the romantic

he hadn’t despised him.  sure he’d thought he was a bit of an arse, but then people were entitled to be an ass on occasion.  as it turned out, he wasn’t just an arse - he was a piece of shit coward who hadn’t raised a damn finger to get this precious girl back.  had just sat in that damn room too wrapped up in his own pity party.   even now, he doesn’t despise him - that would be a lot of effort on jaes part on an emotion the guy didn’t deserve.  

but if graves is shocked by delilahs first word - jae is just as taken aback.  sure, he never actually shut up for a moment when in the presence of the ‘ween’, chatting away - listening to the nonsensical babblings that came back in his direction as the child conversed in her own little stream of sound… but he’d never for one moment thought…

there’s a pause - and he catches the eye of graves just before taking his leave.  and the inner anger that he sees there… oh, god… it’s so worth it.  so very worth it.  a broad grin peeling across jae’s face, so wide that it’s a miracle the top of his head didn’t flip off.

“aye ween!  yon big-yin!”

spoke with absolute glee on the part of the scot, not one word of that any part of arseface’s ‘proper english’.  he can’t help it.  it’s all of about a second before jaes face cracks completely.  he hasn’t found anything quite this funny for a long time.  and in between wheezes and chuckles, he does manage to speak.

“apparently - it is.  she’s a good listener.”

A Cuban mother, English father, and her first fucking non-word-but-technically-still-a-word is some Scott's garbled up version of English.

To simply stop her calling out big yin, he picks her up, bouncing her on his hip and she mutters away in gibberish. The sounds are closer to actual letters and if he still can’t quite believe the word -- it does sink in he had gotten to see her first word. It was something Lilly wanted to take from him, something the courts decided he shouldn’t be around to see.

It’s difficult to find that appreciation fully whilst Jae’s pissing himself with laughter. Graves sighs.

What can he do? Scold this man? Scold Delilah? Complain that he’d gotten time to himself because this guy had decided to not hold Graves against Delilah and look after her for a while.

“If she starts cursing I’m blaming you.” He says, no humour to his voice even if it’s a particularly childish thing to say.

Graves looks at Delilah, rocking side to side and dragging out the word ‘biiiiii’ yiiiin!’. He shakes his head, plants a kiss on her forehead.

He sighs, looking to Jae, Jae who still has the near-tears of laughter in his eyes and shit-eating grin to match. “Thanks, I suppose.”

“For looking after her.” He quickly says, aware it may sound like thanks for teaching her this nonsense word. 

They had reached the doors when he had mentioned having a vision. Deacon glanced over at the man, reaching out to push the door open and step out. He doubted he would have been open to others listening in on their discussion judging from him glancing over his shoulder– that or he was worried about being apart from his daughter again. But she was in good hands with the group. 

“When did you have it?” he asked once the door had closed behind them both. “And what did you see?”

“Before those people arrived. I... I had time to put her shoes on.” It feels like an excuse, something pathetic dropping from his lips. He shakes his head, finds this Deacon man far too easy to trust with his thoughts, “It’s fucking absurd --- Delilah was, well, now I realise she was with one of those painted men and they were... Playing. With a dog toy.”

“A ‘prophetic vision’ about a goddamn squeaky duck toy.”

Neither. There is no good or bad. That dichotomy is man-made, after all, and I think it’s best explained with an example:

A thing is hungry, but sick so it has no energy. It goes out and snatches a young baby from its mother because it’s easier to catch, an easier meal to keep it going.  If the thing’s a wolf or a lion or any other big predator, would you consider it evil for surviving? If the thing’s a human, how different is your answer?

So, essentially, I’ll say we’re inherently bad because of the way we define good and bad. Humans, all creatures, are naturally selfish to keep themselves and what they want to keep safe. But we call selfishness bad, survival is selfish. We’ve put ourselves into bad, constantly aspiring for the impossible ideal of ‘good’.

Don’t eat cereal, plus the American ones all taste like shite.

There’s two answers to this really: do you want my ideal, literary aesthetic or the unfortunate reality?

The ideal? I adore good old gothic and Romantic aesthetics. Dark corners where there’s something lurking. White-washed streets, shrouded in thick fog, with only silhouettes to tell you what's happening. Red wine, expensive sheets, beautiful woman in black lingerie, crisp suits and polished black dress shoes.

The reality? I have baby food stains on all my shirts, carry a hideous pink patch-work baby bag and I think I’m getting scars from where I would carry Delilah in that strap-on carrier.

“Hey now,” he gives back to the man, not mistaking the words for anything but an insult. It took a bullshitter to recognize a bullshitter and that’s something he could always recognize in Graves. The man was a grade A bullshitter. He cooed a little bit more at Delilah before he stood back up to address the man. “You know better than any that we lawyers are like cockroaches, surviving the apocalypse without the bat of an eye.” 

It’s a lawyer joke and it’s at his expense, but it’s a tactic he’s always tried to use with him. Especially after the verdict had come through. While Christian had won the man his case, he hadn’t put the emphasis on keeping the custody of his daughter. He’d just been trying to get the charges dropped, tried to salvage the man’s writing career and it had been a win in Christian’s book, but not in Graves’. 

There’s the thought again that Delilah and Graves should have been nowhere near each other when all of this went down and he glances down at the little girl again before looking back up at the man in question. “Her Mom’s not around here anywhere, is she? Need to know if I should watch my back or not,” he says, the only way he really knows how to ask what he truly wants to know. 

Graves drops his gaze. Staring at the back of Delilah’s head, she turns to look at him. Those beautiful, bright eyes, just like her Mother’s, stare back at him. As he speaks, Graves drops down to scoop up Delilah. 

“No, she isn’t here... She did not make it out of the city,” Graves begins but lets the sentence trail off. There’s the urge to explain more: detail some fabrication about how he went straight to looks for his girls, concerned for their well-being in the wake of it all. How he discovered poor Delilah alone, both Lilly and the new beau dead. 

However, Graves knows liars always tell too much. When a fact is well known, there’s no urge to spill every detail. Liars want to impress, so he’d rather stay quiet. Look more morose. He’d rather not start weaving a tale he’ll forget, details he’ll lose track of and only ensnare himself in a trap of his own making. Especially if this ‘prophet’ business ever reaches Christian; if Graves is ever not wholly himself around him...

It’s not too difficult to look like he’s grieving -- because he is. Lillith was the love of his life, no woman would ever replace her, even if Shaw or the court or sometimes even Lilly herself seemed to feel differently. She didn’t make it out of the city. Only then does it truly sink in that she’s more than likely dead. A fate probably only sealed because of that night he’d broken in, drunk on rage and what he’d call love. 

It’s the sound of a child that draws his attention. When he finds her, he smiles, because she’s playing lightly, giggling off by herself. Though the smile doesn’t last long when he lifts his head to see who she belongs to. The man’s sitting silently a bit away from them and Christian’s honestly surprised. If he’d thought seeing Tseng alive and well was a shock, seeing Ernest Graves here was equally as shocking. Made more so, because he was fairly certain the last he knew, this kid was no longer supposed to be with him. 

Crouching slightly, he coos a little bit at Delilah and smiles brightly for her. He’d met the girl, but man had she grown since the last time he’d seen her. But while he’s down on the floor playing with her, it’s the man he actually calls out to. 

“So, Graves, fancy seeing you here.” 

It’s impossible to see Christian’s face and not have that annoying jingle arriving unbidden: Christian Shaw, Attorney At Law!  That rhyme plays in stark contrast to the actual thoughts, the terrifying realisation that Christian is the only one here who knows as much about his personal life as himself. Graves shuts his notebook, shuts away his crazed scribbles, and steps forward from his seat.  He suppresses the urge to scoop Delilah up and out of Christian's reach. Now is not yet the time for panic. “Christian.”

“I never would have thought you of all people would make it out the city,” the words are cruel, the implication insulting, but his voice utterly charming. Even if Christian knows too much, that Delilah legally was not his charge, that’s all he knows. 

He isn’t aware Graves took her before the world split in half. Doesn’t know how he’d left Lilly nearly blue and passed out on her bed. Left her limp-dick new hubby passed out in the corridor. Plus, he’s still bitter. Whilst Graves faced no charges on the domestic abuse claims, he still was legally barred from his daughter. His own flesh and blood. What did I fucking pay you for? He remembers yelling after the verdict was made.

Deacon had his own pistol and a couple of knives– one that had been his, and another from the rescue. He was running low on bullets, though, he needed to pick up some more, or maybe even another gun. Not that he would find one across the street; he had a list of things to pick up for the others. Maybe a couple other things for himself.

He glanced over at the other man when he paused to speak up about the topic that they had been on the last time they spoke. Deacon scoffed, but didn’t blame him for calling it a load of crap. Because to most people, it was. At one time, it was a bunch of bullshit to him, too. “Yeah, I remember. I take it this is ‘another time’?” 

“That it is,” he says in reply, this is ‘another time’. He’d even let that Scottish bloke look after Delilah so he could track this man down and try to ask questions. 

“I --” he looks over his shoulder, like this is still some big joke on Graves, someone ready to nab his child away from him by reason of insanity, “I had another, well, I suppose let’s call it a ‘vision’. I honestly don’t know where to start.”

“Then I’ll put it on my list, cher.” He’s awkward, more so than usual. She’d seen him off to the sides every now and again in passing bearing some distant demeanor whilst company doted on his daughter. It was one of the perks of being so quiet sometimes, deft feet allowing her to go wherever she wanted without being noticed. But now he’s itching, his words something polite to carry the conversation and hardly meant for much more. She could take guesses, work a little harder to suss it out, but her suspicions are answered soon enough.

Max folds an arm around herself that little bit tighter. Protecting her ribs, subconsciously allowing fingers to dance over the tiny feet in black ink next to her heart. “Oui,” she nods, keeping the nerves that feel so foreign now out of her voice. “I was. We weren’ kept together, mais, don’ think they laid a hand on her, if tha’s wha’ you’re worryin’ yourself sick over, cher. I could hear her the entire time. She were never in any pain, I can promise you tha’.” 

The Cajun takes a small step closer, finally allowing her gaze to fall on Delilah for the briefest of seconds before she looked at her father again. “Non, they didn’ do nothin’ to her. If it makes you feel any better, they were more concerned abou’ the rest o’ us.”

“Thank you,” he says with a small nod when she offers to look out for some ointment for his girl. He leaves it at that, a quiet thanks is enough and both know that’s not the crux of this conversation.

It shouldn’t be a relief to hear that others suffered more than Delilah did, but it is. He’s seen the state of some of those that were rescued. Delilah’s soiled nappy and tear stained cheeks were nothing compared to what could’ve been her fate. The worst case scenario was not one he planned on considering too long or too seriously. 

And this little woman begins with answers to questions he fears he’d be too cowardly to ask. He reaches out a hand that Delilah holds onto, playing with his fingers, tugging on them and waggling them side to side. Graves turns to her and smiles much broader, much easier. Delilah giggles and his chest feels lighter. 

“I’‘m sorry. For whatever you went through but, I must admit, it does help to hear she wasn’t hurt.”

Only his brows furrow as more questions arise, as her words sink in and thoughts scurry away from him, “You heard her? Was she... crying?” He asks. It’s not as though she’d be talking or even giggling. Still, he wants the details, to understand what she had gone through without him.

 Then, after a moment he dares to ask possibly the strangest question but most pressing one for reasons he won’t dare divulge., “Were there dog toys? Those... squeaky duck things?”

he’s sitting on the floor, and it’s a quiet space.  the child is blinking with that inevitable battle that happens when sleep comes creeping, but there’s a mighty fight against it, currently laid flat on her stomach and wholly engrossed in the small coin flipping it’s way between his fingers.  there’s a ‘squeak’ when it disappears and a small murmur when it comes back - and occasionally a lazy grab for the gleaming coin as it flashes by.  and as it moves, jae tells a story of white rabbits and holes and hares and men in hats drinking tea with their friend the mouse…  she probably isn’t listening to his words - and a small yawn that eases it’s way from tiny mouth is testament to that - but they’re there, none the less, just a constant background, a soothing presence forever in that lilt of accent.

it’s the first time he’s actually spent any time with her since their return - and just as before, she seems as content in his presence as he is in hers…

…her father, however - is another story.

“aye now ween, here comes yon bigyin.  looks like story time is over.”

and it’s enough of a change of tone and pace from that gently story of the fantastical that it stirs the little one enough to look up.  and jae’s gesturing with the hand that the coin most recently disappeared into - pointing toward the gloom of oppressive shitehole that approached.

“there - see… bigyin.  i better be going now.  bye bye ween.”

a small wave with his fingers and jae is making to stand.  brushing hands over his clothes to straighten them before he’s greeting the larger man with an expression far less forgiving than the one that had been there previously.

There was no question the Scotsman despised Graves. 

He had, after all, taken his fuckin’ rock and saved Delilah from that group of maniacs while Graves had hidden. He knows he wouldn’t have made it out unscathed, he’d scraped by on pure luck alone and the protection of a young child needing him.

So, when he’s greeted with such a sour expression he fires back with a tight, unfriendly smile more akin to a gorilla baring his teeth than a friendly hello. He won’t bother with arguing. Not now.

Delilah, slightly subdued from sleep creeping up on her babbles, sits up and waves her arms. That is the norm, of course. It’s only what happens next. “Buh!” She says, a stronger consonant sound than usual. Graves smiles as he drops down into a squat.

“Bi’yiiin!” she babbles, so much concentration into each letter it’s astounding. Graves, shocked into silence looks at her. Blank. “Bi’yin!” She demands more firmly, small fists opening and closing in a plea to be picked up. 

Graves squats there in shock, his thoughts loud and aggressive but all that happens is he looks at Jae. Both disbelief and pride as he speaks, “That’s her first word.”

“Uh yeah, sure. Won’t take too long, but always helps having someone along. What did you need?”

“All right,” he says, hating how his own voice wavers. He had a gun on his hip but he’d rarely had to use it. “Do you remember when I asked if we could have our... our little chat another time? About --” he pauses and takes a beat to say the dreaded word aloud, “About this ‘prophet’ bollocks?”

“I’m just heading across the street for a supply run– you want anything?”

“Oh, um, no I  don’t need anything -- well, I actually wanted to grab you for a moment... I could come with? Delilah’s being looked after.”

Max freezes where she stands at the sound of his voice, the tone he uses, looking back over her shoulder with a small smile. The little girl seemed well enough despite her discomfort, perhaps tired, just like her father. There’s a wonder for what he must of gone through whilst she was missing, but then, Max didn’t really have to guess much, did she? 

The Cajun’s eyes stayed firmly on the father and not the bouncing bundle of joy in his arms. It was easier, kept the longing for her own baby from rising and crippling her as it did every once in a while. “Ah, I see. You got everythin’ you need for tha’? I can take a look aroun’ an’ there’s a pharmacy across the street. Don’ mind goin’ an’ givin’ the place a look over fo’ somethin’ to help if you need.” 

She didn’t mind at all. In fact, there’d been an itch to go over there and look for something for the little girl anyway, even if it was a toy or maybe she’d find some snacks that she could nibble on, keep herself busy with, keep developing and growing. Something to help give her a chance. 

“She doin’ alrigh’, cher?” Max finds herself asking quietly and she immediately kicks herself for it after. “Are you doin’ alrigh’?”

Graves was always aware that he would be looked past: Delilah stole everyone’s attention. Her thick head of dark eye and light eyes -- pale green, like her mother’s -- were arresting. Only, she looks at Graves. Resolutely avoiding the child.

“I think so, but if you’re ever popping over to it, couldn’t do any harm to look for something more medicinal,” he answers, feeling the beginnings of an awkward ramble beginning to grow as he speaks. Graves was never particularly verbose, he saved the word counts for his work, but delaying the inevitable questions about what happened at the kennels is nearly compelling him to speak at length about the creams available here.

Quietly, she asks a less casual question, something less like popping down to Tesco’s for loo roll and more location appropriate. “We’re doing fine, thank you.” He answers eagerly quiet, if a little sombre, because the next words out of his mouth negate his previous answer. Fear slowly eats at him, still.

“You were there with her, weren’t you?”

I don’t really have an opinion on eras of music. I rarely listened to music, I prefer writing in silence, and in general doing most things in silence. But a beautiful voice does it for me. Edith Piaf, Chelsea Wolfe, Mirel Wagner, Marissa Nadler... Melancholy, female vocalists are my favourite. 

I think I just might need to... talk to someone about this ‘vision’ stuff. Or prophet stuff. Whatever this bullshite is. But, essentially, talk just so someone else knows and if shit hits the fan like last time, well, I might be more with it.