew, if he had surmised as much. They were both weak and helpless, like injured, dying animals. Clo bit her tongue though, succeeding in keeping those depressing thoughts to herself. The last thing he needed to hear was her opinion on their situations. The last thing he needed to hear was that his state brought to mind a sick, dying animal. Even she could do without those horrible thoughts. She could comment on his hesitation with honesty, but they’d touched the subject before, hadn’t they? They’d only just agreed on absolute honesty. “Okay,” she breathed, crawling toward him, tucking herself next to him. His corner had become her corner and it was cramped and cold. She moved close enough so their arms were touching, so their shoulders were brushing, and she stilled. “I’m scared too. Of myself. Of the family. Of a lot of things. Fear is a good motivator.” The last part came unbidden. The words were ones she’d heard elsewhere.


<Jesse> Clover is afraid of awkwardness. That much Jesse knows. Or at least, he assumes, given her messages. He knows he's playing with fire, bringing her here. Asking her to come. He knows it's just asking for trouble. But when, ever, has he shied away from playing with fire? It's one of his favourite past-times. And they've already established that he can be selfish, sometimes. Clover had asked what he needed, what could help. He had lied, when he said he didn't know. As she settles in beside him, he lifts his arm. He shuffles that tiny bit closer. The need to just bury himself in someone else is strong - and worrying, that that person isn't Grey. That he has run from her, instead of to her. "Fear isn't something that I'm accustomed to," he answers. He doesn't care that he's dirty or that the proximity might not be welcome. That it might be Clover, now, who'd do all the things she'd told him she was afraid he would do. Pull away. "It doesn't motivate me. I don't think. I think it makes me push people away," he says. "Because fear is a weakness. And I don't want people to see that," he admits. Slowly. He's never said any of this out loud.


<Clover> She had the urge to argue with him, but she couldn’t. Fear was weakness in the face of the enemy. The only difference was that they weren’t in front of other people. She’d brought up the topic of honesty, absolute honesty, and he’d taken it to a new level. She had nothing to hold back, so fear, weakness, should have been easier to admit, but she still hated talking about it. He probably hated talking about it. It hurt. It hurt worse than a bullet to the gut. “There are times for fear and weakness. There are people you can talk to,” she mumbled. She hesitated, but she curled an arm around him. That’s what she would have wanted; that’s what she would have needed. Dried blood wasn’t one of her favorite smells, and she didn’t like the condition of their surroundings, but those things ranked extremely low on her list of concerns. She understood that refuge was sought and this place had something to offer, something beyond the cobwebs.

<Clover> “I don’t think you’re a weak person. I think you’re strong. I think you’re trying.” She repeated the word, almost echoing bits and pieces of their text messages. She could have gone to him then. She could have gone to him at any point during their exchange of text messages. Instead, she had waited. Clo had drawn out the text messages until he finally had to force her hand, and she knew he had forced her hand. She didn’t think he wanted to be near her. Honestly, she didn’t want to be near herself, if that made any sense at all. “Honestly,” she began, even though she didn’t have to use that word, “I like seeing it. I like knowing there’s something else. Something more. Because when this is over and you dust yourself off, I’ll know where you came from. I’ll know how hard you worked. Really, this is the part of you that’s most important.” She was the person that watched others fall apart. That was what she did; that was her job. She had never really offered physical comfort, but she could say sweet things. She could say soothing things. Her brows furrowed as she forced those thoughts aside, as she tried her best to show, with her arm around him, that she was trying. There was something other than sweet words, something more.


<Jesse> Jesse laughs. It’s a cold sound, bereft of any mirth. People he can talk to? That’s a trap he’s fallen into before, and he’s afraid that he’d falling into it again. Even now as his body leans into Clover’s, even as he takes comfort in her presence, he’s anxious. That it will become too much for her. That sooner or later she’ll sneer and turn her back. She’ll shake her head and tell him what she really thinks of him. Words are just words. No matter how often they’re repeated, it doesn’t make them true. All of those things that he told Grey, that he repeated, but how can they be true with the distance that now yawns between them?

“Been there, done that,” he says, responding to Clover’s statement. She’s trying to help. He knows this. By ‘people’ she’s referring to herself, right? Too late, he wonders if that’s a wrong assumption. If by ‘people’ she means someone else. Professionals. Someone who can deal with his psychoses in a way that no one else is equipped to.

There is more that he could have said, but it doesn’t occur to him. There are people he’s helped – helped with each other, when they were apart, even though he was going through his own kind of hell at the same time. It doesn’t occur to him that they might try to call him. To see how he’s going. Those are people that he has given up on, who he no longer expects anything from.

“I’m terrified of opening up to anyone. To you. It hasn’t done me any favours in the past. I told myself I wasn’t going to do this. I was going to keep it all hidden. I wasn’t going to bother any of you with my ********. And no – don’t tell me it’s not ********. I’m not reaching for sympathy. I’m going to… I’m going to do my best to be what you need me to be. To be the strong person you think I am. To… to be here to dust myself off,” he says. He stares at the decrepit furniture surrounding them. That was more than he intended to say.


<Clover> How many times had she failed to say the right thing, to say the thing that people needed to hear? She’d lost count. ‘I don’t know’ had become her go-to phrase. So when he’d laughed, when he’d dismissed her words and misinterpreted her words, she didn’t know what to do, what to say. The arm she had around him wasn’t enough. The fact that she’d tossed her own troubles aside to be with him in such a godforsaken place meant absolutely nothing. She hadn’t bridged any gap or resolved any of his troubles. She was utterly useless. And yet, where had that thought come from? When had she dropped to that level, the level reserved for the man tucked so neatly against her?

“It’s not ********,” she dared to disagree. Disagreeing with him hadn’t bothered her before, so she had no reason to censor herself. “It’s not about sympathy. It’s about the fact that you can’t carry this around.” What was this? Clover could have described it as emotional baggage, the type of baggage that had sent her on rampages of her own, the type of baggage that had brought out the worst of herself.

Hadn’t Victor given her a similar speech? He’d told her that he’d always be there for her, that she could open up to him, but she hadn’t. She’d tried. She’d been offered an out, a relief, and she’d refused to speak to him. She was unable to speak. Sometimes, the words weren’t enough. Sometimes, the words didn’t even exist.

“You’re so used to cramming everything down that it physically hurts to express yourself. No one knows this side of you, so when you finally express it, it feels foreign. It feels weak. You feel exposed. And you hate it. You hate feeling exposed. You think you’re seen differently, that no one will ever see you as you were before,” she spoke softly, drawing on her own experience. “You’re desperate, disgustingly so. And all you want is to feel wanted, to feel needed.” She didn’t know if she was talking about him anymore, or if she was reading the lines from her journal. But she didn’t want to correct herself. She wanted to say those words, to let them cascade through the air, captured by the cobwebs around them room.


<Jesse> Jesse’s brows furrow. There are reasons why he doesn’t express this side of himself. Because he had done so before, and he has been called weak. And pathetic. He was exposed and he was flayed because he dared open himself up to people who said they cared. People who told him to always open up, that they would always help. People he bent over backwards to make happy and no – no, they never made him feel like he was wanted or needed.

But those are not words that he has uttered so far with Clover, are they? Jesse listens, glancing down at the top of Clover’s head while she speaks. The speech flows from her unbidden, and Jesse can’t believe that she would have thought so much about his inner workings. But the texted conversation is so fresh in his mind – why did she sleep with Victor? Because she was lonely. She admitted it. And it’s not the only time she’s said it, either. He shakes his head.

“It’s more about needing to feel appreciated than…” he stops. That’s it, isn’t it? He wants to feel like his efforts are appreciated. The hold he has on Clover tightens, his hand now resting upon her arm, thumb tracing lines over her skin. He leans down to press his lips to the hair on top of her head. “You are wanted. You are needed,” he says, taking a wild stab in the dark.


<Clover> “And you are appreciated,” she added without hesitation. “I appreciate you.” And what did it mean to appreciate? Her mind went over the definition of the word. To appreciate someone meant to recognize and enjoy their qualities. Yes, she appreciated him. Despite the fact that he focused on the worst in himself, in every single crack in his persona, she saw the best. He always had something more. He was more than the dusty furniture surrounding them. He was more than insecurity. He wasn’t a two-dimensional person, going between desires for appreciation and feigned happiness.

“I thought I’d shown that. I appreciate you,” she repeated, as if repeating the words would cement them in his mind. After all, she’d given him things. She’d given him things when she couldn’t be there for him; she’d given him things when she couldn’t talk to him. Hadn’t anyone else showed appreciation for him? What about Grey? Was it that bad? Where was the family? Were they that scattered?

She almost wanted to tell him to sire, to give up and cling to the desire. Because what else could anyone do? What else could she do? Normally, Clover would have been frustrated at her lack of answers, but the blank spaces didn’t bother her. She didn’t need to fill in the blanks because the answers didn’t matter. She appreciated him. Things weren’t the best, but they weren’t alone.

“When this is over. When we’re out of this place and you’re feeling better, we’ll do something together. I’ll surprise you again. I’ll do something for you. It’ll be great. I don’t know what we’ll do, but,” she stopped, resisting the urge to trail off, “you’ll love it.” Those words were another effort to be positive. She’d promised to be there and being there meant being some sort of light, some sort of positivity, even though it was difficult to see anything good about the situation.


<Jesse> The smile and the nod are almost exasperated. This is a conversation he’s had in his head far too many times. And Clover has been on the receiving end of his frustrations too many times, too. The ******* Handle Bar, for one. But that’s his own fault, right? Gresse’s. It’s no secret these days that people think the name is ridiculous. Jesse himself is starting to be swayed - is it the name? Is that the only reason they stay away? If it was changed, would they gather? Could it finally become the family watering hole that he’d wanted it to be for so long?

And the lair. It’s huge. Massive. Apartments for the family, plenty of other spaces they can use. They can spread out. It’s not so cramped anymore. These are things that they had asked for, right? They all drop in every now and again. They come and go. But they don’t stay there. They don’t live there. If he burned both places to the ground, would anyone notice? Probably, if they tomed in to use the amenities only to land in a pit of smoke and tar.

It is and it isn’t about getting anything back. Jesse is happy to provide for his family - but so often, he tries to give them what they want and then they ask for more. Or they tell him they’d never asked for it to begin with. He shakes his head.

“I know. I know you do,” he says. “Even though sometimes I feel like you might flee the country on a whim. You keep me on my toes…” he says. He could say more. But the silence is preferable, sometimes. And he’s starting to think he’s already said too much. Too much, too soon. It’s as if he’s on a ship that’s sinking, and Clover is the lifeboat. But he’s not quite there, yet. He’s still in the water, fighting against the waves in order to make his way to safety. But he doesn’t have to say any more. He laughs, instead.

“Another surprise? I’ll start to think you’re spoiling me. I think I should surprise you instead…” he says. It dawns on him that Clover has done a lot. More than he had realised. She has tried more than… more than anyone, to keep him afloat. And it’s about time he tries to reciprocate.


<Clover> Her hopeful smile dimmed. She had felt the muscles in her face relaxing; she had felt the corners of her lips slowly falling. She’d let him down just enough for him to question her consistency, the one thing she never wanted him to question. She wanted him to have faith in her in the way that she--well, she didn’t know. Her own thoughts cut off and she was left with nothing but absolute silence. She didn’t even have the usual chatter of her other plots and doubts.

His next words hung in the air in a way that she couldn’t quite describe, but when they slowly dispersed and she began to miss the sound of his voice, she felt the gentle hum of her own thoughts. She was still there beside him. She hadn’t woken up from some sick little nightmare, a nightmare filled with false hope and missed bloodshed. “It’s important that I keep you on your toes,” she wanted to say to him. “You need to keep moving. You need distractions,” she continued, never daring to speak the words aloud.

“I like spoiling you,” she blurted out. Mentally, she went over how she could recall the words or correct the words or cover the words, but she didn’t speak and she didn’t move. She let them hang in the air in the way that his words had done. She let them fall over the both of them. Her words felt almost like a security blanket in the way that they warmed her. Or maybe that was their close proximity. She still clung to the idea of hot and cold, of heat representing something deep and meaningful. “You don’t have to do anything in return.”

But she wanted him to do something for her. She had a small part of her that craved the attention, that craved the type of thought and effort she had put into his surprises. Clo didn’t want him to know though. Clo didn’t want him doing for her simply because he thought he had to return the favor. She wanted him to surprise her because he wanted to surprise her, just as she wanted to surprise him.

“Surprising you gives me something to look forward to. It gives you something to look forward to. It was the only way I could show you that I cared before. I guess it’s still pretty important now.” She looked down at her hands, noticing that they were smudged. The palms of her hands had thin layers of dust and a few streaks of dried blood.



<Jesse> Jesse relaxed, his head hitting the brick wall behind him. Eyes closed, he allowed her words to encircle him. I like spoiling you, she had said. And he couldn’t help but wonder why. He couldn’t help but remember that kiss on the rollercoaster, even though he would not dare mention it out loud. What was he doing here, allowing Clover so close? As per usual, he was being selfish. Taking what she could give him for his own emotional and physical comfort.

What had he given to Clover? Sure, yes, he’d built the lair. She had her own apartment there, one that she didn’t use. Not to his knowledge, anyway. She remained at her house in Larch Court, with the housemate who helped keep her from feeling lonely. What good was he, in the end? He who could not heal her loneliness? What could he give her to make her feel whole, except that which he wasn’t willing to give?

“Don’t,” he said. And then he sighed. He was tired. Sitting there, finally relaxed, he felt the lethargy wash over him. The sun was coming. He didn’t have to sleep through it, even though he did, most of the time. There were no nightmares anymore. There was no reason to avoid sleep. His eyes remained closed, even as his body leaned in to the physical comfort of the body next to him. Clover. He took a breath to explain, even though his words were slow.

“This is good. This is enough,” he says. Does she know what he’s referring to? Just being there. That’s it. That’s all he needs. But, that doesn’t mean that everything else she does goes unnoticed. Again, he takes his time to reply, as if the words are slow to form in his mind.

“No. I like them. The surprises,” he says. “But don’t torture yourself,” he adds. Is this his fault? He doesn’t want people bending over backwards to please him. He doesn’t want people feeling as if they’re not good enough. No, he’s been there. He’s suffered that. Where nothing he ever did was right. He would not wish that on Clover. Not Clover. Again, he sighs. He doesn’t know how to put that in words. Words, there were too many of them. Silence is better. Action is better. This… this is better.


<Clover> She wasn’t torturing herself. Her first response was to deny the fact that her efforts, with him and with others she cared about, caused her any harm. Her second response was to rationalize, to crush any doubts with logic and solid facts. What she did wasn’t torturing herself because she chose to surprise him. What she did wasn’t torturing herself because she got joy out of seeing him happy, out of seeing the people she cared about happy. Her third response involved ignoring the first two responses and descending into a proverbial cavern littered with selfish desires and unfulfilled promises. Clover took refuge in that place; she lived and breathed in that place.

“Okay,” she whispered, plucking the word from the forefront of her mind. Everything was just that. Okay. They were okay. While he relaxed, she struggled to do the same. The things that he’d said set off another rush of anxiety that she tampered with slow, soft breathing. She’d reverted back to human tactics to calm herself.

She felt the familiar pull of the rising sun. She couldn’t forget the feel of being dragged down from one of the greatest highs, of being forced into darkness when all she wanted was to keep going and going. The all-too-sudden slumber forced on her by the rising of the sun always scared her in ways that she could never describe, ways that didn’t quite make sense. The lethargy came and went, night after night, and the rhythm was out of her control. How she hated when things were out of her control. How she hated when she had to admit that she sacrificed herself to help others. She sacrificed herself because she felt the need to take control. Only she could.

Instead of voicing her fading thoughts, she gave him a squeeze and let her own eyes drift shut. Sometimes, she just had to let go.

OOC: Dated to October 20th

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Clover> Taking Jesse’s phone had been an accident, an instance of forgetfulness. She'd meant to take her own phone and text her friends, to do something other than make awkward conversation with Victor. But when she pulled out Jesse’s phone instead of her own phone, she saw a long exchange of text messages between Jesse and Grey; she saw a long exchange of desperation and confusion. She hadn't meant to reply. No, replying to his text messages had never been her intention. She just couldn't help herself. She told herself that she was doing them both a favor.

Kaelyn had been the one to encourage Clover’s behavior. Kaelyn had said that she knew what was best, that Jesse deserved to be happy. What Clo saw in the text messages wasn't happiness. Jesse wasn't happy. Grey wasn't happy. When she'd started typing out her reply, she'd backspaced. She'd backspaced so many times that she almost gave up and counted her losses. She'd turned the phone off. She'd turned the phone back on. Responding to the text message as herself wasn't an option. She'd responded as Jesse, as a jumbled, heartbroken, irritated mess of a man.

Clover swore to herself that she never wanted things to go as far as they had gone. She'd never intended for Grey to walk out on Jesse. But Clo had said the wrong thing; Clo had said the one thing that tipped the scale and sent everything into a flurry of a downfall. Or so she felt. She almost outed herself as Clover. She almost called Grey and begged the woman to forget everything and claim Jesse. She'd almost been selfless enough to do what she deemed to be the right thing. Almost. That was the keyword.

It was later when she finally had the nerve to return the phone. She'd wanted to break it. She'd wanted to lose it. Clover put a lot of thought into her actions, but she still ended up abandoning her walk with Vic and going back home. She still ended up facing the proverbial music. What she had done was inexcusable. If Jesse had pulled such a stunt, she would have thrown the phone at his head. Right? Perhaps. Perhaps she would have laughed, a bitter, hollow laugh. She wasn't sure. She wasn't Jesse.

When she went back, she still had anger bubbling below the surface of her calm facade. She still had so many things she wanted to say to both Kaelyn and Jesse. Instead of delivering the venomous words, Clo stood just inside the room and hooked her thumbs through two of the belt loops on her jeans.

“Jesse, can we talk?”

Those three words were difficult to pronounce and even harder to produce. The fact was that they weren’t alone. Clover had hoped that Kaelyn would have gone, but the girl had fallen asleep. Jesse seemed perfectly content. He didn’t seem like he gave two shits that she’d stormed out and stomped through the cold. She wanted to add a clipped “now” onto her question, but she bit her tongue. Her anger and anxiety might have been palpable, but her words would have taken it to another level, one she wasn’t ready to access.


<Jesse> For a couple of hours the room had been full of sound and colour. There had been laughter, which Jesse didn’t get enough of these days. When it had ended, he’d been confused as to the reasons; except he knew that he wanted Kaelyn to go and see if Victor was alright rather than Clover. He wanted Clover to stay behind. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate Kaelyn’s company. She was a comfort to him, in a completely different way. But Clover understood. He felt like he could just look at her and she would know everything he wanted to say just by looking back.

She had gone after Victor when Jesse felt he could not. For selfish reasons, maybe. Jesse didn’t think he could help anyone else with their problems when he felt like he was drowning in his own. But what were those problems? After Kaelyn went to sleep, he tried to list them in his head. Grey, for one. That was one problem he didn’t know how to deal with. Everything else, though? It all blended together in his head, undecipherable, each indistinguishable from the other.

Instead of trying to figure out what was wrong, he tried to focus on what was right. He was happy that what was left of the family stuck together, in their own way. There were people who could remain strong. He was happy for those who did care - because there was no doubt that they do. Right? He had briefly looked for his phone, wondering if he should continue his spat with Grey now, in private. But his phone was gone. He had said he didn’t want it, and he had got what he asked for.

When Clover came back, he had extracted himself enough from Kaelyn that he could pull the sketch pad back onto his lap. He focused on the strokes and smudges of his pencil, comforted by the weight of Kaelyn’s sleeping body beside him. He first heard the elevator, then the room’s hidden door - he looked up to see Clover there, his lips parted and his brow arched. He nodded, carefully putting the sketch pad aside to get out of the bed without waking Kaelyn.

He didn’t say a word as he crossed the room, his shoulder nudging Clover’s as he went through the door and out into the main room. “Have I showed you my green room yet?” he asked. “It’s where I keep Jormun these days…” he said, referring to the snake that Clover had given to him. The creature settled wherever the plants were. It didn’t take much to lead Clover across the room and toward another hidden door, through which was the room where he kept his plants. The atmosphere within was humid and clammy, the air wet. It helped the plants to grow. The walls by now were covered in vines, though there was an ordered chaos to the mess of hydroponics. The floor was all dirt, through which were trails left by the languid snake.

The room was far away from Kaelyn. And it was far away from disruption. Unless the others had done some thorough exploring, he doubted many knew about this room; and if they did, he doubted they’d need to visit it often. He turned to face Clover, a lazy half smile on his face. “What’s going on?”


<Clover> Wordlessly, Clover followed after him. She’d slipped her hands into the pockets of her jeans, one palm pressed flat against the screen of the phone. The screen was still warm from when she’d been texting, from when the light illuminated her face and cut through the dark night. The warmth made her feel even worse. The phone signified some type of betrayal, despite the fact that it was a simple electronic, reliant upon a battery and an intelligent user. When they encountered another hidden door, Clo stopped to look over her shoulder. She traced a line with her eyes from one secret entrance to another. The doors were parallel, lined up perfectly with one another. Why had he hidden the rooms? Then again, Clover would have hidden them too. She would have wanted a refuge that was still connected to the main room.

“I like this room,” she admitted, admiring the room. Her dark eyes focused on the dirt floor first. The room almost made her feel as if she were outside rather than inside. She’d enjoyed the bedroom; she’d found something cozy about the warm interior. But the green room was much better. She knew that she would go back, time and time again, to lose herself. Even though the air seemed a little stagnant, the atmosphere was peaceful. The room reminded her of how her backyard made her feel, how her garden made her feel. When he’d mentioned the snake, she scanned through the greenery in search of the vibrant scales on the serpent, but she couldn’t locate the animal. The lights and the plants made discerning between shades of green all that more difficult.

Looking around the room bought her more time. She was stalling. She knew she was stalling. Clo moved toward one of the walls and let her fingers grace over the length of a curvy vine. The plants were real. Of course they were real. Every inch of the room was real. Condensation had gathered on the vines, so when she finally pulled away, her fingers were slick with moisture. She brushed her fingers off on the thighs of her jeans and turned back toward Jesse. Her expression was blank, though her eyes screamed out her hesitation. Her eyes admitted her fear. Slowly, she dipped her right hand into the right front pocket of her jeans and pulled out his cell phone.

“I took your phone by mistake. It was an accident.”

Clover held the phone out to him. The device balanced perfectly on the curve of her hand. The rest of her words were implied, or so she hoped. She’d turned his phone on. She’d seen the messages. She’d read the messages. The words that weren’t implied were the ones that mattered the most. She’d done more than read his text messages. She’d impersonated him. She’d replied to his text messages.

Clo couldn’t look at him anymore, so she looked back toward the vines that curled their way up the walls. Stalling. Avoiding. Even though she knew he could easily turn the phone on and see the responses, she still chose to remain silent. At least, she’d chosen to remain silent then.


<Jesse> The words echoed around in his head, round and round. I like this room. Yes, so did Jesse. It was one of his favourite rooms in the place. There was something profound about helping something grow when he felt like his whole life was falling apart around him. The plants couldn’t thank him. They showed no appreciation beyond the greenness of their leaves, or the brightness of their flowers. Sometimes he came in here just to lay down; to wait for Jormun to find him, to encourage the snake to curl itself around him. He enjoyed wasting hours, sometimes, just watching the snake move. Or watching her hunt the mice that Jesse brought her. Something live for her to hunt.

The echo was banished by Clover’s next sentence. Of course. She had wanted to talk to him. Something about her tone had brooked no argument; something about her stance had screamed importance. He turned to face her, to look at the phone she held up to him. When he plucked it from her palm, it was warm. It didn’t strike him as odd, to begin with - phones got warm when in the pockets of their owners, nestled up against the skin. It didn’t occur to him yet that Clover was a vampire, and she didn’t exude the same warmth as she once might have.

Jesse laughed. This was all about the phone? She wanted to talk privately so that she could tell him she had taken his phone? He had told her he didn’t want it. He thought she’d taken it on purpose.

“You’re so serious. It’s fine. I didn’t miss the phone,” he said. His actions belied his words. As soon as he had the phone back he was pressing the button to turn it on - to see the tell-tale sign of the message on that front page, that he would tap and read, even though he was dreading what Grey might have to say. Except when he tapped the screen, nothing was there. Just his background, which was a live play of flames. The time. The weather. No message notification. He could have sworn he’d seen the screen light up, before Clover had put the phone in her pocket.

Curious, just in case there had been a glitch, he swiped the homepage away. Right there, in the background, was the message screen. It was the last app he’d been using, so it made sense. The last message on the screen wasn’t his, though. It was one from Grey. He started to read it, his mouth dry and a dread stone clinging to his heart. He didn’t like what she was saying, but it didn’t make sense. He scrolled up - what had he said that she was responding to?

When he saw what was written there, his eyes widened. The phone had his full attention as he scrolled up some more. And a little bit more. Whole paragraphs that he had not written. He turned to Clover, his eyes lit up by the eerie glow of the phone.

“What did you do?” he asked, steadying himself on a nearby table before he lowered himself to sit in the dirt. He didn’t wait for Clover to answer before he started to read - from the last thing that he had said, to everything since.


<Clover> He hadn’t understood. His laughter delivered yet another cut, or rather another punch to the gut. He’d trusted her and she’d violated that trust. Yes, he’d said to take his phone; yes, she had taken his phone. And then she’d impersonated him. She’d probably destroyed yet another opportunity for him to repair his relationship with Grey. She was a terrible person. She was an awful, terrible person. Her mind was riddled with self-deprecating thoughts and dotted with self-doubt.

Clover buried her hands into the pockets of her jeans, her palms pressed so tightly against the pockets that her jeans slid lower on her hips. He told her he didn’t miss the phone, but he had. While he continued his evening, oblivious, she had been ripping the stitches that held his relationship together. How many times could she think the same dark thoughts? She had eternity. She had seconds and hours and days.

She told herself that she couldn’t look at him, but her brown eyes moved from the walls. She focused on his face; she focused on the way the light of his cell phone seemed to cut a terrifying image into his face. He looked paler. He looked more vulnerable than ever. Clo listed off a number of weaknesses, a number of pitfalls. And as she went through the list, she watched the expression on his face. She compared the change in his expression to the sound of his laugh.

Yes, what had she done? What was she thinking? Was she thinking at all? Clover knitted her brows. She felt her own posture falling. She felt the way her shoulders slumped and all of her muscles relaxed. All of the residual anger fled her body, replaced by absolute despair. What had she done? She couldn’t apologize. Her mouth was too dry. Her lips were too dry. Her tongue felt as if it were glued to the roof of her mouth. She stood there and watched him crumble.

Though she didn’t deserve the relief, she lowered herself onto the ground. She didn’t care that the damp dirt clung to her shoes and her jeans. Nothing mattered more than being there. She had to be strong enough to sit there, to take whatever abuse he decided she deserved. It took her a few minutes before she dared to move toward him. She had to choose to take the risk. She knew there was a chance he would lash out at her, but she also knew there was a chance he actually needed her.

She couldn’t see the words on his phone, but she didn’t need to see the words. She’d memorized every line. She could have recited the text messages for him, if he’d asked. Her own responses had been full of emotion, fueled by her own distaste for Grey’s actions and Jesse’s inability to set things straight. Saying she didn’t know what she was doing would have been a lie. She was well aware of the fact that her thumbs had created words and phrases that were communicated directly to Grey.

“She pissed me off.” Her voice was low, already defensive and weighed down with guilt. Clo didn’t move to close the short distance between them. She didn’t move to touch him. She laced her fingers together and looked anywhere but his face. “You’re a decent human being,” she added, her voice louder than before, “and you wanted her to be there for you, didn’t you? She wasn’t. She wasn’t trying at all. I just thought that...maybe she would get it. I thought maybe she would wake up. She’d understand. She’d be there.”

<Clover> Clover rubbed her hands over her face. No matter what she said, she knew how it looked. She knew she came off as someone with an aim to destroy his relationship. She’d kissed him, after all. She’d known about his relationship when she’d first made her move. Her goal wasn’t to end his relationship through a text message. She’d never intended for things to reach that point. While she had impersonated Jesse, she’d ended her messages by saying she didn’t know why she tried texting in the first place. Grey had been the one to take another step. Clover hadn’t gone to that point.

“I didn’t,” she had to stop there because her voice cracked, “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I didn’t reply again because she just...she just ended things. I didn’t know what to say.”

Clover didn’t blame herself for the last text message. She didn’t blame herself for what Grey had said. Clover blamed herself for the reaction she’d just received, for the way Jesse crumbled.


<Jesse> Jesse had to cover his mouth as he re-read the texts. They were long, but they weren’t that long. Key lines stood out: I can’t bear to figure you out. He wanted to argue with it but his hands were shaking. You walked away from me, too. No, Jesse recalled. No, he remembered that night, didn’t he? He was left laying the grass with the vines tangled in his limbs, and Grey had walked away. She’d walked inside. She’d left him out in the damp darkness.

And yet, Clover had answered on his behalf. She had picked up on that line, too. She had responded to it, in kind. Although Clover’s words were harsher than Jesse’s would have been, they weren’t anything he wasn’t already thinking. Anger at her actions was slowly but surely eclipsed.

Drifting apart, she said. Two different people, as if she didn’t consider herself part of the family that Jesse was wrapped up trying to provide for. As if she wasn’t the person who could help him in that endeavour - as if she was never even going to try. She even admitted to it. Couldn’t adapt. What Jesse wanted and what Grey wanted were entirely different things. Grey was happy with just him, and no one else. Jesse wasn’t the same. He wanted a family. And he wanted Grey to be part of it.

When he glanced up at Clover, his eyes were wet. Her words sunk in, belatedly. He understood them from a distance. He nodded, slowly. He wanted Grey to be there. Maybe he didn’t communicate that properly. Maybe he was contradictory. He had been contradictory, hadn’t he? But why did she always have to take him so literally? Shouldn’t she have come anyway, even if he told her not to? Shouldn’t she have fought to be at his side?

...she just ended things. The words forced Jesse to look again. To read again, for the third time. That last message from Grey - she didn’t say the words. But it was implied. She had walked away. She didn’t come to him when he needed her. She was entirely cordial about it. I hope you find what you’re looking for. Those were her last words. That was it, right? How could that be misunderstood?

The words blurred as the water spilled from Jesse’s eyes. The wetness trailed his cheek and he turned away. He didn’t want Clover to see. He didn’t want to be so broken, but everything was falling apart. The seams had torn. The thread was unravelling. The roof was falling down over his head. He wanted to throw up, but there was nothing there in his gut to throw up. His arm nudged at a plant in a pot - the leaves brightened, a flower bloomed. Jesse picked the thing up and hurled it across the room. He wanted to be angry. Anger was so much better. It was preferable to despair. But it was despair that he felt. Although he might have shouted, the shout was cut off by a sob. A shameful, wretched sob. He shook his head.

“... I can’t believe she’s not… she just … walked away…” he said. He should have been furious with Clover. Should have. But how could he, when what she’d said was true? It wouldn’t have ended any differently, if he’d been at the helm. It would have been the same thing said a different way.

And he just didn’t have the energy to chase her. He didn’t have the willpower to soothe the anxieties of someone when his own were strangling him to death.


<Clover> He looked at her and she wanted to disappear. He had such emotion in his eyes that everything she felt, everything she had ever felt, paled in comparison. There were words that surfaced to describe his expression and the unspoken words hidden behind his eyes and beneath his skin. Hollow. Frail. Lost. He looked broken. Clover had thought that he’d fallen as far as he could go, but she had been wrong. She sat there and watched him descend to the lowest levels she’d ever seen. She swore she saw him crack; she saw him shatter. She heard everything fall apart.

She made a move to go to him, but he threw a potted plant and she had to jerk away. When he’d pulled back to throw the plant, some of the dirt flew back and hit her in the chest.The wet dirt clung to her t-shirt and then dropped into her lap. There was no attempt to brush the dirt from her shirt, from her pants, or from her forearms. In the back of her mind, Clo wondered if he’d wanted to aim the pot at her. She deserved it. She deserved him lashing out at her. But her thoughts fell away at the sound of his sob and the addition of his voice.

Finally, Clover crawled toward him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of vibrant green. She’d finally seen the snake she’d searched for at the beginning of her arrival. The creature watched her in the way that she couldn’t watch it. She wanted to turn her head, to point out to Jesse that she’d finally found the snake, but she couldn’t. She stopped at his side and admired the way the tears had created jagged puzzles across his face. The words weren’t coming fast enough, so she looped an arm around him. It was a moment, just a beat of silence, before she finally hugged him. Her position made the hug awkward, but she didn’t care.

“Sometimes,” she began and stopped, her voice slow and quiet. The room seemed so loud in comparison to her voice. She felt small. She sounded small. But nothing seemed as small or as delicate as the man she held. “Sometimes people just drift apart. Sometimes things happen. Sometimes you realize who people really are. I can’t completely understand how you feel right now, but I’ll try? I’ll listen. I’ll hold you. Whatever you need.”

Her words opened the door to so many possibilities. She’d offered to listen to him cry, to listen to him rage, to listen to him reminisce. Guilt didn’t fuel her reaction. Guilt didn’t step in and lead her toward a response that might have left her suffering. Things had fallen apart. People had fallen apart. Clo didn’t want to say that Grey had abandoned him; Clo didn’t want to say that Grey had let him down. The words remained in the back of her throat, lost amongst other long-held accusations. Her harsh words mutated and festered.

“I’m sorry.” She finally apologized, but she didn’t specify whether she meant to apologize for what she’d done or where Jesse found himself. Right then, she had no intention of specifying. She had no intention of applying her apology, like a bandaid, to a very specific wound. “I’m sorry,” she repeated again, more for herself than for him.


<Jesse> Jesse couldn’t think. He didn’t know where to place the blame; he didn’t know whether he was overreacting. Was it him? What would he have done six months ago? What would he have done had this happened just after he’d sired Rhett, for example? But it wouldn’t have happened. Because he wouldn’t have needed Grey as much as he needed her now. If he didn’t have this addiction, this curse none of it would have happened? Was it a good thing or a bad thing? You never knew someone’s worth until they were put through hell, right? And this was hell. This was it. It wasn’t the first time, either. Should he have been stronger? It’s what he was trying to do. To be strong. Even for Grey - to put on a mask and try to hold it together for as long as he could.

Except he hadn’t. He couldn’t. He’d snapped, and now he was here. He had texted Grey with an accusation. Maybe he should have started differently. Maybe he should have gone home and met her there. Maybe he should have talked to her, face to face. All these maybies, could haves and should haves were not helping. The truth? Jesse couldn’t keep any one thought straight in his mind. He blamed Grey. He blamed himself. He was angry. And he was in despair. There was guilt and shame. This weakness was crippling, and when he felt Clover’s arm around his waist, he tensed. For a few seconds, he’d forgotten that he was not alone. So overwhelmed, the touch reminded him of his surroundings.

At first, he didn’t want to be touched. He didn’t want to be hugged. He wanted to be alone; he wanted to tear the place apart.

When Clover spoke, Jesse shook his head. She continued to apologise. Was she apologising in that way that people do when they have nothing else to say? They apologise for something they didn’t do. They apologise for the loss of a loved one. For a death, or an illness. An expression of sympathy that sometimes was not wanted or needed. Or was she apologising because she thought it was her fault? Jesse could do nothing but shake his head. When he swallowed, it felt like his throat was constricted. He felt like he was being strangled. He didn’t want to talk. He couldn’t talk.

Eventually he relaxed. He turned toward Clover and curled himself into her embrace. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t lift his face. He didn’t sob anymore - he was silent as the grave. But his body continued to shake. The attempt to bottle his emotions wasn’t going so well.


<Clover> Clo tried to ignore the way he reacted to her touch, but it hurt. She tried telling herself that he had far too much on his mind and far too many responsibilities on his plate, but that did nothing to appease her. He’d just lost his fiancée, and he likely blamed Clo for how things had ended. After all, he hadn’t told her otherwise. That was fine. She told herself that he had every right to point the finger at her. Whatever kept him going. She’d lived on rage alone, so she understood how powerful emotions shaped bodies and minds. Eventually, he would be okay. They were walking examples of regression to the mean.

She didn’t like the way he shook his head at her. He shook his head as if he were dismissing her apologies. Why didn’t he want to accept her apologies? Perhaps she’d reached her own limit. Perhaps she’d surpassed the limit when she’d impersonated him and jabbed a few more holes into his fragile relationship. It wasn’t too late. Why wasn’t she moving? Why wasn’t she offering to go and get Grey? He would have blown up right in front of her, or so she thought.

In her mind, Clover thought that the mere mention of Grey’s name would drive Jesse over the edge. No, that wasn’t it at all. Jesse had the sole right to utter his fiancée’s name. Clo had no right to have the woman’s name upon her own lips. Something about that arrangement made Clo hesitant to offer anything more than comfort. Then again, haven’t she already done enough damage? Once things settled, once Jesse crawled his way out of the darkness and into some sort of light, he would have another opportunity. Until then, what was he supposed to do? What the **** was Clover supposed to do?

When he finally relaxed, he did it in a way that made it feel impersonal. But she hit her tongue. He had the right to do whatever he pleased. On the subject of Grey, he owned full rights. She tried rubbing his back to soothe him. She didn’t know whether her movements helped, but she’d been held that way before. She’d appreciated the attempts. She could have talked to him more. She could have offered him words instead of actions. Clover didn’t think he wanted to hear another word from her though. After all, he’d shaken his head. What was left, other than to hold him and rub his back?

All at once, another thought exploded to the forefront of her mind. Had Jesse really expected Grey to stay? Had he really expected things to end any other way? Maybe he would go after her. Maybe she would finally drag herself back to him. And then they could repeat the cycle, over and over again, until they eventually settled back into their rut or one of them decided to rock the boat all over again. Clo didn’t notice when she’d begun to lose herself in her thoughts or when her focus had shifted from the repair of relationships to the inevitable breakdown.

“You can go and talk to her, once you calm down,” she thought to herself, still refusing to break the silence. “You can sort this mess out.” Again, she refused to let the thoughts from her mind and past her lips. She just held him.


<Jesse> This was all that Jesse needed. There was no strength in his limbs to get up and go after Grey, to find her. Maybe he should have. If he were in his right state of mind, he would have. He’d have hunted her down and he would have made her listen. He would have argued with her until he had no voice left. But it would have been the same thing, the same damned things he’d said the last time, and the time before that.

This time, he couldn’t reassure Grey. He couldn’t tell her that she was enough. He couldn’t tell her that she was all that he needed. There was only so many times he could reassure the woman he loved that she was loved enough. Oh, he knew he was being selfish. In that moment, his brain warred with his own rights and his own moral responsibilities. He could hardly assure himself that he was okay. That he was enough. That he was worthwhile, and that he was not a burden. There were reasons why he’d locked himself up in Cerberus; he needed Grey to come to him. He needed her to be able to put her own insufficiencies aside, but she hadn’t. Instead of coming to him, she had instead touted her own shortcomings and had walked away because it was what she thought was best.

Jesse didn’t have the strength, this time around, to argue with her. She herself had pointed everything out - the fact that he wanted her to be a part of the family, to be social, and active. It was selfish, and he shouldn’t have to ask her to change. These were the things that he wanted and if she couldn’t give them, then were they right for each other? Could they go on living that way? Grey wanted Jesse to come home. To open up to her. They had been together for years, and yet…

He couldn’t tell Clover any of this. He couldn’t reassure her, either. The only thing he could do was sit there and let it out, the misery. The loss of the flame that had kept him alight for so long. But it hadn’t been doused suddenly. It had slowly faded, over the past few months. So slowly that he hadn’t noticed until now, when the wick finally gave up and went out with a hiss and a dance of smoke.

It wasn’t normal behaviour for Jesse. But it had come at the wrong time. He was drowning, and Grey had just attached a brick to his foot. He didn’t know how long he stayed there. Soon, his body stopped shaking. Soon, he must have fallen asleep - he dreamed that Jormun joined them, in their tight little circle, the snake’s green scales coiling them together.

OOC: Backdated to October 22nd

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Jesse> Jesse stares at his phone. It remains blank. He hears from neither of the women; he doesn't know where Clover is or what she is doing. He has visions of her finding Victor. Of going after Victor. Of... of what? Why is this bothering him so much? Guilt rips through him as he thinks of the other woman; the one who was all words and no action. No. He'd not been lying to Kaelyn. It should hurt a whole lot more than it does, but he'd shed his tears. He'd been hurting for months, and had only just had the ability to release it. Now? Now, he admits to himself that he has been thinking of Clover for months, too. He had admitted to his jealousy. He had admitted to his need. To her face. So he gives in, now, to his selfishness. Standing in the middle of the room, the fire already roaring, he summons her.


<Clover> She knew. She recognized the feeling. The moment he summoned her, Clover wanted to cease existing. He was going to say more things about her. He was going to watch her cry. And she couldn't exactly sever the type of bond, whatever it was, that went into summoning. So when she appeared, she just stood there and refused to look at him. Somehow, that made everything just a little more bearable. His final words ate at her as if they were trying to feed, to fuel their transformation into an actual monster. Her eyes were watery still and there were still remnants of black blood along her right hand, the hand she'd slammed against the bar and the one that she'd slammed against the outside of the building.
When her phone started buzzing, she took it from the pocket of her shorts and replied. The phone went right back to her pocket though. And it stayed there. She didn't want to be the first one to break the silence. There were words and phrases bubbling beneath the surface, and she knew they were fueled by anger. She wanted him to say what he had to say, that he had jumped to conclusions or that she had jumped to conclusions.


<Jesse> Jesse hovers. He's not awkward. He's staring at Clover, his eyes sharp and searching, waiting for her to look up. The blood doesn't help, but nor does it really hinder - the blackness is different. His phone buzzes over on the dresser but he ignores it, completely. They have the room to themselves, for once. There is no Kaelyn. No Victor. No one else. Finally, Jesse reaches out; both his hands tuck either side of her jaw, forcing her to look at him. He opens his mouth, but the touch is almost intimate. He stumbles over it. Before he stops, readjusts. "I'm sorry."


<Clover> It was fine. It was nothing. Those were standard, dismissive responses. But the way he'd approached her, the way he'd initiated physical contact, really made her reconsider. She didn't know what to say to him when she didn't fall back onto her usual responses. He had apologized and she could only stare at him, her gaze locked on him. Was she sorry for something? Was she apologetic about anything that had happened throughout the party?

"I'm not some," she began, her eyes narrowing as she struggled to find the words. What wasn't she? "I'm not like that. Okay? I'm not. I'm not just going to run off with someone. I don't just hand out sexual favors. And it's okay if you think I am the type. It's fine. It's great. I don't just...I don't just sleep with anyone who gives me the time of day, okay?" She began rambling, her words shaky and closely spaced. She regretted not saying it was 'fine.'


<Jesse> "Why would I think that?" he asks, sharply. Hadn't they already been honest with each other? Hadn't he already said? He knows she slept with Victor because she was lonely. And she already knows, doesn't she? "Do I have to say it again? I was jealous. Okay? I didn't want you to go and I didn't want to be alone so naturally I said the complete opposite. Did I call you a slut? Did I actually say that word?" he asks, exasperated. He can still smell it, the blood. His nostrils flare and his hand drops to hers. He lifts it, gazing at the wound curiously. Does it still taste the same? It's been... nights, since he'd last... before he even knows what he's doing, he lifts the wounded knuckles to his lips. He can't help himself. Vampire blood is not... but in small doses it doesn't matter. His eyes close as he kisses her knuckles. As his lips touch against that strange blood, with its strange consistency. As he lets the tiniest drop touch his tongue. As if the single gesture, the single touch could say what words would not. The words that he doesn't know how to formulate.


<Clover> She listened to him; she heard every word. She shouldn't have jumped to conclusions and lost her temper. Clover knew jealousy. She'd experienced quite the rush earlier in the evening. Even then, she'd used her words instead of simply jumping to conclusions and storming out to lay waste to whatever object she deemed fit. But even as she felt Jesse take her injured hand, she refused to part her lips and utter the same apology. They'd somehow acknowledged the misunderstanding and wasn't that enough? Wasn't that enough on the subject?

"I'm sorry too," she spoke, her voice sounding foreign. She'd surprised herself with her own apology. "I was jealous too." Clo didn't want to say anything else then, not when he had his lips against her skin. It was different. It felt different. She wasn't sure what to make of it. It wasn't devoid of emotion, nor was it erotic. Clo had told herself she wouldn't say anything else, but she felt the sudden need to speak, to say anything at all. "I really care about you." Anything but that. Could she say something else? "And I'm sorry." Hadn't she already apologized? "Again." She understood what it meant to have a mental train wreck.


<Jesse> Jesse doesn't understand. Jealousy? What could Clover have been jealous of, earlier? What had he done, that she could be jealous of? But he likes hearing it, regardless. He doesn't question it. He doesn't seek to clarify. "...stop apologising," he finally says, looking at Clover's hand as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Maybe he does need instructions. He looks up, then, catching Clover's eye. "I care about you. Have I said that already? I do. I care about what you need more than what I need. Clover. Tell me. What do you need?" he asks. There are other things he wants to say. Other things he wants to clarify. He's hesitating where he normally wouldn't. Conflict exists within him, churning and burning from within. He takes a breath, breathing in Clover's scent. Licking the blood from his lips, his hand still cradling hers. He can tell that she is flustered. He's almost flustered himself, as if it's catching. At this point, here, now, he is uncertain. Like the two of them are standing on the edge of a cliff trying to convince each other to leap.


<Clover> Clarifying words and moments meant nothing. She had been jealous, but those moments were in the past and those feelings were buried beneath new ones. She didn't know what she wanted, not really. When faced with such a question, she usually fell victim to a wave of panic or rage. Uncertainty wound its way around her body and squeezed, crushing her. What was it that she needed? She took her time looking over his facial features, taking in smooth dip of his nose and the curve of his lips. And every time, she found his eyes. "I need," she breathed, letting silence fall between them.

The answer should have come to her; she should have filled in the sentence with sheer willpower. But real life didn't work that way. She had to speak the words. "I think." She whispered those words, only to herself. "I need you." Clo wasn't afraid of speaking the truth, not when they'd shared the words before. Though she could have added other words to lessen the meaning or changed the intonation to make her response sound like more of a question, she didn't. She spoke clearly and she looked him right in the eyes, as if challenging him to say the same, to say the words they'd typed aloud.


<Jesse> He wants to say it. I don’t want to disrespect you. I don’t want you to think you’ll just give yourself to me. But this, between them, it’s not normal. It’s not an ordinary kind of relationship. Jesse’s never been in this position. Normally he just takes. He makes the first move and he gets what he wants, and he does so by following his own physical urges. But he hadn’t made the first move, this time, had he? Clover had. Months ago. And now he’s being very slow about returning the favour.

He’s never been much of a speaker. Silence is his forte – communication via action, rather than by words. But Clover’s words sink in. They are what he was waiting to hear. And he doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t care who could walk in on them. All he knows is that he needs her, too. He needs Clover, because she understands. He needs… to not be alone. Nodding, he takes a single, tiny step forward, invading Clover’s space.

Again, his hand lifts. Tattooed fingers tuck behind Clover’s neck, thumb grazing her jaw. For a few long moments that’s where he remains – close, gazing down, thumb continuing to trace a line back and forth. As if he’s contemplating asking permission, first. But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. That’s not his forte. His head dips, bright blues still open, watching Clover. His lips hover near hers. No, he tells himself. This doesn’t feel like a mistake. This isn’t a mistake. This feels…
When his lips touch hers, his eyes close. Tentative. Jesse isn’t normally tentative. But he’s tentative, now. Testing the waters. Waiting to see if they’re calm or stormy.


<Clover> He didn't say anything, but the world hadn't ended. She opened and closed her free hand, revelling in the feel, in the movement of muscles. She hadn't turned to dust and neither had he. Sometimes the silence bothered her. Sometimes the silence felt too harsh, like a hostile environment all its own. But those long gaps without conversation gradually became a time for herself. She could focus on her own thoughts and her own actions. So when he didn't speak, when he nodded, she nodded too. In her own way. Her way consisted of subtle touches to his sides, the opposite of the pokes and prods she'd found so amusing only seconds, minutes, or hours before.

She ghosted her fingertips over his ribs until there were no more to count. Her hand had no other place than at his hip, but she didn't mind. It was different, she'd decided, very different. But it wasn't bad. It was far from bad. She didn't have to talk either, not that she had much of anything left to say. Three words were enough. Her hand trailed up along his side again and curved, moving toward the center of his back and then down again.

She mimicked the way he seemed to pet her before he finally closed the distance and pressed his lips to hers. It took her a second longer to close her eyes, but she did. She was sure, but she kept the kiss rather chaste, thinking it best to let him lead. The first time she'd kissed him, she'd been awkward and nervous, only trying to communicate her feelings before he'd had a chance to blink.


<Jesse> Clover doesn’t pull away. That’s all Jesse needs. Rather than pull away, she holds him. Those small touches are foreign, and new. Maybe he’s not just testing Clover, and her willingness. He’s testing his own. And when Clover doesn’t pull away, Jesse gives in. He tumbles. Right over the edge of that cliff, and he takes Clover with him. He sucks in a breath, lips parted from hers for just a second before both his arms snake around her, lifting her from her feet if he has to.

He crushes her body against his; that body, so full of fire and anger and hurt. The same kind of fire, anger and hurt that lives inside of Jesse. The parts of her that had always spoken to him. She is broken, and insecure, but she rages against it. Or so it seems, to Jesse. He needs her. He needs that fire, that passion. He needs her surety – because she has that, too. In spades.

<Jesse> There’s a soft growl that purrs in his throat as he takes a few small steps forward. As he pushes Clover’s smaller frame against the bookshelf – mostly empty, for the moment. They haven’t been here long enough to fill it. His tongue parts her lips, devouring them in that need. That want. The desire that he’d been denying for so long.


<Clover> The moment he pulled his lips from hers, she thought he was going to be the one to pull back and apologize, but no. Not Jesse. She put more pressure on his sides, savoring the feel of actually holding him. How long had it been since she'd touched someone, really touched someone? And why not him? There was something unique about every person and she wanted to learn him. That's why she had spent time poking and prodding. Touch was something extremely powerful and left one very vulnerable, and that's why she shied away from it. When he pulled her close, she gasped against his lips. It was like he'd gained some type of reassurance and it left her reeling. Had he been holding back to see if she'd pull back?

Her thoughts resurfaced, but they were drowned out by the feel of his lips against hers, the feel of his body against hers. As her back met the bookshelf, she nipped at his bottom lip. She savored the taste of him. He'd pushed her, but she pulled him. She couldn't get close enough. It almost felt as if they were trying to coax something from one another. She darted her tongue out to tease at his own, but it wasn't enough. She was greedy and selfish and it was okay as long as she had her lips against his. Clo nipped at his lip again. Once could have been an accident, but not twice. That was what she liked.

<Jesse> Clover is still wearing what she was wearing to the party. The hoodie is a thick barrier but it is easily shiftable. With Clover up against the shelf, it is easy enough to get his fingers to her skin, to lift the hoodie just enough so that his bare arm can slither against her bare torso.

The sharp nip of her teeth playing with his bottom lip acts as a guide. A physical cue. His own teeth remain sharp - a side-effect of his easily-inspired blood lust, the frenzy always lurking beneath the surface. The hunger ever-present. The thirst. The heat from the fire fills the room, hot against his back. Fingers dig into Clover’s flesh as his lips shift, the stubble scratching against her tender skin. A kiss lingers against her neck, before his own teeth nip. Not enough to draw blood. But enough to tell her that two could play at that game.

For a few seconds he remains buried against Clover’s neck, his face nuzzling into the warmth of her. No, she emits no heat. Neither of them do, as vampires. But there is warmth. A different kind of warmth. He snatches another breath, nipping at Clover’s ear before returning his lips to hers. The kiss is deep. Deep and grateful.


<Clover> She didn't think she could get enough of him. Her hands couldn't feel enough of him. Her senses, even as strong as they were, seemed lackluster at best. She had to wonder if it was some sort of spark, some type of passion layered in rage and acting like pure adrenaline. She dragged her fingers down over the black fabric of his top, tugging on the material. She really wanted to rip it. With the way he kissed her and the cool feel of his hand against her bare skin, she wanted to return the favor.

She tilted her head to give him better access to her neck and then she played more with his shirt. She moved her hands around him and dipped down to the very hem, pulling it up higher and higher, revealing more of his skin. When he nipped her neck, she moaned and pressed her fingertips into his back, dragging the pads of her fingers down toward the base of his spine.

The feel of his lips on her neck left a line like fire over her skin. She could still feel the outline, the pressure, even after his lips were on hers. She started putting more force into her kisses until she pulled away altogether. She pulled back just enough to really look at him, to see him, and then she leaned forward once more to press a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Clo only parted again to pull her arms from the sleeves of her sweatshirt, to pull the cotton blend up and over her head and toss it aside as if it were never there in the first place. Left in her black cami, she returned her lips to his. Her tongue darted out to lick lightly at his lips.

<Jesse> Jesse had begun as glowing coals. First, Clover had added kindling by not pulling away--paper and twigs that slowly caught alight. When she moaned, she may as well have thrown gasoline into the mix. Not to mention her fingers dragging along his skin, the touch of the hot air as she lifts his tank higher. If Jesse’s first steps had been tentative, they are now certain. Sure. This is a dance that he knows well, even if the suddenness of the music has left him a little dazed.

When Clover pulls back, Jesse takes the opportunity to look at her, too. To really look at her, as if her expression might somehow tell him what she’s thinking. His hair is mussed; it hasn’t been brushed for days. There’s been a scowl on his face for days, too - skipping from anxious to angry to upset and irritated and all the way back again. He scowls without even realising it, most of the time. Beneath his mussed hair, though, with his lips parted and glistening, there is no scowl. There is just wonderment, and a slow inquisitive blink.

He turns into the kiss; he wants his lips on hers, not her lips at the corner of his mouth. Before he can claim them, however, she rears back. The first item of clothing is removed, and Jesse doesn’t even have to think. He doesn’t have to question his actions. He moves like a man possessed; his arms wrap around Clover again, delighting in the flimsy material of her cami. It doesn’t take much to lift her, bodily, and carry her to the bed. To fall with her into the mess of the blankets and pillows; his den of ineptitude.

It takes but a moment for him to rid himself of his own shirt, rearing up over Clover. Otherwise barefoot, and still wearing the white pants given to him by Victor as part of the costume, he falls forward. His body crushes Clover’s against the softness of the bed, his lips ravishing hers, nipping at her lower pout just as she’d nipped at his earlier.

There is a voice, deep down, questioning his actions. There is a part of his soul that mourns a loss that it hasn’t yet recovered from. There hasn’t been time. There is a part that wonders… but it is eclipsed. A far stronger voice reminds him of who he is, and who he has always been. This is the voice that he listens to.

<Clover> She didn't consider the fact that he might have had doubts. She reasoned that if he kept going, she kept going. If he wanted more, then she wanted more. She wouldn't stop him. Because, in the end, how far they went made no real difference to her. That's what she told herself. Whether they had sex or not made no difference. She was an adult and she could separate actions from feelings. She was capable. Those reasonings were the roots of her thoughts that extended into pure enjoyment. Those reasonings were combinations of feminism, denial, confusion, jealousy, happiness, and arousal.

When he picked her up, she only felt more encouraged. She took refuge in his bed as she'd taken refuge once before, except the reasons were different then. Before, she'd taken time to appreciate the blankets and pillows. Instead, she took time appreciating Jesse. She watched him tug off his shirt, her eyes following the path of the fabric as it slid up along his stomach and then up and over his head. There was an obvious disconnect in her mind when it came to doubts and responsibilities and regret. So when he placed his body back over hers and went to reconnect their lips, she happily obliged.

Clo placed her right palm against his cheek and captured his lower lip. Her playfulness had dimmed. Her fangs were absent then as she sucked lightly at his lower lip and released, craving the sheer pressure and the pinch of him nipping at her lips. As she kissed him, she nudged the back of her shoes against the bed. She nudged her sneakers, one little movement at a time, until they slid off and landed on the floor with two tiny thuds.

She slid her hand from his cheek and trailed it down toward his hip. She flipped them over, her own body fitting against his, and ran a hand down along his arm. Clo didn’t want to pull her lips from his, so she made her kisses quick in succession as she straddled him. Did he want to stop? Did he want to keep going? The questions sat in the back of her mind as she leaned away, her fingertips going to the bottom hem of her shirt. She hesitated. She’d wanted him to give her some signal, to say something or do something. Was she taking advantage of him? Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, to gather some remaining taste of him on the sensitive flesh.

<Jesse> Jesse doesn’t expect to be flipped. He doesn’t have the time to question why he didn’t expect it. It’s Clover, after all. She has never been submissive. Never, in all the time he has known her, has Clover ever appeared weak or vulnerable. She has a fierce independence and a guarded mystery that manages, in some small way, to intimidate Jesse. He goes over easily, not aware of the softness beneath him but instead focused on the weight above him. His head tips back, mouth slightly parted when Clover finally pulls back, and away. Bereft of the feel of her lips, he opens his eyes. A slow blink is all that he offers her, to begin with.

The woman had flipped him. She had commandeered the control, wrangling it from him. Did she not appreciate the way he had grabbed her, carried her, thrown her? It doesn’t seem like it. But regardless, he takes the time to admire her. Clover. He can never quite figure her out.

Tattooed hands grasp at her thighs, and travel up toward her hips. She has hesitated, and although Jesse doesn’t immediately move to reassure her, it is not because of any hesitation on his part. There is no regret in his eyes. There’s no anxiety. There’s no fear. They are clear and wide as his head tips lightly to the side.

No, he tells himself. No, he is not doing this just because of who he once was. Yes, it’s been a while. Yes, just thinking about it has his pants tightening, tantalizingly. But this isn’t just physical satisfaction. This is… has, been there for a while. A slow attraction that he has not noticed, or not acknowledged due to the promises that he is now breaking. The moment of stillness arouses a strangled growl in his throat. His shoulders shift as he reaches for the same hem that Clover hesitates at. His fingers fist around the cloth and in one swift movement, he is no longer just laying there. He is sitting up, helping Clover off with her cami. Up, over her head, along with any other paraphernalia that might inhibit her nakedness.

There are no boundaries for his avid fingers; no limits to his ravenous gaze. If he pushes Clover back, it might be to admire her nakedness, but not in the way one might imagine. Instead, his fingers graze over the ink; the city, drifting from the pipe, the vibrant colours that stretch over behind her ribs, and up over her shoulders. He’s never been allowed this close, or this much. Does each one have a story? What can they tell him about the woman now straddling his hips? His gaze dips down, to the dagger pointing down toward her pelvis. What’s down there? His fingers barely resist the urge to sink down beneath the line of her pants.

Instead, he wraps his arms around her. Sitting up, he doesn’t allow her all the control. His lips press exploratory kisses to her shoulder, her collarbone, and again the tender skin of her neck. As much as he might want to sit there and admire every pretty picture etched into her skin, there were greater urges at play. Urges he could not deny.

OOC: Backdated to November 4th

<Clover> [txt] Meet me at the docks.

<Clover> Clover had left without texting him. She waited until she was far enough away, until her white Converse were planted firmly upon the wooden platform. The journey hadn’t taken very long. She’d taken the portal to Bullwood, then taken the station to River Rock. No, the journey from Larch to the Docks seemed like a blip on the radar. All the while, her mind wandered. She thought back to times before the four-month mark. She thought back to times when she’d argued with Jesse about his siring addiction. She thought back to times before breakdowns and estrangements.

As she traced a familiar path along the platform, she began to wonder whether inviting Jesse out to her spot was really such a good idea. But her sharing things took his mind off his own problems. They’d promised honesty. And so she found herself ripping away layer after layer; she found herself breaking down walls she hadn’t touched in years. She moved with such obvious desperation, because she hoped that by baring herself to him, he would stop and reconsider his actions. She hoped he would recognize how hard she tried. She hoped she made a difference.

Somehow, the focus had shifted, and she’d admitted to the shift. She’d set her troubles aside and picked up the pieces of Jesse’s life. She fell right into the chasm he’d created for himself. She was drowning. If she fell off the docks and let herself drift to the bottom of the dark waters, she might have felt a physical equivalent to her emotional situation. As she looked at the tiny ripples on the surface of the water, she actually contemplated tossing her book aside, kicking her shoes off, and diving right into her favorite spot. She would have joined her victims. She would have surrounded herself with the garbage bags riddled with body parts and weapons.

Clo unbuttoned the silver buttons on her denim jacket and drew her eyes away from the water. She dropped her book onto the wooden platform and slowly lowered herself onto the edge. Her feet dangled above the water, almost kissing the ripples she’d admired only moments before. Instead of looking at the water below her, she looked out to the skyline. She tried to find the edge of the water and the beginning of the sky. With the dark, she had to look a little harder.

She wasn’t alone. There were people coming and going. She’d chosen the spot to dump her bodies simply because it created a challenge for her. She’d chosen the spot as a meeting place because of the same. She meant to share more than her every thought; she meant to share a physical space. While she wasn’t alone, there were no people in the immediate vicinity. The people were too busy on their boats or other platforms. They really paid no mind to a single woman sitting on the edge of the dock.

Her hands on the sides of her thighs, she pushed her black skirt in, bunching the extra fabric beneath her legs. What if she just tossed her journal into the water? Would she miss it? Would she regret it? Yes, she would. Clo had already admitted that the beat-up notebook was her most prized possession. Even though she had a limited number of pages, even though she saw the end in sight, she still adored the book and all of its delicate pages. She grabbed it from her side and rested it atop her thighs, holding it and cradling it.

The last entry focused on estrangement and on her own insecurities, but what was the difference? Every entry, every page, involved insecurities. Every thought revolved around some sort of shortcoming. Positive words were scarce. The best entries were peppered through the notebook, lost somewhere between depression and doodles. She was nervous. She was scared. Some of her words and entries were absolutely insane. She’d ripped through a few pages when she’d forced the tip of the pen through the paper; she’d smeared the ink across the paper when she had wanted to smear blood.

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse had crawled into bed.

It wasn’t the bed at the lair. It was the bed at Larch Court. One that he had slept in so often with Grey, but now it was just him. Clover was out, somewhere, but he was okay. He was alone, but it didn’t matter. She’d told him she was going. She hadn’t snuck out. She felt that she had the freedom to come and go and that helped Jesse to relax.

There was a mantra that he repeated, over and over. You are not alone. No one is here because they are forced. You feel like you are alone. You are not alone. Over and over and over again. Sometimes there was a variation. Sometimes it skipped a beat, and the silence of the house seemed too thick. Too heavy. It felt like it was crushing him. But he forced himself to breathe. He focused on the breaths, as they came and went. It was a skill. An artform. A kind of meditation.

And while he lay there he prayed for sleep. The sun was long gone, but he wanted to be asleep. Maybe, he told himself, maybe if he stopped boosting his blood every night. Maybe if he starved himself, he’d get so weak that he couldn’t move, even if he wanted to. It wasn’t something he ever advised; he always got so angry when his progeny didn’t feed. There was the possibility that they could go rabid. That their thirst might drive them to violent lengths. Not that Jesse wasn’t a fan of violence, but he didn’t want them to break masquerade. He didn’t want them to get caught. But maybe… maybe he could test it. Those who ‘slept’ for months went without feeding and came out of it fine, didn’t they? So maybe he could do the same.

That was why he hadn’t got out of bed. Not to paint, or to sketch. Not to do anything but just lay there, in the heavy silence. He focused on the mattress beneath him. The pillows. He focused on the way the weight of his body melded to the softness, sunk into it, as if it could swallow him.

He had fallen into a kind of stupor when the phone buzzed beside his head. His body twitched - a hypnic jerk - and he was wrenched from his semi-relaxed daze. He squinted at the screen. Clover. Docks. First there was irritation. First at her, and then at himself. No, he couldn’t blame Clover. He’d told her he needed fresh air. That fresh air did him good. She couldn’t read his mind. She couldn’t know that within the last couple of hours he had decided to try to force himself into a vampiric coma. But she wasn’t here. And she expected him to get out of bed. To get dressed. What was at the docks? Did he need to be presentable?

In the end, he didn’t shower. He didn’t brush his hair. Instead, he pulled a beanie over the mess to hide it. Over his paint-stained tank he pulled a denim, hooded jacket that he buttoned mostly to the top. Out of habit, from the dresser he slipped on the leather cuff, and the rings. The rings always came in handy when wanting to break someone’s jaw.

Instead of track pants he pulled on a pair of jeans. At least his jeans weren’t paint-stained. They were a darker denim than his jacket, so at least he was able to pull it off. He had decided, while dressing, that he wouldn’t try to get to the docks from Larch Court. That was too dangerous. He’d get waylaid. He pulled out his tome instead, and after a few whispered words, he re-appeared at Third Circle. He pulled his phone from his pocket and typed.

[Text] Walking from Third Circle. Won’t take long.

It took about ten to fifteen minutes to get from Third Circle to the docks. He walked fast. He kept his eyes on the pavement. He didn’t look up. He let the humans veer away from him, as was their habit. He didn’t breathe. He held his breath. He only looked up when he got to his destination, searching the lingering patrons for the familiar shape. The familiar dark hair. He almost smiled, when he saw that she was wearing denim, too. He didn’t hide his footsteps as his boots thunked on the wood of the dock. It didn’t take much for him to slip down and sit beside Clover. He had to sit with one leg up underneath the other, so those very boots wouldn’t get wet.

“You woke me,” he said matter-of-factly. “I was contemplating what it would take to actually go to sleep. How do people manage to sleep for weeks? I mean… how do they begin?” he asked, blinking at Clover through the murky darkness.

<Clover> Clover had plenty of moments marred by her own emotions, emotions like the fear that ebbed and flowed like the deep waters beneath her feet. When the familiar guitar riff exploded from within her jacket pocket, she knew Jesse had received her text message. She knew he was on his way. She knew he wouldn't just leave her there. There were very few people she trusted, but she trusted him. And since she trusted him, since she knew he was on his way, she felt another wave of fear and doubt. She panicked.

No other event had drawn out her shadows, not since her last confrontation in her living room at her own Larch abode. But she felt them then. She felt the way her shadows crawled underneath the surface of her skin. She felt the way her shadows coursed along her veins. Beneath her, the waves sloshed against the bottom of the wooden platform. Whether Jesse took the transit to River Rock or he tomed to Circle, Clover had a shrinking window of opportunity. Her options were shrinking with every silent tick of an imaginary clock. Her rising panic fed her anger, and her anger fueled the flames embodied by the shadows.

What if she just left? What if she transformed her intentions and made it into a game of hide and seek? What if she just tossed her journal into the river? Clo clenched her eyes shut and tried focusing on something other than all the worst possibilities. That he would realize how much she cared or didn't care. That he would realize how much he hurt her or how much she thought she hurt him. What the **** was she doing? What the **** was she thinking?

Were those footsteps? Clover opened her eyes and tightened her fingers around the edge of her notebook. The person wasn't taking a turn toward any of the boats. No, he was coming toward her. She tried to loosen her stiff posture and stamp down her own panic, but it was difficult. He made things difficult. If it weren't for him, she might have given in and left the docks behind. As it was, she watched him claim a seat beside her and she found some comfort in his presence.

“You're not sleeping for weeks, so why does it matter?” Her lips twitched for a smile she couldn't quite contain. That was the sarcasm she'd missed so much. “You can sleep later. I'll sleep too. I promise.”

She chose not to specify exactly when they would sleep. She didn’t know. There were days and nights ahead of them, plenty of time to crave sleep and deprive themselves of sleep. Sleep should have been a wondrous sign of recovery, but not for them. Sleep signified just another way of giving up. They could sleep, truly sleep, when they were through the days ahead.

Clover tried making peace with the fact that she might not have the nerve to hand over her notebook, her journal. But he’d only hinted at his desire for a prolonged slumber. Slowly, she opened the front cover and flipped through some of the pages. Her earlier entries had been done in crayon and colored pencil, whatever she could get her hands on while in the hospital. The papers were so delicate that she had to turn them with exaggerated motions just to keep the pages in one piece.

“I didn’t disturb you just to sit here. I didn’t draw this location out of a hat,” she began. She hadn’t looked toward him, but her tone wasn’t hostile. Her attention shifted from the open notebook in her lap to the water just underneath her dangling legs. “This place means something to me. This is where I leave things. This is where I dump the bodies.” Just like that, she’d taken the first step and broken through another wall.

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse could only smile back. A vague half smile as if he were listening, as if he had heard her tell him he wasn’t allowed to sleep for weeks. He could not and say ‘yes, sure,’ but that did not mean that he would listen. The idea clung to his brain like a leech that would not give up; a brain that felt every day more and more like cotton wool. Cotton wool periodically soaked in water and then charged with unhealthy doses of electricity.

It wasn’t as if Clover had outright refused him permission to do what he wanted, but that was how it sounded. Almost. Or she was playing around with a special kind of optimism. Either way, Jesse let the topic slide, and pushed the idea to the back of his mind. He wouldn’t argue that it was better for them all if he were to sleep rather than the numerous alternatives. This was not what she had called him here to discuss.

He watched her with her journal; an item he rarely saw Clover without. He supposed it was a bit like his sketch books. Or his own journal, but it wasn’t attached to him like Clover’s seemed to be, sometimes. But he always had a pencil or a pen with him, at least. There were plenty of things a person could draw on that weren’t clean, crisp paper. Where she seemed to get her soul out onto the page with writing, his was done by drawing. Sketching. Of course he would never try to pry. He would never try to read Clover’s journal. He’d never go looking for it, when she wasn’t looking. He preferred to wait for her to open up. To try and figure out the answers on his own. He relished the challenge.

When she started to explain the significance of the place, he couldn’t help but look at the water in an entirely new light. To see beyond the reflection of the city in the rippling surface, to what lay beneath. What would they find if they had to drag this dock? He leaned forward to peer over the edge.

“Whole bodies? Weighed down?” he asked, morbidly curious. Would they drift down river or was there just a hoard of them down there, just below their feet? A mountain of bodies that might rise and slowly reach the surface, peeking out at them at low tide? There was an argument in him, somewhere. Something about how it was not safe to dump all the bodies in the same place. But he didn’t have the willpower to voice it. What did he know, really? Her way was better than his. Burning down buildings did not mark him just as a murderer, but as an arsonist. Fire drew far more attention than water. He glanced sideways at Clover, a smirk curling the corner of his lips.

“Do you want to go for a swim?”

<Clover> Clo turned her head to see his expression, to see the smirk on his face. She’d invited him to her special place for a very serious conversation, but he’d introduced some type of humor, a humor that devoured her hopes of keeping a straight face. His smirk made it difficult for her to focus on anything other than his previous question. Her anxiety dissolved. Just like that. He’d distracted her. He’d drawn her out of the water and out of the pages of her journal. Against her will, her lips twitched. She wore the wisp of a smile, and then she laughed. She laughed as if he were telling her the best joke she’d heard in weeks. She didn’t know if he were serious or not; she didn’t know if he actually expected her to strip off her jacket and dive into the cold water.

“No,” she managed between laughs. “But we could? If you want to go for a swim, then we’ll go for a swim.” She had to tame the laughter and her own amusement, but she still wore the same smile. He’d shown her another brief glimpse of himself, the self that existed before the withdrawals and in between his moments of self harm. He was Jesse again. There were multiple faces and multiple personalities all stored within the same body. Neither of them could separate the parts, so they accepted the whole. When she saw her favorite parts, she received the hope she needed to keep going. “You wouldn’t find whole bodies though. I cut them into pieces and stuff them into garbage bags. I like the process of dismembering them. It’s not as satisfying when I leave them whole.” As an afterthought, she mumbled, “I’ve fed pieces to bears before. I’ve made it look like an animal attack. I put a lot of thought into what I do. I enjoy this.”

How had the conversation turned to such a morbid topic? And yet, she liked talking about her hunting strategies; Clover enjoyed talking about killing. She spoke with her hands. She smiled. She looked giddy. “I’m never sated. Or I wasn’t,” she stopped, her brows knitted in confusion. The greatest mystery had been her sudden disinterest, or rather the disillusionment with the slaughter. Somewhere along the way, somehow, her inner serial killer had gone into hibernation. She’d hit the cooling off period, slamming into it as if she were connecting with a brick wall. Only the thirst remained. The thirst for something more.

Without introducing him to her journal, she loosened her vice-like grip on the notebook and offered it to him. She offered him the faded notebook, with its various scribbles and its numerous secrets.

<Jesse Fforde> There was something strange in the words that Clover uttered. If you want to go for a swim, then we’ll go for a swim. Although the tone was normal the words were indicative of pacification. Like someone trying to lure a jumper from the edge of a tall building, or an innocent trying to pacify a psycho. Maybe a mother, trying to calm a child throwing a tantrum. A bad mother, who gave in to that child’s whims.

She had laughed at the suggestion, though. It was supposed to be a joke. The laughter was what he had hoped for; he was not seriously suggesting they go for a swim. Not here, anyway. Maybe in one of the lakes that surrounded - or were within - the city. But not in this part of the river. It was dirty. It was…

He had to arch a brow as Clover explained her antics. As she told him that she enjoyed it. There were snippets of conversation he’d had with Clover in the past that indicated her enjoyment of such endeavours, but he’d never known the extent. Enjoying hacking people up and feeding pieces to bears - that he had never known. He did not judge. He did not find it disgusting. These were things that he accepted as he peered into the murky water, though the depths didn’t hold his attention for long. He soon turned full enquiry upon Clover, especially when she moved to hand him her journal.

The first question he’d wanted to ask died in his mind. What did she do with the bodies in winter? When the river was frozen over and the bears were in hibernation? The idea of bits of bodies tied up in garbage bags was far less romantic than the idea of pale, ghostly bodies slowly decaying, and being eaten by the fishes. Maybe he’d ask her later. Tattooed fingers closed around the leather; it didn’t complain beneath his grip, the leather worn and soft from constant use.

“Your journal,” he stated the obvious. He stared at the tome though he did not open it. Confusion crossed his features, evident in the slight creasing of his brow, which was soon dismissed. Bright blues lifted, brows now arched as he watched Clover, the question written all over his face. Why are you giving it to me?

<Clover> “Yes,” she replied, allowing both of them to state the obvious. She didn’t know where her words had gone, not when she needed so few of them to explain herself. Her journal looked increasingly delicate in his grip, and she couldn’t take her eyes off of the places where his fingertips met the exterior of her book. By offering him the pages, she offered him entrance into her mind, into her innermost thoughts. “It goes back to before you...uh,” she paused, “before my turning. You can read about what it’s been like. I can’t really tell you everything, and I know you’re curious. You get this look in your eyes, like you’re analyzing me, like I’m a puzzle, and all you really want to do is solve me. But that’s impossible.”

Clo nodded toward her journal, the subtle movement of her head serving as encouragement for him to open the book and partake of the words and images within. She turned to face him, and tucked one leg beneath the other. “I just thought you could try to learn more. I want you to know more. It can be dark though. Mentally, I’m not always in the best of places. And to be honest, I implied I wanted to--well, you should just read before I change my mind.”

She’d turned to him, but she didn’t hold his gaze. Clover had given him half of the body language he needed to show her commitment; the other half of the equation--her ability to look him in the eyes--had been misplaced. The first place her mind went was to the entry where she’d ranted about Jesse and Grey. There were different places where she’d ranted about the both of them, but she’d had a particularly nasty entry, one so drenched in animalistic rage that she hadn’t censored herself as much as she should have, as much as normal. Yes, she censored herself in her own journal. She blamed paranoia, but she also existed in a constant state of denial.

Clo laced and unlaced her fingers, but she couldn’t calm her nerves. She didn’t want him to stop. She didn’t want him to hand back the journal and reassure her that he would wait for her. How many of the entries revolved around her distaste for him? She’d been so “vocal” about him, thinking it was appropriate, but she reconsidered. She wondered if she should have blacked out those portions of text.

<Jesse Fforde> Yes, Jesse did often want to figure Clover out. She was a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a whole lot of ******* frustration. But wasn’t that half the fun? Wasn’t that half the reason why he was so drawn to her to begin with? She wasn’t an open book. It was enough to know that there was more to her than she chose to show; it was enough to know that she liked to lie, sometimes. And that he shouldn’t take her words or her actions at face value.

His fingers tightened around the leather of the book as he frowned down at it. What wonders did this book hold? What mysteries would it solve? By reading it, would he know everything he had ever wanted to know about Clover, or would he only be more confused? The only way he could know was if he opened it. If he read it. The book shifted in his grasp, tattooed thumb flicking through the pages. The words were a blur as they sped past his vision - scribbles peppered with doodles, images, dark spots and light spots.

The book felt heavy in hands. Heavy with what he supposed to be Clover’s soul. Could he offer her his journal in return? It would hardly be equal. It wasn’t even a quarter of the way full, and it was not finished. He knew that if he were to die, she would be the one to find it. She would read it, he hoped. Retribution. Maybe he’d write her name on the cover. For Clover. But she understood him, anyway. What need would she have to read what she already knew?

A pink tongue darted to wet his lips, the water below them forgotten. He cleared his throat, and lifted his eyes to Clover.

“Do you want me to read it now? Or later, when you’re not around?” he asked. Of course, he had considered giving it back. Saying no. It was too private, and she shouldn’t feel the need to share that much. He didn’t need to know, no matter how much he pushed and clawed at her, to try to get at what was underneath. There was no doubt that he wanted to know, though. The curiosity outweighed any desire to give the journal back.

<Clover> Jesse took time to contemplate her words, or at least, Clover thought he took time to contemplate her words. With the way that he looked at the book, he seemed as if he were weighing the decision between reading or not reading. He quickly flipped through the pages, and she watched the shapes created by the fast movement of the paper and the varying colors and placements of the ink. Clo felt as if he were at the breaking point. He’d approached decision time. If he gave the book back, Clover would have taken it upon herself to read a few passages, but she didn’t want to read to him. She didn’t want to vocalize the things she’d written. Her words were harsh and emotionally charged. Where she might have had the time and restraint necessary to withhold the verbal lashing, she had no such then when it came to writing.

“Read it now,” she answered. “I want you to read it while I’m here. You can start wherever you’d like. The beginning, the middle, or the end. It doesn’t really make a difference. But you have to realize what I wrote was true at the time.” She tucked her hands into the pockets of her jean jacket and looked over at him with a small smile. “You’ll read about how much I hated you. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. There’s more, but you might not get to that entry. Or you might. When, or if, you find the entry I’m most worried about, I’ll defend myself. Until then, I guess I’ll just let you pick your poison.”

She’d contemplated leaving the family. Was he aware? Had she told him? She’d claimed that he’d lost her respect, that he was arrogant, that he was selfish. Some of the things she’d written had been discussed, but not all. That was the whole point. She’d kept things hidden.

“I use words and their definitions to start out every entry. There’s one near the middle called,” she stopped and closed her eyes, trying to picture the page, “‘foresee.’ It’s about this. About the withdrawal. You’ll want to read that one. It’s like the introduction to this.” This. She’d written an introduction to their current battle, and she’d foreseen the entire scenario, at least some parts of the scenario. She’d imagined the struggle. Her not-so-subtle nudge led him toward an entry tucked so neatly between some of her most meaningful writings. Unfortunately, she’d guided him to the grouping of pages which included the infamous entry (the one entitled “provoke”).

<Jesse Fforde> This thing that she had given him was a treasure. Something that he wanted to savour, even if he thought it might be a gloriously decadent treat laced with poison. In his current frame of mind, the poison would be welcome; the poison was something that he would ingest, willingly. But if it was going to be his last meal, he wanted to enjoy it slowly. Bite by small bite. His shoulders rolled as he glanced out over the water, as his attention was momentarily grabbed by laughter somewhere further up the dock. Why here? Why now? Couldn’t he go home and sit in front of the fire? Couldn’t he devour each word with morbid curiosity, tongue glued to the top of his mouth?

The question he had asked, he thought he had asked for Clover’s sake. These were her private thoughts - wouldn’t she be uncomfortable, if he read them in front of her? Now that she was pushing him, however, now that she was even guiding him and pointing to specific pages, he knew that it was the other way around. He wanted to read this alone so that she wouldn’t be privy to his reaction. This could have been something that he would laugh about - he might have flipped to a random page and read whatever she’d written with a peculiar, teasing kind of glee. Instead, Jesse was nervous.

Did he really want to read about how much Clover had once loathed him?

The frown remained puckered between his brows, eyes dropping to the page that Clover had inadvertently paused upon. The title did not read ‘Foresee’ as she had told him, but instead something different; brilliant blues snagged upon a few choice words - irresistible lures upon hooks that he unwittingly swallowed. The pads of his fingers traced the lines on the page, feeling the indentations the pen had pade. His shoulders hunched as he read, the words bringing back memories - but they weren’t his memories. Not really. Not anymore. His memory of this event would now always be tainted with this outside view of himself. Was this what he really looked like?

It also reminded him of how fragile Grey really was. Her grief never strengthened her, it always weakened her. It reminded him that he had not gone after her; that Micah had not got back to him. His eyes closed as his head drooped, fingers first rubbing over his mouth before pushing through his hair.

“What are you trying to do, Clover?” he asked. There was a brightness to his eyes as he questioned her, which could not be attributed to happiness.

“I want to know you. All of you. This is…” he breathed out, and shook his head. He could not find the words to explain just how much he appreciated it - that she would open herself up to him, to entirely. Instead:

“This is going to hurt, isn’t it?”

<Clover> Perhaps they should have slept; or rather, perhaps she should have let him sleep. Not for the length of time he intended, not forever, but long enough to void the idea of their current meeting. How had she forgotten his state? Looking at him, she regretted not directing him to the very beginning. He would have been safer to read about her time in the hospital. He would have found some sense of comradery, or so she imagined. Clover had expected a range of reactions. Jesse still had the ability to swallow the bitter truth, and she’d anticipated more of the same, but he’d admitted his own exhaustion and she’d offered him so much bitterness. The pages of her journal were made of negativity interwoven with depression and desperation. Whereas she’d found comfort in releasing her emotions, he would find something else entirely. Clo couldn’t put a name to his discovery, but she knew, with some sense of certainty, that comfort wasn’t in the cards.

“You don’t have to read the journal, not if it bothers you. This isn’t supposed to hurt you,” she sighed, resting a palm over her forehead. The placement of her hand seemed to draw her own exhaustion, for she noticed her own desire for sleep. Whenever her plans fell through, whenever things weren’t going her way, she reacted with anger or with submission. “I just wanted you to know what I was thinking and feeling. You’re aware you aren’t the only person suffering, so you get to read it and witness it from there. If it hurts too much, you can start at the beginning. Or you can stop. This is an open invitation.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she accepted them as truth. Despite the fact that her invitation made her palms feel clammy and her chest feel tight, Clover stood by her words. An open invitation allowed him to read her journal whenever he liked. Honestly, and she had some issues being honest with everyone (including herself), she didn’t mind. Writing in her journal offered her relief and some sort of private space to air her thoughts. After she’d set the pen aside, Clo had no problem with Jesse reading the entries. She admitted to herself that it seemed a lot easier for someone to just read what she wrote rather than struggle to decipher her jumbled, roundabout speech patterns that surfaced with her nerves.

<Jesse Fforde> As soon as the words had left his mouth, Jesse regretted them. But those kinds of words were uttered more often around Clover; their promise of honesty had sunk so deep into his psyche that it came naturally. When had he ever cared about hurt? And even if he was, when had he ever made it known to anyone other than himself? No, even then, he’d rarely ever admitted any fear to himself, either.

His lips parted as he watched Clover, the dark strands of her hair tangled against the pale skin of her fingers, and for a moment Jesse was entranced. It was a position of vulnerability, her expression saying what her words might not. More than what her words had intended.

This was not entirely about him. In fact, this was not about him at all. This was about Clover. This was something she wanted to share and the last thing he wanted to do was throw it back in her face. Watchful, staring at the woman across from him, he took a deep breath. He could taste the salt on the air, the breeze fingering at his skin. How long did he stare? Long enough for him to reach his own conclusions. These were things she had written in the past, which she had believed at the time, but which may not factor into the equation anymore. This was the road she had taken to get to where she was tonight, with him, on this dock. Baring her soul. She wanted him to travel that same path. In the end, these things should not hurt him, should they? They should inspire confidence. Despite everything she may have thought, despite everything she may have once felt, she was here with him now. She was still here.

The breath that he had taken was not released. It remained stagnant in his lungs as his eyes found the page again. Again, he flicked through - backwards and forwards - until he landed on a random page. Not the beginning. That would be submitting to weakness, and he would not be weak. The beginning could come later.

He started somewhere near this same time last year. An entry called Honest. As Jesse began to read, the breath slowly released from his lungs. His name was not mentioned - this was easier. To read about Clover, and her interactions with other people. People that Jesse vaguely remembered, though he couldn’t put faces to the names. His name was not mentioned until the last paragraph. His gift to Clover had inspired her to find a real green snake. It made Jesse smile, just a little. A ghost of a twitch in the corner of his mouth. She had noticed, back then, that he had been trying. He arched a brow as he glanced up at Clover - as he turned the page.

Mabel. Nik. The people that Clover had been entangled with. What was that other name? The made up man. There had been so many lies, he remembered. And she had not lied only to him, but he knew that then, too. She had talked to him about it, hadn’t she? The mess she’d got herself into, because of her lies. How had he felt, then? Had he been jealous? Was that why he had been frustrated? Even then…

His chin tucked against his chest as he lifted the nail of a thumb to chew on. It masked the vague shake of his head. He had been happy, hadn’t he? In the very least, because they were talking.

He read, until his attention hitched. Abandon. To think, that Clover had been feeling so lost, so alone… had he noticed? Had he done anything about it? His nails dragged over the page, one finger used as a bookmark as he lurched forward. The journal was safe in his lap as it was cradled between them. His fingers latched behind her neck as he kissed her temple, as he breathed in the scent of her.

“You don’t need to write any of this down anymore, you hear me?” he said. There was a spark. In reading Clover’s woes, Jesse had momentarily forgotten all of his own. It didn’t cross his mind that he might not be there; that he might die, by his own hand. Promises were not things that he was in the state of mind to make.

“Come to me,” he said. “Tell me. Or write it down and throw this ******* book at my head. This…” he held up the journal, pointing to the entry he had read. The words died on his tongue; he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to articulate exactly what he was trying to get across. Except that he did not believe she should ever have been so alone.

<Clover> As he began to read the words scribbled between the faded blue lines, Clover watched him. She studied the expression on his face. His eyes moved from word to word, and she felt as if she were reading along with him, despite the fact that she paid no attention to her writing. The enjoyment of reading should have come from actually reading the book, but no. Clo found something more enjoyable about watching him, about watching the quick movement of his eyes and the hidden spark attributed to his thought processes. Her eyes traced over his brow and down along his right cheek. If it were possible to examine every angle of his face without moving, she had mastered the ability. If she unnerved him, she didn’t notice, or maybe she didn’t care. Whether he knew it or not, Clover spent a great deal of her time just admiring him. That’s what she enjoyed. Because she saw things that she swore no one else had ever seen before.

When she noticed the smile, she looked down at the words on the page. She guessed that he’d found a particularly entertaining entry, or at least one that wasn’t as awful as her typical entry. When he looked up, she’d pretended as if she hadn’t been staring at him the entire time. Being caught had her mimicking his expression. She raised a brow, as if she were unaware of the reason for his look. And then he turned the page, and she resumed watching him. Had she ever stopped? No.

Her journal excluded key points, but if he’d asked her, if he’d pointed to a specific line or paragraph or page, she could have told him exactly what she wanted to say. Clover could have completed the half-finished thoughts. She could have filled in the blanks and produced the missing pieces. In one particular entry, one dating back to April, she’d left one big blank for herself. And if he read it, if he recognized the missing piece, then he would have had the information he’d wanted that night at the amusement park. Because she was tricky. Because she enjoyed baiting herself just as much as she enjoyed baiting others. Or maybe she wasn’t able to admit the fact to herself. There were dozens of possibilities.

So engrossed in her thoughts, she missed the point when he’d paused his readings. She saw him lean toward her and she felt his fingers on her skin. Where she’d wanted his lips on hers, he’d kissed her temple. Something sweeter. Clo smiled at him, as if she were humoring him, and took his hand in hers. She pressed a few kisses to the backs of his fingers, letting her lips linger against them, and then she pulled away.

“I’m going to write it all down, because that’s what I do. It’s who I am.” He should have known. Those words remained at the back of her throat. She had no reason to vocalize them, not when she had more to say. “I’ll share them though. I’ll share the journal again. Whenever I have something really important to say. I’ll throw the book at your ******* head,” she agreed. There was a moment when she thought she’d said all she needed to say, but her lips parted and she spoke once more. “Read one in April of this year. I know...I know you’ll get to the current entries. I know it’ll be harder. Just read one in April called ‘Liar.’ Just go to there. You can flip back and forth, but, uh, just don’t miss that one. It’s important. For you.”

Clo finally found the moment to point him toward such a specific entry. She used that time to steer him toward something that would provide a little more of the strength he needed to continue with some of the other ‘chapters,’ particularly the more recent ones. Even though she told him she’d confide in him and share her darkest thoughts with him, she knew that her words came with certain stipulations. They had to wait and see.

Even though she didn’t have to point out the pages, she leaned forward and pointed to where she thought the April entries might have been located. She had no idea where they were truly located, not with the number of entries and the number of pages. “And read the one directly after it,” she added, seeming more interested in those entries and his reaction. Clover wanted to watch him again. She wanted to watch the way his eyes moved across the page, following word after word, sentence after sentence. And she wanted him to lick his lips. She wanted him to lift his head and look at her as if he were stunned. Clover loved it when she surprised him. “It’s for you,” she repeated.

<Jesse Fforde> For you, she repeated, as if she had written these entries knowing what was going to happen. Knowing he was eventually going to read them. Or was it a new development? Something she had researched, flipping backward and forward through her own journal in preparation, flagging those entries in particular for him.

The attempt to kiss her, to hold her, to pause just briefly in this study was thwarted by Clover. Jesse sat back again, the wood hard beneath his body. A sigh was held in his throat as he turned back to the journal, waiting for Clover to find the entry she wanted to show him, his fingers caressing the page to hold it open. Shoulders hunching again, he focused on the words, the memories again shifting and settling in his brain. Axel, useless ******* prick. Jesse’d never believe the guy ever again. Even with all Clover’s admissions to being a liar, Jesse’d believe her before he ever believed Axel. The reaction to Axel sat in the background, however. On the surface, there were remnants of amusement. Clover’s penchant for lying did not bother Jesse anymore. Once, it had pissed him off. It had frustrated him beyond description. But, she didn’t lie to him anymore. The fact that he was reading this very entry was testament to it. Would she ever lie to him again?

He moved on to the next entry.

Kane, yes. He remembered. Yet another choice of Kaelyn’s. What was it with Kaelyn and choosing company that could not be respected? From a young ******* pipsqueak who surely had to be gay - or far too naive and stupid for his own good - to a man old enough to be her father, who must surely be some kind of creepy peadophile. And yet, Clover had thought that Kane might be a good ****. At that, Jesse had to frown. Really? It wasn’t so much shock that Jesse felt, but instead incredulity. He forged on. That wasn’t the point of the entry, was it? Unless Clover was some kind of black widow, eating her men after she fucked them…

The rest, though, wasn’t anything new. He and Clover had had this discussion, hadn’t they? Not in these exact words, but he knew what Clover was like. He knew what she wanted. She’d wanted it from him, once. She had pushed him, hoping that he would lose control. Chaos. He rolled his shoulders at the thought, closing his eyes briefly to imagine the city on fire. He shook his head.

“... we can’t set the city on fire,” he said, voice huskier than it was previously. He cleared his throat, again.

“But we won’t live off blood bags. Not anymore,” he said. “At least… later. You can…” he shook his head again, and sighed. Words weren’t working for him. He turned the page. Once, twice. He read the titles. Furious. Defend. Sacrifice.

Patronize. Jesse read. His eyes widened, a cold dread washing from his heart and throughout his limbs. He pointed to the one paragraph. He read it again, and his tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth.

“Am I… is this really what I’m like?” he asked. Did he act the exact same way that Micah and Velveteen did? Did he expect them all to give without thanks? Did he put them down in order to prove his rightness? Did he not listen, when he should listen? He blinked as he watched Clover, head tipping to the side in curiosity.

<Clover> They could set the city on fire. Just the thought sent a chill of excitement down her spine. Clo wanted to reconnect with that version of herself, to find her and restore her to her former glory. As soon as the feeling washed over her, it was replaced by the apathy that had made its own place in her heart. Whether they could or they couldn’t made no difference. Clover had no intention of starting uncontrollable fires, and Jesse seemed too exhausted to continue living. Neither of them were at the position on their endless timelines. And that version of Clover, the version with little to no understanding of limitations, had been buried so deep that she hardly existed. Perhaps she never existed at all.

As he spoke, she remained quiet. Where she would have taken his voice at face value, she studied the sound. She listened to the rise and fall. She imagined the way his vocal cords vibrated. His words meant very little, in comparison to the sound of his voice. She’d begun to interrupt the meaning of his sentences, even as she overlooked the words. Was his voice lower because of his desire to do the opposite? Was his voice lower because he craved the same? Did he want to call up the remnants of his energy and send the city into bedlam? In the midst of her moment of interpretation, she noticed that the words had stopped. He’d given up on his speech, so the sounds stopped. She had nothing more to interpret.

Frowning, Clover listened to the turning of the pages. Some of the entries were almost pointless, at least for an outsider. When he stopped turning the pages, she pried herself from her thoughts and allowed him time to read. She waited. She clenched and unclenched her fists. What entry had he stumbled across that made him look as if she’d driven a knife directly into his gut? Had he found one of the numerous entries discussing his obsessive fascination with Grey’s privates? Had he found the entry where she contemplated leaving the family? Clover felt the lies settling at the back of her throat. The words assembled themselves into smooth sentences, each one better than the last, but her default reaction was an unwelcome reaction. Clover didn’t lie to Jesse. Not anymore.

“Jesse, most of these entries are from months ago. I didn’t know you that well,” she defended. “You know you came off as arrogant. You acted like you knew best. And in some cases, you did. When we got into a disagreement, and I felt you were lording over me, I went without talking to you until someone nudged me or you came to me. I thought I was punishing you. Because everyone else thought, ‘That’s just Jesse.’ Then they went right back. Being ‘Jesse’ didn’t give you a free pass.”

At that point, Clover had blurted out every thought, disregarding her concern for coherency. Had she made any sense at all? She hadn’t been paying much attention to the journal entries he’d passed, let alone the one he’d discovered. Patronize. Yes, she remembered. She remembered how he’d dismissed her and explained things in the slowest, most basic terms, as if she were incapable of seeing beyond that level.

“You weren’t listening to me. You really pissed me off. The entry isn’t really about that time though, and it’s not about you being patronizing. It’s about the fact that I knew you were better than that. I knew you were more than that. It made me angry. I didn’t know what the hell was going on with you,” she sighed, stopping to rub her hands over her face. She knew she’d let him find a bad entry, one that he’d never forget. He’d take the words to the end of the world and back again, because he held onto things. People just held onto things. “So no, that’s not what you’re really like. That was a single instance, and it doesn’t make you who you are. I’m not going to list off all of your positive qualities, but there are a lot. I’ll write them on notecards and have them laminated,” she joked, trying her best, her damnedest, to lighten the mood and shift the focus from the words in her journal.

<Jesse Fforde> As Clover explained, Jesse watched; his head was bowed though his eyes remained upon her face. A frown puckered his brow, the struggle evident. The explanation was a long one; Clover babbled. She made sense, but was she scrabbling for a reply? Did she talk so much because she was searching for a right answer? Something to appease him?

This should not worry him, he knew. Once upon a time he wouldn’t have shied away from this kind of criticism. He would have laughed, and told her she was right. Yes, he was arrogant, and he wouldn’t stop. Yes, he was lording it over her, and so he should! Yes, he pissed her off, and he did it on purpose. That’s just Jesse, she said, and he should have laughed. Yes, that was just Jesse, and he wouldn’t apologise.

The journal was thick beneath his fingers. Even as he watched Clover, his fingers traced the indentation of her words. The edges of the pages were not as sharp as they could be. Even though his thumb traced back and forth over one corner, there were no paper cuts. Turning to the journal once more, he contemplated reading. But he wouldn’t. Not anymore. He closed the journal, his palm pressed against the cover. He made no move to give the tome back. He didn’t want to give it back. But nor did he want to keep reading.

“You don’t have to list all my positive traits. But you know I’m just going to read this and pick out all the bad ones. I want to read it for other reasons. I want… to read it in bits and pieces. Is that okay?” he asked, canting his head to the side as he asked the question, gaze shifting from Clover’s knee, to the hem of her shirt, to her lips, and finally to her eyes. “I’ll just… annoy you. Asking for constant explanations,” he said. He even managed the smallest smirk. “It’d just give you something else to write about,” he said.

<Clover> For some reason, she’d hoped that he would soldier on and get through every section, as if their time was so limited that he had to read every single page. He had to decipher her every thought. He had to read the entire journal, before their short lives came to a close. When he expressed his unwillingness to stick to an imaginary timetable, she tried to seem as understanding as possible, but she still stared at him as if he were going to chuck the book at her head. Clover came to the conclusion that their outing had been wasted.

“All right,” she spoke slowly, still trying to process his words. He wanted to continue reading. She focused on that point and disregarded any unnecessary or contradictory words. She stripped his words bare and laid a new foundation for them. “I haven’t really been writing as much.” She’d neglected her writings. On the days that she had written, most of the entries revolved around something worse than her previous ones. She’d noticed a stagnant element in her journal; she’d noticed the patterns at play. Clo wanted to continue talking to him about her lack of writing and the reasons behind the drop off, but she refrained. She told herself that she would write more.

“Your questions don’t always bother me. I just wasn’t expecting the last one. I still can’t get over it, to be honest.” Clo shook her head from side to side and shifted around. She returned to her former position, with her attention on the water rather than on Jesse. Since they no longer had her journal to discuss, she moved her attention from her companion to the scenery. They had one thing left to enjoy, and neither of them could close the book on the docks. “You can look through it whenever you want,” she reminded him, turning her head so he could see the small smile in play. She wasn’t upset. She wasn’t angry. But she’d been surprised. His reaction had been unexpected, to say the least. He’d stumbled across an unflattering entry and he’d taken two steps back. Wasn’t it good that he had the ability to tell himself that he wanted to hold off?

“We can stay here a little longer, can’t we? Or did you want to go back?” Clover had moved so both legs were dangling over the edge of the dock, to the point where she swore the water had licked the bottoms of her shoes. After she’d asked, she’d placed her palms flat against the wooden dock, as if she were prepared to push herself to her feet. She didn’t want to move though. She wanted to stay in the same place. The stagnation she’d noticed in her journal had been a representation of the stagnation in her life, the type of stillness that she’d introduced with her lack of activity. The real question she’d wanted to ask had been lost, misplaced in her mind, and Clo gave up without a proper search.

<Jesse Fforde> “We can stay here,” he said. Now that the pressure was off, now that he was freed from reading the entirety of Clover’s journal there and then, he could relax. He hadn’t particularly wanted to leave, but now that he was out, he didn’t particularly want to go back. The fresh air was a blessing, and the scenery was, in its own rough way, beautiful. To Jesse, things were not beautiful if they were perfect. They had to have flaws, otherwise they were not real enough.

The journal was placed carefully upon the deck, away from the water. A quick glance was spared, another assessment of their surroundings. There wasn’t anyone nearby. There wasn’t anyone to disturb them. There wasn’t anyone who would come to snatch the journal - though it didn’t look as if it was something that anyone would think worth snatching. A person’s personal thoughts and emotions were only treasure to a select few; Clover’s were treasure to Jesse, which was why he had carefully placed them aside - it would be a great loss, were he to drop them into the water.

Instead of giving Clover back her journal, he gave her himself. He, too, shuffled closer to the water. Instead of sitting by Clover’s side like some small boy with a crush, he had no qualms about getting close. He twisted until he was sideways to the water, his back to Clover until he started to lean back. He didn’t ask her for permission - he claimed her lap as a pillow. If she would not let him sleep at home, then he would sleep here. Or, in the very least, he would rest.

“Do you prefer it this way? Like this, with the… insecurity and the questions? Or was it better when I was an arrogant asshole?” he asked with the arch of a brow. At first, he’d gazed out across the water, watching the echo of the city bounce, sparkling, across the miniature waves of the water. After he asked his question, he head turned. He looked up at Clover, his curiosity evident. His breath had hitched, however - his gaze narrowing. Before she had a chance to answer him, he answered himself.

“I personally think it’s ******* pathetic. I’m a whining *****,” he snorted. “But only for you.”

<Clover> She smiled, but she didn’t look down at him. Something about the water helped her clear her mind and refocus on his question, the question she’d wanted to ask him every single time she spoke the truth. Her honesty made her vulnerable, and no one could appreciate such vulnerability. Her vulnerability made her weak. How many times had she reiterated the point? No one wanted weakness. But she enjoyed his insecurities. She enjoyed his questions. There was a disconnect. Jesse became a sole exception, as if he were above such a solid rule. Jesse could bare his soul, and she would accept whatever he had to say. No, he wasn’t the sole exception. She’d offered such refuge to those she cared about. And no one else. Nothing more.

“I don’t think you’re pathetic. I like this. I feel terrible for enjoying this vulnerability. I know you don’t like it. I know you’d prefer to go back to that version of yourself. Or I’d assume. I assume because it’s easier to put on an air and hide behind something like arrogance or sarcasm or humor,” she spoke softly. “If you ever stopped this, I don’t think there’d...we’d have nothing left, really. This is important.”

Clo bit down on her lower lip, her teeth digging into her skin until she left tiny indentations. She wanted to ask him the same question. Did he prefer her the same way? Would he have enjoyed her better if she remained an absolute mystery? Would he have preferred the Clover contained in her journal, the one she missed so dearly, the one she’d begun to idolize in such dark times?

She finally looked down at him and placed her hand on his cheek, as if touching him would really force his thoughts. “Do you?” Her question was too vague, so she took a deep breath and continued. The air gave her something she’d lacked. Perhaps it was courage; perhaps it was energy. “One day, there’ll be no more mystery. I’m not lying to you. I’m not hiding parts of my life from you. I’m telling you my doubts and my fears. You’ll think I’m pathetic. You’ll think I’m whining. Or you’ll think I’m coddling you. You’ll think I’m emasculating you in some way by being here for you and holding you and listening to you. I don’t know,” she finished, forcing a laugh that ended far too soon.

<Jesse Fforde> Regardless of whether Clover looked away or not, Jesse continued to watch her. He gazed at her as one might gaze at the water to his right. Taking in the beauty of it, the complexity of it - succumbing to the particular kind of wonderment reserved for scenes of awe. He reached up to take her hand from his cheek, to instead hold it against his chest. He lay in such a way that if he rolled the tiniest bit to the right, he would tip straight into the water. Even now, his foot slipped and dangled over the edge - but he was completely comfortable, and not at all bothered by the proximity of the liquid blackness.

“I don’t like it because it’s been used against me,” he finally said. Wasn’t that how he was in the beginning? He’d hid behind his masks with everyone, until he’d started to let them fall away, one by one. Phoenix, Velveteen, Micah, Grey… every single person who’d had a glimpse of his soul, of who he really was, had turned around and thrust metaphorical knives right into the heart of it.

Right now, he couldn’t see an end to it. Every now and again words would slip - it was habit, to cling to optimism, to every now and again say things that hinted at a future where everything was okay again. But as he stopped to think about it, he wondered if there would ever be a day that he wouldn’t need someone to hold him, and listen to him. He hadn’t needed it before, because the masks hadn’t only been for other people, but they’d worked on himself, too. He’d never even admitted to his own weaknesses, instead choosing to disregard them.

“I worry that you’ll use it against me, too. But… if you don’t… we are equal. I will… hold you and listen to you, too. I will coddle you, and you’ll probably hate it,” he said, again with a small smile. He was relaxed. With Clover’s hand held against his chest, the tension bled from his body. They were the same. They both thought they were pathetic in some way - they both bared their weaknesses to each other. It was a state of mind he couldn’t quite grasp; a conclusion that he couldn’t name, and couldn’t put into words. He shook his head.

“Even when there’s no more mystery - knowing what I know now, I don’t think you could ever bore me, Clover…”