@ambitiouxblonde​ sent:  ❛ I don’t feel anything. ❜ (post-finale)

she’s trapped.  trapped in a new branch of this terrible nightmare that she thought she’d done so well to avoid,  with a careful eye kept on malcolm at all times.  ainsley hardly knows her father,  and jessica had sheltered her from him as much as she possibly could   (   though suspicion bubbles,  a hint of dread that her daughter’s been visiting martin for some time now lingering uncomfortably in her chest   ).   shouldn’t that have made her safe?  kept her protected from  ---  from all this? 

typically there’s a masterful mask,  crafted and cultivated over twenty years placed so carefully atop the broken woman that lies beneath.  she can’t hide that now,  though.  how could she?  ainsley’s  ---  ainsley’s murdered someone.  jessica’s....  she doesn’t even know what to refer to nicholas as,  in the past tense.  but he’s dead,  and his blood stains the floor of the home she’s tried so hard to keep for herself   (   she does her best to avoid dwelling on that particular aspect of the subject for now,  though  ).

she’s drained.  this last year alone has left her exhausted,  with one truly disastrous event always outdoing it’s predecessor.  it’s an exhaustion that might surpass,  even,  the terrible years that’d followed martin’s initial arrest.  the whirlwind of chaos that accompanied her entire world crumbling around her while a requirement remained to raise her children.

to raise her children  ---  god,  that’d been her only truly crucial task,  hadn’t it?  to assure that they’d be safe,  and sane,  and far away from their father’s reach.  far away,  safe,  and protected from becoming their father.  with malcolm it’d always been harder,  ten years is enormously different from five in terms of time spent with someone   (   and influence attained by that someone  ---   or so she’d thought   ).   it’d seemed wrong to keep him from his father when martin had been the only person jessica had thought could reach him.  she’d thought that time and genuine exposure would turn her son off from everything his father was.  but her worry only grew as years passed.

and ainsley.  ainsley’s been so carefully protected.  offered whatever shelter her mother could   (   perhaps forcibly   )   allow.  the chances of a five year old having been corrupted by murders that she’d been as in the dark about as the rest of the family   (   save the perpetrator   )   had seemed so slim that all effort was placed on protection rather than damage control.  now all jessica can do is wonder what she could’ve done differently.  what signs she’d missed.  

if she’d been able to catch on to the true cause of her husband’s erratic behavior in those last months,  how many could she have saved?  despite all of gil’s attempts over the years to convince her that there was nothing she possibly could’ve done,  the question lingers.  festers.  breeds doubt and further burning questions that threaten to tear her apart.

the newest addition:  could she have saved her daughter from....  becoming this?

mask slowly reforms,  a shield from the turmoil that boils within  ---  ice to counter the heat,  to keep it from rising.  it’s rare jessica whitly’s left without some witty retort or biting comment,  but where her daughter’s apparently left without feeling,  she’s left without words.  instead her back straightens,  head held high.  she’s supported only by the enormity of her pain.  it’s the most constant company she’s kept over the last twenty years and,  despite all her wishing and attempts to drown it,  pain stubbornly remains.  sometimes it lessens.  there are occasions where things even feel like they once had.  those are rare,  though.  more often jessica’s left with such grief  ---  raw and tearing  ---  that she wonders how she makes it day to day.  

raising her drink to her lips,  taking a long,  slow sip,  she finally finds her words.  her exhaustion colors every word,  weariness creeping ‘round her like vines  ---  treacherous and threatening  ---  a soft exhalation paired with the shaking of her head.  jessica can’t even make eye contact.

“well,  maybe i’ve finally succeeded in carrying them all for you,”

and for the first time,  she can truly say that she’d never wish to relieve the burden and weight that emotions carry.  she wants ainsley to feel this  ---  to regret this  ---  to.... something.  anything.  anything that might prove that her daughter might be in any position where her mother might yet remedy this.  take it away,  somehow.  to salvage the perfection ainsley had managed to attain   (   even if that perfection had only been in jessica’s mind  ---  because she has to save something.....  something of her little girl before the image of such a gruesome murder becomes all she can associate with ainsley   ).

and finally,  a cool,  biting,   “you can take them back now,”

“Tell me a story. Something that doesn’t end in death and tragedy.” (ambitiouxblonde)

@ambitiouxblonde​ sent:  ‘ will you tuck me in? ’  (little Ainsley a few days after Martin's arrest)

the sharp intake of breath is something she tries to keep her daughter from hearing  ---  the request isn’t unexpected.  it isn’t.  but it feels so....  normal.  and normalcy,  even in the most basic of forms,  is something that already feels so foreign.  so distant,  and impossible,  like it’s something she’d experienced in another lifetime   (   jessica tries not to dwell on the fact that  ---  for all intents and purposes  ---  the lives they’d led only days prior had,  in fact,  been entirely different   ).   she turns her head slowly from where she’s stood,  carefully assuring ainsley’s room is securely shielded from the outside world via carefully picked curtains that jess finds herself abundantly glad for now.

there’s something to be said for the metaphorical catharsis that comes with leaving the window,  and allowing the members of the press who linger below on the outside where they belong.  her parents have done some to aid in clearing out the worst of them,  and her sister has used her connections to do more still,  but jessica can’t help but feel that the remaining vultures are circling,  desperately seeking anything to feast upon.

in spite of herself,  and the tumultuous storm brewing beneath the surface,  she finds herself smiling as she crosses to her daughter’s bedside in a swift movement.  it’s not more than the slightest upturn at the corners of her lips,  though the woman notes that it’s one of the first genuine smiles offered over the last several days.  

coming to sit slowly and deliberately on the edge of ainsley’s bed,  jessica gently hooks a stray strand of golden hair ‘round a finger and brushes it behind a tiny,  perfect ear.   “of course,  my love,”   her hand lingers a moment longer against her daughter’s soft hair,   jessica willing herself to note how grateful she is  ---   regardless of any hurt she’s feeling  ---  for her children.  her heart aches that they’re dealing with any of this;  mostly for their sake,  above any inclination towards self pity   (   that can wait til she’s alone   ),   but despite the pain,  she’s got them.  and she’ll do anything and everything in her power to keep them safe.

sliding off the bed,  twisting as she does so to land on her knees,  looking the girl directly in the eye as jessica grasps cool,  soft fabric in her hand,  slowly and deliberately pulling up the covers ‘til the blankets are tucked firmly near her daughter’s chin.  for a long moment she sits,  just looking,  not certain she’s even seeing anything so much as she is simply....  looking.  hand shifts slightly once the fistful of blankets is released,  moving to gently cup an unblemished cheek in her palms.  in one swift movement,  jessica leans forward,  pressing a firm kiss to ainsley’s forehead,  holding her lips against warm skin for a moment longer than is strictly necessary,  and then she pulls back.  and she’s back,  once more,  to simply looking.

her hand drops,  and arm moves to lay flat against her daughter’s bedspread,  chin dropping to rest atop it in order to better facilitate the loving gaze she offers.   “do you want me to stay until you’re asleep,  baby?”   the words  ---  half-question;  half-plea  ---  are quiet,  offered as much for her own benefit as out of desire to comfort ainsley.  the longer she lingers here,  and in turn in malcolm’s room once her youngest has finally drifted off,  the longer she puts off the inevitable crushing loneliness that hits the moment jessica doesn’t have anything else to keep her busy.  the moment she’s left,  however temporarily it might be,  with no one to take care of.   “i can do that,  if you want,” 

"Babe, listen to this." Adonis smiled as his fingers began to float over the keys, glancing up at the girl with loving eyes as he played his own composition. The piece was inspired by none other than the blonde seated on the top of the piano.