March Writing Challenge: 100 Stories. 1 Month.

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

88. Impulse.

Sleep was always particularly strange for Lucy. With the lowered state of consciousness, the state of her control over the stagnant nature of her tattoos eased. It was why the Siberian tiger - which normally presided on her left upper arm - shifted to her shoulder in the light of day. The Australian often slept on her stomach, and her shoulder-blade was the perfect curve to catch the morning sun. Those with eyes kept them closed, like for the most part they could genuinely sleep on the ink manipulator's skin when she was. But the hues of the tiger still found potential flecks of greener shades in its fur, like the potent warmth in a certain area called to it in the most understated, most perfect way. All while she herself still slept so soundly.

It was a process that Penny had learned to track, by now. After the instance where Lucy was sure she'd lost the inked animal, it became part of her morning process to find where it had moved to if it had overnight. It didn't take long; it was only ever in one of two places. And somehow she considered the idea that running fingers along the faux nature of its blue fur - head to tail across the spine - seemed to settle her for a few more minutes every day.

But this particular morning - in the space they shared that no one else could touch, completely devoid of the prior school they used to attend - there was a difference. Dark eyes still woke up to the Australian she loved. They still caught sight of the spare space on her arm. Of the tiger as it moved to her shoulder-blade; a sight made easier to catch with the way Lucy's arm had draped across her. It was still just a little too early for bright light to pierce the window, but it was still there, ready and waiting like it knew. Even in the cooler tones of the breaking morning, it was still easy to catch.

Surprisingly dark, Penny considered, given the usual stints of mornings as of late. Even when it was overcast, it wasn't like this.

Which was when she looked up, a hand naturally easing along Lucy's arm to work delicate fingertips towards the inked inhabitant as it waited for the sun so patiently. So lazily. Even if she'd followed the track of her arm hundreds of times before, it was impossible not to stall today. Underneath that.

Days prior - almost a week now, really - Lucy had left a new coat of some shade of white to the ceiling. She hadn't replicated a galaxy in the home they now shared. A replication, they both decided, wasn't good enough. It wasn't right. So the blank canvas remained until they could decide what might take its place. Not so blank any more.

Because the white had been replaced with grey- No, far closer to black on the scale, she was sure. Altered tones of blue rather than a definite mix of white. More blue. Lucy had once said something about adding more blue, like a simple switch or additive could make a painting look any more like the sky itself.

Allocated flecks of white in the sky felt so far out of reach, fading away with the brighter grey - or blue - like the piercing notions of the sun to the velvet backdrop what was the usual evening skyline. Had she been able to spare a glance out the window, she likely would have caught the similarities between real life and the imagery above. But she didn't need to; the Brit knew it well enough to know exactly what she was looking at or for, even if the piece above her head was completely new.

And there she was. Lucy. Serrano. Still asleep; her breathing as even as her heart, surely. A small glance down to catch the way her eyelids seemed to flutter, like present in a dream over real life. Existing in the world without the mental capacity to really do so, yet there was the sky so high above. A curled tiger to carry the blue. Maybe it hadn't been waiting for the real sun at all. Sometimes it was better to sleep beneath the night.

Her hand finally continued, a routine trajectory to the sleeping beast. Her fingertip lightly tracked the length of its little spine, and a small stretch seemed to reciprocate the connection. At least, until she applied more pressure; a slow shift and nails caught into Lucy's skin. Just enough to ease her back momentarily. To jolt her awake just slightly.

Because she had to see what her most naturalistic responses had left them with.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#62 – Treat

Holidays in the Neville-Bernstein house had been low-key for the first couple of years. Sean had no particular need to celebrate the holidays of his childhood, and so he gladly celebrated Josh’s holidays instead, as those meant more to the attorney than Christmas or Easter meant to the telepath. Their celebrations ended up a hodgepodge of the many Jewish holidays interspersed with American secular ones:

Chanukah. Passover. Purim. Rosh Hashanah. Halloween. Thanksgiving. Valentine’s Day. St. Patrick’s Day. New Year’s Eve.

Holidays had taken on an entirely new significance with the arrival of their daughter.

Instead of focusing on what two middle-aged men might want to do with their friends or with each other, holidays became an exercising in sharing and learning.

The first year of her life, Eleanor experienced many holidays but understood none of them. She watched with wide-eyed wonder as they celebrated cultural milestones with appropriate festivities. She listened while her fathers explained the significance of this or that function. Mostly, she ate what solid food she was allowed to, in the tiniest portions imaginable to compensate for her lack of teeth.

During her second year of life, she had more active participation, in that she could toddle around now and she grabbed for things and pointed at others. She spoke a smattering of words, and her vocabulary increased daily, even if her grammar and pronunciation left something to be desired. As a toddler, she followed routine and relied upon it, and holidays were noticeable for their deviation from the typical day-to-day.

By her third year of life, she actively participated in the holidays, albeit in a modified way. She was only a little girl, and she had plenty of time to grow into responsibilities.

She ran through the hall of the house, with Sean chasing after her. How approaching his late 50s, he did not have the energy to keep up with her in the same way that a man a decade younger than him could have. Or even Josh could. Josh was only three years younger than him, but his personality was more energetic, and he lacked the aches and pains that afflicted him.

At least his long stride made up for the lack of energy.

Finally, outside of the living room, he finally caught up with her, catching her from behind and wrapping his arms around her. Carefully, he lifted her up, and she squealed in delight.

“That’s enough running for now,” he declared, keeping his grip on her. He could put her down when they had found another activity to occupy them. “What should we do now?”

“Cookies!” Eleanor knew her Daddy’s weaknesses.

“We can have cookies,” Sean said with a smile. Shifting her in his arms, he walked towards the kitchen. “Do you want to bake some? Purim is coming up, and we can make some hamantaschen. Your Papa would like that.”

Josh always liked when his cultural and religious heritage was acknowledged, and he had been so happy the past couple of years since they had agreed to raise Eleanor Jewish. Sean had made good on that promise and had never undermined the decision, even if he remained an atheist.

Eleanor nodded enthusiastically.

Once they reached the kitchen, Sean set her down. She knew better than to run in the kitchen. “Go get the baking cups while I get the jam. What type do you want to make?”

“Strawberry.” As if there was any doubt. She had her favorites.

“Strawberry it is.” They could start the Purim preparations a bit early this year.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#50 – Shades

“What are you reading?”

Without looking up, Sean lifted the book, displaying the cover to the other man.

Josh stared at him incredulously, narrowing his eyes. “Why would you read that?”

“Because I obviously hate myself.” Sean returned to the page he had been skimming. He made short work of it, as he could speed read, and he would not read this for pleasure.

“Don’t even joke about that.”

The telepath marked his place and then finally looked up at his partner. “The LGBT Youth Center wants me to give a lecture about relationship dynamics and depictions in popular media. My options were to read this or to see the movie.”

Josh blanched at the thought; he considered neither of those to be viable options. “I guess the movie would be shorter.”

“I borrowed this from the library; I would have to pay for the movie. I won’t give them a single cent as compensation for this.”

“That’s fair.” The younger man agreed with the principles of economic boycotts. He kept a list of companies owned by homophobic people, by anti-Semites, by meta-phobic people, by people who practiced unfair labor practices, and by people who contributed money to right-wing causes. He did not frequent any of those business. He knew that his partner was the same way.

“Besides, I couldn’t stand to watch a movie like that with an audience.”

Josh blinked at the older man. “You wouldn’t be embarrassed?” He couldn’t imagine his partner actually being embarrassed by a sexual or romantic movie, not one that had managed to enter the mainstream, no matter how terrible it was. Sean was the most self-confident person he knew. Sean suffered no embarrassment engaging in far more potentially sensitive behavior. He had insisted they go to Pride events long before the younger man had come out of the closet. He had never displayed even the slightest bit of hesitation in declaring proudly who he was, even though he drew the necessary lines between his professional life and his personal life. He never objected to the admittedly poor quality of erotica that Josh insisted on reading with him as bedtime stories, and he actively engaged in their objectively sub-par flirtation games. He was confronted by worse thoughts on a daily basis than anything expressed in that movie, so how could he be embarrassed?

“I’m not embarrassed.”

Of course Sean had overheard his mental litany.

The telepath held out his hand. Josh took it without hesitation, dropping down to sit beside his partner on the sofa. “For the same reason that I can’t watch horror movies, I couldn’t watch that with an audience of willing viewers,” he explained.

Josh did not fully understand, although that did make the point a bit clearer. He knew that the telepath disliked horror movies generally, but that he particularly loathed watching them with a movie-going audience. Once, Sean had tried to explain it to him, something about the thoughts of that many minds close to him became overwhelming, particularly with their enthusiasm over something so objectively horrifying. For horror movies, that was the blood lust.

He suppose that for this movie, it would be the same disgust that Josh and everyone who agreed with them experienced about the mere thought of the book and the abusive relationship.

The attorney did not think that he would want to know how many people thought that abuse was love. It would probably make his skin crawl. So he could understand how his caring and sensitive partner would have an aversion, even if he could never fully comprehend what it was like for the telepath.

“That makes sense,” he acknowledged. “I still don’t see why they can’t just let you read a summary online and go from there.”

“I could get away with that, but I wouldn’t let the children get away with that if they had to give a report, and I believe in parity.”

Sean had always advocated leading by example.

There was nothing Josh could do about that, except to hope that the torture would end sooner rather than later. “Will you be done soon?”

“I hope to be finished in an hour or less.” Sean’s real goal was forty-five minutes, but if he pushed himself too far, he would get a headache. This claptrap was not worthy of giving himself a headache. That would ruin his evening even more than the contents of the book already had.

“We could do something to get your mind off this when you finish?”

“I’d like that.” Sean leaned in to press a kiss to the younger man’s forehead. “I already have something in mind.”

Josh could only imagine, but his heart skipped a beat.

[Penelope Serrano-Blaise]

8. Evidence

“Mother?” Surprise clearly lined her British accent as she stood in the doorway staring back at the older of the two Blaise women. Dark eyes flashed behind her to see the softer, kinder expression of her father. Michael? Standing next to him, trying to offer his most apologetic grin.

“We wanted to see your place.” Anna Blaise explained simply, as if it really were that simple. As if the six hour drive between New York's greatest city and Burlington was really just a walk down the street.

Penny found herself stuck in the frame of the door, staring at her entire immediate family as they were expected to be welcomed inside with open arms. Her expression quickly settled, although eyes still held hints of surprise from the sudden, unexpected visit.

“Skype just doesn't do it justice, dear.” Her father piped in after a few spare beats, setting the track as the family shifted into the doorway with or without the psychometrist's direct permission. Still, Penelope stepped aside with a short exhale, eyes closing briefly as Michael swung the door shut.

“We would have called, but I know with your busy schedule you would have had trouble picking up.” The first of the passive aggressive remarks, not even minutes into entering their home. Penny's lips pressed together firmly. Admittedly, she deserved that – more often than not, the Brit didn't choose to pick up her phone for anyone other than her counterpart.

“We're still sorting everything.” Penny explained quickly. They'd barely been there a week; everything still needed to be organized and settled. It wasn't exactly the prime time for visitors.

“It looks great.” Michael added with an approving nod. “Although, there are a few things I'd shift about.” An interior designer fresh out of university kept his ego boosted, yet the smile he flashed his younger sister made up for it. “Where's Lucy?”

“She's setting up the television.” Penny offered quickly, although her gaze immediately shifted towards the living room, where her counterpart was sorting cables for their new entertainment system. Their own space gave room for the ability to get a bigger television, which was apparently necessary.

Unaware of her own timing, the Australian made herself known, ducking into the kitchen as the entire Blaise family stepped in. She'd been aware of someone knocking at the door, but music playing masked their identity. It wasn't until dark eyes landed on the head of the household did it actually click. A shared moment of eye contact between Penny and Lucy – only a few spare beats to express enough through the silence.

“Hello, Lucy!” Jonathan broke through the air and distance as he stepped closer to the Australian, dragging her into an embrace. As calm as her expression remained, Penny knew well that it wasn't going over well with her counterpart. Neither of them had been expecting this.

“Hey.” Lucy greeted back as he pulled himself away, offering a similar greeting to the rest of the Blaise family as she slowly, instinctively worked her way closer to Penny as she put the kettle on the stove top.

“We've been busy trying to settle.” Penny offered as she turned back to her family, eyebrows raised as she failed to meet her mother's gaze. Fixed on the ink manipulator – or rather, her hand as it dragged up the material of her shirt collar, which had fallen down her shoulder and not bothered to be fixed until that moment. A nonchalant move to cover up the clear bruise Lucy Serrano wore. A moment later, her gaze flashed up to meet Lucy's.

“I can see that.”

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#27 – Gloves

Sean loathed winter.

Winter had never been his favorite season. As a child and a young man, he had preferred summer, autumn, and spring in that order. Winter had always been last, even though life in the Northeast ensured that he would experience the full brunt of winter for his formative years. As bad as New York had been, Vermont had been worse. In Vermont, snow began in November, if not October, and it lasted through the end of March, sometimes into April. One bad year had brought them snow in May, an experience that Sean had hoped never to repeat, and which had been enough to keep him out of Alaska at all and Canada except during the summer.

Not that he had the money for that type of travel these days. Not for pleasure.

Sean traveled a lot, although not by choice. Staying in one place took investment: one needed money, one needed connection to the community, one needed a social support network, one needed a job, one needed a permanent address.

The telepath had none of those.

What little he did have fit in his pockets and he kept the spillover in an oversized bag. What little money he accumulated went towards trying to secure lodging night-by-night, or to help him find a meal here and there. Sometimes he had enough for bus fare, when the police hassled him so much that he knew that it was time to move on.

Once upon a time, he had had a van, but that was long gone. He missed the van. It had provided him some protection: shelter of a sort, a place to store his belongings and the ability to have a few more possessions, a sense of privacy, and the ability to travel if he had to get out of dodge.

But the van had broken down. Fixing it proved impossible, for the money required was more than he could ever hope to earn. So he had left it behind.

Now he walked or relied on public transportation, when he could get his hands on money enough to pay for it.

All of his clothing was designed for warm weather, yet, paradoxically, not a single item was warm. Once upon a time they had been. Once upon a time, his coat had been brand new with a thick lining for the worst of the winter weather. Yet, time marched on, and the elements took their toll. Little by little, his coat had accumulated holes, had become worn and threadbare. These days, it did little to protect him from the wind and the chill in the air. His shoes had holes in them, and in the rain and the snow, water seeped in, soaking through his socks and chilling him to the bone.

His gloves were in no better condition.

A hole across the palm of one. Exposed fingers on the other. They did so little to protect him that sometimes he thought that keeping them was an exercise in futility.

Yet he couldn’t part with them.

As bad as the gloves were, as useless as they proved to be, how much worse would it be for him to have no gloves at all? At least those few fingers were protected to some degree, and that helped a bit. Better to have that than to risk all ten digits to frostbite in the worst of the winter.

Aside from the risk of frostbite and the incessant snowfall, winter brought Christmas.

Sean had not celebrated Christmas in years. He had no reason to: no family, no friends, no ability to buy presents, and certainly no Christmas spirit.

The world around him was filled with the Christmas spirit, which, he supposed made up for his complete and utter lacking.

One night, while searching for shelter, he came across the Santa Parade.

The Santa Parade was a glorified pub crawl, but with hundreds of people dressed as Santa Claus, with some others dressed as elves or the occasional reindeer or snowman.

Costumes were a luxury he could not imagine. Alcohol was a luxury he could barely remember, although he missed its warm embrace and the way it dulled the pain and loneliness.

He huddled outside, trying to stay out of the way of the intoxicated cavalcade. Shivering, because the temperature had dropped below freezing hours ago.

One Santa Claus managed to notice him and came over. Rosy cheeked from alcohol rather than supernatural merriment, he put forth his best Ho Ho Ho which was better than Sean could muster. After all, he had done it without coughing, even if his beard was fake and the telepath’s was real and unkempt.

“Hello,” Sean managed, teeth chattering.

“Have you been a good boy this year?”

“I’ve-” The telepath coughed and reached up to cover his mouth, missing the first time but catching the second to avoid spreading whatever germs he had managed to pick up. Only when the fit passed did he say, “I’ve tried.” Muffled, because he had yet to move his hand away, afraid that he would begin coughing again.

“Have you made a Christmas wish yet?”

Sean knew that he did not need to humor this young man. Some might consider this entire exercise humiliating: a privileged young man, probably with a good job and a wide social circle, pretending to be the most beloved mythical figure of all and projecting that wish onto a random stranger, boosting himself while using a homeless man as a prop. In that sense, it was humiliating.

Still, so few people engaged the telepath in conversation that simply being seen as a person who might have made a Christmas wish or who had any desires of his own meant more than he could say. Being able to talk to another person who wasn’t a police officer threatening to arrest him or wasn’t someone using him as a cautionary example proved worthwhile enough for Sean to continue talking to him.

So he answered the question with a sad shake of his head. “I don’t have Christmas wishes.” Then he coughed again, glad to have gotten the sentence out first.

“That isn’t right.” Santa remained inebriated, but he looked genuinely upset at that. “Let me give you something off your list. What do you need?”

An absurd question. Sean had almost nothing and thus needed nearly everything. So much of what he needed required a time machine so he could go back and fix his life, putting it on the right track before things had escalated and spun out of control. So much else of what he needed required structural change to their economic system and to eradicate prejudice amongst individuals and groups.

He didn’t say that.

Instead, he said, “I could use a pair of gloves.” Not that he expected them.

Miraculously, Santa pulled his own gloves off his hands. “I can grant that wish,” he promised, before holding them out to the telepath.

Sean hesitated for a moment, inclined to say that he couldn’t take them from someone else. Yet years of living on the margins had eroded his self-respect, and so he accepted them, eyes cast downward. “Thank you.”

“Merry Christmas!” Then Santa Claus moved on to catch up with his friends.

Quickly, Sean took off his old gloves, stuffing them into his coat pockets. These were a tiny bit snug – his hands were so large – but he managed to pull them on.

They were warm.

For the first winter in longer than he could remember, his hands were warm.

[Penelope Serrano-Blaise]

99. Snore 

It was strange to find comfort in another person's bed, especially when the Brit so often struggled to find it alone in her own. An arm draped across her form, providing more warmth than the blanket from the bitter winter cold living outside the window. A glance around the space offered so much information – there was so much of the Australian living on her walls, telling stories of her personality with every pinned up piece of art. From the field and castle living on her wall, framed with fairy lights.

All this information, and nothing offered the time.

Yet, for once, that didn't seem to matter, despite the plan to eventually bring a clock into the room she was starting to frequent so often. Rather, Penny kept her focus on the walls, eyes having adjusted to the dark after having been awake for a while.

Fingertips tracked lightly along the arm that crossed her form, careful not to wake up the Australian sleeping at her side. But a shift from Lucy forced her fingers to come to a halt, her gaze shifting to her counterpart, wondering if she had accidentally woken her from her slumber.

For a moment, she believed she had as Lucy crinkled her nose, but with another shift – her arm tightening around the psychometrist – the ink manipulator seemed to settle again. Even, slow breaths passing her barely parted lips.

Silent.

The Brit held her own breath, her fingers still paused halfway through a movement. Anything to keep herself completely still, completely listening.

The only shift of air was the light sound of her breathing, barely audible was it was.

Finally letting go of the air trapped in her lungs, Penny felt a small pull at the corner of her mouth. Without a set of eyes on her, she let it take over her features as she closed her eyes. There was never a doubt in her mind that she was right, but confirming that she was only brought more comfort from the fact.

Because there, in the middle of the night, she knew that no matter what memory existed in the Australian's old sheets, the purple haired girl hadn't been listening.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#9 – Write

1990.


Dear Josh:

I hope this letter finds you well.

Life in Vermont is a change of pace. Pilot Ridge itself hasn’t changed much since the last time I was there. The biggest differences are that the area is now solid blue in terms of voting and that there are more hippies than when I was a student. Otherwise, most everything looks the same. Most of the buildings are the same, even if they house different people or businesses than they did in the 1970s. I think I read somewhere that Vermont has the highest ratio of protected landmarks and land of any of the states in the U.S. It would make sense, since so little changes in that regard.

In another way, everything is quite different.

Hammel as a staff member and an adult bears little resemblance to Hammel as a student.

The school seems smaller, for once, although I know that’s a matter of perspective and the way that our memories play tricks on us. It’s also the fact that I have the authority to go wherever I want now, as opposed to being on a schedule of supervision and classes. I also get to leave campus whenever I want to, and I go home at night. That alone feels liberating in a way I can’t describe, since I had that same freedom in New York. But I didn’t as a student two decades ago.

About half of the staff members were there when I was a student, including several teachers, the current head of Recruiting, the Headmistress, and some of the trainers. Robert is the most prominent among the people I remember, and he’s been so helpful in finding my bearings. We meet for lunch a couple of times a week, if I don’t have sessions and he doesn’t have special training to do.

I wish that you could see my office.

It isn’t as nice as the one in Chelsea, in terms of square footage or adornments, but it has a presence. I actually have a receptionist now. She isn’t mine alone, since I share her with the rest of the administration, but she’s a receptionist that helps me with appointments all the same. I have a shiny nameplate outside of my office door, which looks more imposing than it should be.

The most exciting part of the office is that I was allowed to choose my own furniture and décor. I had thought that they would make me keep my predecessor’s things, but instead they allocated me a budget and told me to be reasonable.

As though anyone had to lecture me about being reasonable. I think that had to do with the fact that the Headmistress doesn’t appreciate either the beard or the earring, but that’s pure speculation on my part. I’ve chosen not to probe for my own peace of mind and for the sake of our working relationship.

I think I did a good job with furnishing, however. I have a sturdy oak desk that harkens back to the 19th Century. I visited an antique dealer who gave me a bargain, and I think we both walked away happy. Particularly since I had the distinct impression that he wanted to unload it in order to free up some floor space. My desk chair is a wing-back and it has wheels, which does wonders for productivity; it’s nice to be able to spin around and look out the window in the middle of the day. I have two large windows and a nice view of the courtyard.

The two chairs in front of my desk were provided by Hammel, and those are standard chairs for students.

On the other side of the office I have two armchairs and the world’s most comfortable sofa. One could take a nap in the middle of the day; I admit that was where a fair amount of my allocated budget went, but I have no regrets. I have a coffee table in the back to make the room look a bit homier. Then the walls are lined with bookshelves for everything I need to keep, much like my old office. Unpacking the books and the journals took the longest time, but everything is nicely in place now.

I picked up a few paintings from the local arts and craft fair. Nothing fancy but still tasteful. All in all, I’m pleased with myself.

Adjusting to the students has been a handful at times. So many of them insist on calling me “Sir” which I correct immediately. You know I don’t go in for that type of authoritarian, military-style address. Some others call me “Mister Neville” until I explain that I am, in fact, a doctor rather than a guidance counselor. Slowly, we’ve been hitting a stride. I already have a rotation of students, including some who require weekly sessions. I can’t go into details due to confidentiality, but I will say that I wish more parents accepted their children for who they were. I know that my parents are not always the bastion of open-mindedness and tolerance, but they also never prevented me from coming home. They visited me dutifully while I was a student at Hammel, and they followed all of Robert’s instructions for how to help me cope during vacations. I wish that every student had at least that much support.

Someday, I hope. That’s why I took this job in the first place.

Outside of work, I’ve spent a lot of time fixing up the house before winter. I can’t wait for you to come up so we can have a sleepover. I know I described it last time, but I still can’t get over how big it is, or how inexpensive it was. New York real estate one’s perspective when it comes to price per square footage. I have a dozen rooms now, and a four-car garage, a huge backyard, and a covered porch for winter, so I can still enjoy the outside. When you come to visit, you can have your pick of guest rooms.

It gets better. I had a hot tub installed.

It feels like a dream, using that after a long day.

If you come up before the first snowfall, I can show you what a New England autumn looks like. Otherwise, you can see how I spent my winters when I was a student.

Write me when you can. I’ll try to call this weekend.

Yours,
Sean Neville

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#15 – Affront

The wedding had been beautiful.

Although Sean put little stock in the pomp and flash of traditional ceremony, he could still appreciate both the aesthetics and the sentiment. He appreciated all of the cultural rituals, even if he chose to forgo them in his own life. These days, he had little use for organized religion, had abandoned his former piousness, and he had adopted a more pragmatic view of culture tied to what purpose they served humanity, individually or collectively.

However, he begrudged nobody who held onto closer cultural ties, as long as they harmed nobody in the process. That was part of his general worldview of acceptance and peace.

Besides, his family had hosted this wedding. The bride was his baby sister, his only sister. How could he fail to support her on what could be the happiest day of her life?

Even if her husband was not the man Sean would have chosen were he in her position. Colin would be a good husband for her. Kathleen loved him, Colin loved her, and despite the myriad qualities Sean found underwhelming, the younger man did pass the telepath’s three-prong test: 1) Colin was not intimidated by the fact that Kathleen was smarter than he was (even if that had never come up in conversation), 2) Colin accepted that Kathleen was a strong, independent woman and had no intention of trying to change those qualities about her, even if both he and she held fast to some other patriarchal beliefs regarding gender roles, and 3) Colin did not have any violent impulses and was slow to anger. Far slower to anger than Kathleen was, in fact.

She would be safe and happy with him, and they could find fulfillment with each other. More than that, Colin had become her best friend, whether they would use that term to describe one another or not, and Sean respected that.

Sean believed that love could only exist if built on a strong foundation of friendship and mutual respect.

After all, he had found love with his best friend, and that had worked out so well.

Between the wedding ceremony and the wedding reception, there would be a two-hour break. That would give everyone time to decompress, change and shower again if necessary, and then to adjourn from the church to the Great Hall that his parents had rented for the occasion.

For certain members of the Neville extended family, this would give them time to have a drink or two before the reception, where they could drink for the rest of the night.

For Sean, it meant that he could do some additional set up and clean up, since he had promised his parents to do that.

While gathering the remaining programs from the pews, Kathleen came over to him. Despite the excitement and pleasure of the day, she had a frown on her face.

“Congratulations!” He wished her with a sincere smile, his expression the polar opposite of hers.

“You didn’t take communion.”

He had not expected her to notice at an occasion like this. “I know.”

“Why wouldn’t you take communion?”

“I can’t.”

He gathered the last of the pamphlets and carefully straightened them out. Their mother would want to take them home to put into storage, in the same place she kept mementos of other important milestones in their family history.

“You could have given confession before the ceremony.”

It was her wedding day, and so Sean held back his sigh. Turning to face her, he shook his head a single time. “No, I couldn’t. I feel no contrition for how I live my life, and so I couldn’t promise to repent.”

“Not even for your own sister’s wedding?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” He meant that sincerely, and not a trace of sarcasm entered his voice. “I came alone, just as you requested.” Nearly every other attendee, even those who were currently single, had brought a guest, but her brother had come stag. That had been part of her wedding gift, honoring that request at great personal expense, in terms of his social life rather than his wallet. In addition, he had bought her and Colin a very nice wedding present, but he would not call attention to that right now.

“Everyone saw you sit there while the rest of us took communion.”

“It would have looked worse if I excused myself to go to the bathroom in the middle of the service. So I sat. I was respectful.” He had been. He had remained seated, had not fidgeted or made so much as a sound or an errant facial expression while the rest of those in attendance had received communion. And it had been essentially everyone else in attendance, since both the Neville and Finnerty families were Catholic, and most of the family friends were as well.

“I did the same thing during the prayer service, and nobody looked askance.”

“You don’t know that,” she replied with a frown.

He tapped his temple with two fingers. “Yes, I do.”

Kathleen sighed and shook her head. “What do you plan to do when I have children?”

“Attend their baptisms with a bigger smile on my face than Colin will have, and I mean that.”

She glared at him. Apparently, his attempt at mild humor had gone over poorly. He should have known.

“I’ve yet to miss an event since I left the Church,” he pointed out.

“Don’t you care about how this reflects on me? On Mom and Dad?”

“I-”

Before he could finish his thought, Colin appeared from the back of the church. “I’ve been looking all over for you!” He declared, walking with stride down the aisle to his new bride’s side. “The photographer wants to get a few shots of us before we go to the Great Hall.”

Then, noticing Sean, he gave the telepath a smile. “Thank you for all your help today.”

“Of course.” He nodded at the younger man, ever-polite because, after all, he was Kathleen’s husband, and it was her wedding day.

We can talk later, Sean projected to his sister. The glare she sent him told him that she did not appreciate the effort.

Perhaps the reception would lift her spirits and clear her mind.

[Penelope Serrano-Blaise]

58. Puzzle  

The controller was held as delicately as a wine glass, fingers curling gently around the hardened plastic as dark eyes focused on the brightly lit screen in front of her. Looking. Studying. For several seconds, her thumbs didn't move to work the joystick, unlike her counterpart's who pressed buttons and moved around with ease.

“I've got this.” Lucy announced, lips scrunching to one side as the robot character she portrayed stepped onto a large, red button, which opened a door to her left. Bouncing off it, the door closed immediately as she bounded off. Still, the secondary character remained fixed at the entrance of the level.

Lucy almost wanted to question if Penny was even trying, as if she were missing the point to the game she managed to convince her counterpart to play, but with a sidelong glance to the Brit, she could tell that she was focused. Her lips pressing together as if she were reading a new textbook.

Penny knew how to play; they'd gone over the mechanics of the science-themed game before throwing the Brit into a level. It wasn't as if she didn't know what to do, but the lack of movement from her character was somewhat irksome to Lucy, who couldn't even remain still in a virtual platform.

Slowly, Penny extended her thumb, pressing gently against the joystick to ease her character forward, only a few steps, then a move of her other thumb to change the angle of the camera, watching the various moves Lucy made as she explored the area.

And again she waited, but only for a short amount of time before she placed more pressure on the joystick, as Lucy again stepped on the first button she pressed. “No.” Penny's voice dragged a flash of curiosity to the ink manipulator, who turned to look at her counterpart with raised eyebrows.

With her own glance, she met Lucy's eyes briefly before they flicked back to the screen. “I have this.” Both a correction and a statement within one as she moved further into the level. “Stand over there, and make a portal there.”

[Carter Chevalier]

35. Punched.

December, 2013

Rya had tried messaging Carter. She'd sent him a few texts and gotten no answer. Which was strange, because through the dormitory wall she could hear him in there. Dramatic enough to know that some things were getting thrown around. It wasn't the usual brand of energy he afflicted in that room; it was much more violent. She knocked on the wall, first. No answer. Usually if he wanted her around, he answered. With a hand pressed against the wall they shared, she contemplated her choices.

She shouldn't go. He didn't need her to go. If he needed her, he'd ask. Right?

Who was she kidding?

Careful, fast steps dragged her from one dorm to the next, and without a thought she didn't knock on the common room door. She walked right in. When she knocked on the door to his room, she heard a definite, disgruntled groan from the other side.

"Not today, Rya." He called, and she used the momentum to push the door open. If he didn't want her there, he'd have locked the door.

There he was, laying on his bed with his arm over his face. His eyes, specifically. She took a moment to take the sight in; he seemed suddenly tense with her presence. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

"Carter."

"No." He snapped, feeling the urge to roll over. But he didn't. Instead he kept his arm draped across his eyes, "Go. Away."

Momentarily, they paused in silence as she hovered in the room she was uninvited from. Despite how harsh his tone had been, it didn't matter. Her fingers suddenly curled around his wrist, dragging his arm away and forcing his eyes to open abruptly.

"Shit, Blondie." She swore. Because there on his face was the beginning of a bruise beneath his eye.

"I'm fine." He immediately snapped, drawing his arm back out of her hold.

"You're fine?" She laughed sarcastically at the fact, "Look at your eye." It was obvious. He had to know that. Surely he could feel that. She pressed a hadnt ot her hip; "Did you at least ice it?"

Carter scoffed. Of course he knew to do that. "Why are you even asking me that?"

"Because your eye's swelling." Rya snapped back at him, disappearing out the door for a few moments. Briefly, Carter considered locking her out. How easy it would have been to do so; to close her off completely and just wallow in the moment. When she returned, she had a cube of ice in her hand. One was all she needed.

"Rya."

"Shut up." She argued, though she kept it light. Sitting at the edge of the bed, she eased the ice onto his eye, keeping it perched between his fingers. The moment a single drip threatened to fall she worked wonders to ease it back into place. He did his best not to seethe under the cool connotations to his skin. The entire thing was embarrassing. "So, you gonna tell me what happened?"

"Dom happened."

Immediately, she eased the light pressure off his skin, eyebrows raised and clearly surprised. "Are you serious?"

Passed his lips, Carter breathed a sigh.

"Why?" She asked.

"I..." Carter tried. But how would he ever find the strength to explain this to anyone? "Said some things. He has feelings for someone, and I wanted him to realise it."

"What'd you say?"

"It doesn't matter what I said."

She laughed. Sharply. Briefly. Because it wasn't a funny moment, but it was so like him to avoid the details, "Something harsh enough to get a hit to the face, Cart." She denoted, pursing her lips lightly at the colouration beneath his skin. When he stayed silent, she shrugged her shoulders, "Alright, Blondie. I guess it's yours to keep. Just don't say I never do anything for you."

Raising a hand, the older twin curled his fingers around her wrist, easing the ice away. With a little shift, her hand no longer obscured his view. His eyes caught hers, and momentarily, he lingered in such a moment.

"I won't." He replied, and he knew he never would.

[Nica Serrano]

12. Stop Time 

An empty can of Red Bull lay on its side, cluttering Nica's already scattered and messy desk. She had downed the contents of the energy drink only about an hour ago, but already was beginning to feel fatigue pull at her tired eyes, shutting every few minutes. She let out an audible grunt, tilting her head to the side while staring at the blank document on her screen. Blank meaning just that; empty. No words. Not even a title or her name. Her gaze flickered to the clock on the bottom right hand corner of her screen, displaying the time. 2:24 am. 

In six and a half hours, she had to hand in an essay she had yet to start.

Really, it came as no surprise, given the Australian had the tendency to procrastinate.. To push off assignments until the very last minute. It was a form she had mastered; simultaneously not caring enough but balanced with decent grades. She didn't hate essays, but there was just always something better to do. More fun than sitting down and typing away. Half the time, Nica bullshitted her way through the essay, never putting much thought or substance into it.

There was something off today, though. No matter how hard she tried to start, to start the mindless typing, Nica couldn't. Her fingers hovered above the keys, green eyes straining against the illuminated screen. Empty. Absolutely empty.

She ran her hand over her jaw, before it dawned on her. How she never thought of this before, Nica didn't know.

Rising from the desk chair, Nica stood in front of the clock on her wall. She raised a palm up, facing the general direction of the clock. Focus. She stared at the clock, willing for the hands to follow her command, to cease movement all together. A dizzying wave of vertigo hit Nica, washing over her mind in the form of a headache. But the hands stopped; frozen in time.

With a smug grin on her face, Nica sat down at her desk again. Time was on her side.

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

29. Vehement.

First, cool fingertips found the runs to her back. The reddened lines Penny herself had imprinted across the Wonder Woman tattoo that resided over more than half the ink manipulator's back. Flared from her shoulder blades down and out, various scheduled notions pleating and overlapping.

"It doesn't-?"

"No." Lucy answered, propped up on her elbows with a slight arch to her back. One hand cradled her jaw, the other mindlessly flicked across the screen to her phone, held by the curve of the pillows in front of her.

Settled at her side and still close enough to thread a leg between the Australian's, precise eyes following the hand that followed the divot of her shoulder blade. Held by an arm, she only had a single hand free. Free to traverse across to the break at her neck. The line of her hair, pulled up and out of the way as it was. The obtrusions to the back of her neck were minor; no where near as defined as those which tracked the skin lower on her form, so she didn't comment. She didn't even push.

With a small tilt of her head, Penny watched the way Lucy drummed her own fingernails against her lower lip. Her tongue ran the line a moment later, and she tilted her head just a fraction. She didn't need to look back, or even at her. She didn't seem worried in the slightest.

Small, meticulous and pinpointed shapes dotted across the side of her neck. Hardly explicit in their positioning, the pattern was as obscure as the desperation that lined her own lips when she put them there in the first place. A single fingertip to a single form, and just a little touch. A little weight. A little more than a tap. She looked to her expression. Nothing.

Still, she took a breath. "You're-"

"Sure." Lucy finished the sentence on a small sigh. Not to express that she was disinterested. Rather, she simply knew the amendment was coming before it passed her mind and left her mouth.

After stalling for a short stint of time, Penny allowed her fingers to follow down the curve of her neck completely, fingertips loosely brushing against her collarbone before she stopped. When she rocked back a touch, feather-light pressure halted on the slightly risen circular mark on the bridge between the nape and her shoulder. Hardly enough force to bruise the spot to a shade of purple, she still pressed down lightly on the pinker, almost red noted area.

And there, finally, she seethed involuntarily; a breath sucked in so harshly it emitted sound past her teeth.

Eyes closed. Just the smallest, most sudden drop of her head.

"Lucy."

"Shut up; it's not bad." She explained, rolling her shoulders back as she dragged her head up and her eyes to the side, "It's never bad."

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

55. Accent.

"Who is that?"

Penny's voice cut through the silence between them. The dorm room itself, however, was hardly silent. They were doing their own things on that particular after noon. She was sitting up in her place on the bed the same book she'd been trying to read for a week now, and Lucy had found comfort in the space beside her. Tilting her head a little, she opted to rest it against her counterpart's thigh. Her hands were cradling a controller, and with one of her computer monitor hooked to the console beside it, she was immersed in one of the best games of all time.

And Penny was asking who it was.

"I'm gonna pretend that you didn't just ask me that, okay?" Lucy scoffed, sarcasm lining her tone perfectly. But it only caused the psychometrist to lower her eyebrows.

"Why?"

"Because." End of sentence. At least, it was until Lucy laughed. There were some things even she couldn't let go of; "It's Lara. Croft. She's the bloody Tomb Raider."

"Ah."

Stagnant in the game, Lucy turned her eyes up. Even if they were at the beginning of an argument, she still felt the corner of her mouth drag at the threat of a smile. Because she could just see her looking down past the pages of the book. "No, not ah." Lucy fought, "Totally, totally epic. Like wow. The Tomb Raider. Really? Awesome, Lucy."

Penny kept her eyes on her, tilting the book away for a moment. She wasn't really serious. Was she? Was she being serious? The corner of her mouth twitched to a frown, and she reeled the book back into view instead. With that seemingly settled, Lucy turned her attention to the screen again. Done and totally dusted.

Except that it wasn't, and Penny eased the book aside again, leaving nothing between them for when she inevitably looked up again.

"What does she do?" Penny asked, vague interest lining her tone. Very vague, but at least it was still there.

"What does she do?" Lucy asked, like she really needed to remind herself of what was asked, "Um... She raids tombs and shit?"

"So she's a thief."

"No."

"And a grave robber."

"No." Lucy quickly argued. Too quickly, really. Because closer examination to the encounters she'd had in the game forced her to rethink her answer. So she dropped her voice a level, as if to compensate for remote embarrassment; "Well, okay. Maybe sometimes, but it's not like, cemeteries and shit."

"Hn."

"Not really."

Silence fell for a second time. There was obvious comfort in it, again. It wasn't so difficult to find allocated depth in the game she played, or the book she'd given up on trying to read. Settled with her, she reached down to run her fingers through the ink manipulator's hair. Gently. Loosely. Evenly by way of a therapeutic rhythm.

"Why do you like her so much?" Penny asked her, chiming in at what she deemed to be the best moment.

A moment that was busy. Loud sounds from the screens; flashes of bright lights. Each bullet from each gun radiated through the speakers, emanating a growingly distant sound. Like there really was no one around for miles. "Because she's... Awesome." Lucy reasoned, as if the reasoning was completely sound. Who honestly questioned the quality of Lara Croft like that? "Awesome and kinda totally bangin' hot." She quickly shrugged her shoulders, because it was supposed to be nonchalant.

"She's," A pause from the psychometrist. There was no way she would repeat the word; "What?"

"She's hot. Like... Hot." Lucy reiterated, "Like, ten outta ten would totally bang hot."

An unimpressed look crossed Penny's features. That and a small dab of jealousy. But she was fictional. Despite how rational that reasoning was, the resonating jealousy still remained well and truly in tact.

"And smart. And... Stuff." Lucy drawled on, feeling the sudden threat to their comfortable series of moments together. She spoke so factually, like there was a lot more to Lara Croft than just her physical appearance.

Eyebrows raised at a definite twitch, "Stuff?"

"Good with guns. Good with puzzles." Lucy continued on. But now more than ever, Lucy felt like it was imperative to keep her eyes glued to the screen and her hands attached to the controller. She had to keep focus; the last thing she wanted to do was die.

"Mm." With the sudden loss of her gaze, Penny offered nothing more than a questioning nudge. There was more to it than that. There had to be.

Another shrug from the Australian, "She's like, British." She added, a weakened nonchalant tone for the moment; "Or whatever."

Still, her nose crinkled at the mere idea that that could be a point, but she knew it all the same. And given the smile on the psychometrist's face in conjunction with the way her fingers stalled through Lucy's hair in the moment, it had to be a mutually agreed on fact of preference.

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

93. Compromise.
Warning: There's ample, ample swearing in here.

February, 2012

"No way. No fucking away. Abso-fucking-lutely not, do you fucking hear me, mate?"

There was nothing subtle about a reaction like that. Nothing watered down about the sudden aggression harboured by the sixteen-year-old Australian who paced back and forth about her living room. Calliope, Queensland. Her father sitting at his usual chair, her mother standing steady against the frame of the door. A man that no one knew with his arms calmly by his side in the middle of the space. Three sets of eyes watching endlessly.

Four, if one was to count Nica, the newly developed ink manipulator's younger sister, who watched aimlessly by peaking around the corner in the other doorway.

"Relax, Lucy." Her mother tried.

"Take it down a notch love, yeah?" Her father added, taking his usual, slightly more casual approach. With a turn of her form, her dark eyes landed right on his bright blue ones.

"No fucking notches will be fucking taken down, dad. I'm not fucking around here." Lucy snapped. Back and forth with her steps. Again. Hands loose, "I'm not moving to fucking Switzerland for this shit!" Elevated notions in her voice caused her father - Luka Serrano - to drop his head instinctively. "Shit that - if we're being totally fucking honest right now - sounds like total fucking bullshit in the first place!"

"Lucy-"

"I am saying. No." She stressed, taking a heavy breath and feeling the drag of a loss of momentum.

"You're not hearing him, Lucy." Ellis Serrano tried again, running her hand along the length of her face. "You don't have a choice."

"Nah, fuck that shit. That's a fucking joke."

Stalling in her steps, she pressed her hands to the nearby wall. Dark hair hung heavy to either side of her face. She didn't need to look to know where the poor quality of the recent paint job was; she could feel the risen notions of the smallest dried droplet of paint. She could map the dirty quality of the lines to her father's ten year old tattoos. She could feel the way the only set of ink beneath her skin - the sparrows at her hips she got of an illegal whim last year - steady and straighten the irrefutably messy lines they'd been given.

"Isn't there anything we can do?" Her mother asked. Because there was another school in another country. A country that made a hell of a lot more sense to every Serrano in the room, despite the fact that they didn't voice it.

"Kocher has jurisdictional leeway." The recruiter pointed out.

Like they didn't hear that the first time.

"Total fucking screaming shit." Lucy fought anyway, the seething nature of her voice caught as the words passed her teeth.

With a sigh, her father left his seat. As he crossed the room his hands pressed to her shoulders, and he gave a small squeeze. "Lucky."

"No."

"Lucy."

"Dad."

With pressure from his hands, Lucy was eased back off the wall. The moment she peeled her hands away, she realised the white beneath her hands had changed to a dark shade of grey. Her father pressed her back against his chest, arms wrapping around her completely to take hold of her. For someone who seemed to hate any kind of physical contact, it was something she'd found the means to accept.

Silence.

Lucy was hardly about to cry over something like this. It wasn't worth crying over. She didn't cry, she just got really, really angry about it.

"Family." Ellis tried suddenly, raising her head so her dark eyes caught the Recruiter's expression, "In North America. My sister," A pause as she pointed to herself, "Lives in uhh... In- in-" A quick click of her fingers, a few times to catch the end of her sentence. What was it? "Seattle. It's the other side of the country, but it's better than the other side of the world." Personally, Lucy had no idea. And neither did her father. "Five hours is better than fourteen."

Bargaining; an arguably easier step to be in then where Lucy was. The pressure from the arms around her had calmed her down long enough to cease the endless amount of repetitive swears she could offer. It worked wonders to leave her calm.

"Does it-" Hesitant. Luke was hesitant to ask; "Does that do anything?"

Her mother wore desperation; anything was better than the current outcome. An easier transition was better than something so foreign. Contemplative colours crossed the Recruiter's features for the information, genuine as it clearly was. "Because if it makes a difference, I'll fight for that much at least." Kocher or Hammel. If she got a sway - an edge in that decision - she knew where she wanted her daughter to land. And land, she did.

"I don't," Lucy paused for a quick breath; a heaving hit of air that forced her shoulders to rise, "Want to bloody well go, at all!"

"Enough, Lucy." Ellis argued. "Just stop. I let you pace. I let you rant. I let you swear, and now you're going to listen to me." Her voice worked through the clear stress of the moment to try and find a clearer head. But the more they went around in circles with a stubborn child, the worse it got. She took a breath. A steady inhale for a slow exhale. "You don't get to stay. You have to go. Of the two options of where you might go, I want what's better for you."

The moment Lucy raised her head and opened her mouth to argue - to fight back - her mother raised a hand in her direction, her index finger pointed out. Sharp like a laser and more than enough to keep her silent.

"Enough."

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

69. Strive.

Better, better, better. Lucy Serrano wanted to be better. She wanted to do better. Everything she wanted to perfect took far too much time. She wanted to be better, and she wanted to be better now.

It took hours. Hunched over a desk with a pen in her hold. She felt the muscles in her hand start to cease up a long time ago, but it was the kind of pain everyone said to push through. Momentarily, she dropped the pen she held. It fell to the surface as her fingers curled the next, easing it out with a stretch. It was difficult. Distraught like temporary trauma. Extending her right hand out, she shook it back and forth relatively aimlessly.

She was everywhere. From the altercation in the student lounge to the galaxy she painted on her ceiling to the cleaned notion of the room she was in now. All the way to the failure of a dinner they tried to have and the bed they ended up in together. Twice. Once at night and again in the morning.

Lucy took a shallow breath, squeezing her eyes shut. She crinkled her nose and frowned as hard as her face would allow her to. If she got it all right, she could forget it.

Lifting the pen again, she tapped the edge of it against it over and over and over again. The line work wasn't right; they were easy fixes given the forever-quality of the instrument she held. At least, it was forever for everyone else. Lucy could feel the way the ink threatened to shift at the mere thought that she should. It could be perfect. A flick of her wrist or a run of her fingertip and she could make the curve of her uniquely shaped nose perfect.

Tap, tap, tap. Over and over and-

The sudden splatter of ink sprawled across the page, skirting across the still-fresh lines of the portrait in front of her. The Australian stalled, staring at it with wide eyes.

"Shit."

Gone. Lost.

She pressed a hand to it, applying fast pressure to the page and crinkling it up in her palm. She ripped it out and tossed it to the floor, and then she stared at where it landed. Amidst everything else in the room, the sudden single piece of trash looked ridiculous. She wanted to fix it. She needed to. Another breath and defiance took her features by storm; she ignored it.

With tension in her jaw, she shifted the book closed and she tossed it aside. It landed on the bed, and she left it there. In the lower drawer of her desk she produced another book. Clean, perfect lines on the cover. Not a single mark.

Not a single page dented or marked. That crisp off-white she cared for so much.

Tossing the broken pen to the ground, she left it alongside the ruined page. Instead, her left hand perched a pencil between her middle and index finger. Dragging it back, the ink manipulator propped the end between her teeth and she flipped the page open. If she was going to be impressive - if she was going to get better - she was going to do it right.

And that meant absolutely no temptations.