#release chapter

Bo: The mage blinked once, twice, and shut his laptop after a few clicks. Monitoring his finances had been a passive activity waiting for this very moment, and this very moment was as unsettling as he felt.

"Hva i helvete? How? Why?"

Brett: All questions would be answered succinctly and in order. That much he had decided.

“Bronwyn MacAllister’s familiar Vincent teleported me there and back. She wanted to talk to me and wanted to do it face to face.”

Bo: A name, two names, which had Bo on his feet. Yes, those names had saved his life, but those names sent a chill down his spine.

"Why did -" He swallowed. "Why?"

Brett: “She’s pregnant. For the third time it seems. And she wanted to talk to me because she wants to talk to you.”

Bo: If the fact that this was her third had significance had gone over Bo's head. Far from his concern. Evident from the irritation in his eyes. His brilliant quartz greens shadowed by the dim light of the dining room.

"What does she want?"

Brett: Brett sighed again. He didn’t want to approach this with a defeatist attitude but he knew—and had warned Bronwyn—that they had to be realistic about their expectations.

“She wants to talk to you about the collar on Torsten’s neck. She asked me to see her so I could ask you if you would be willing to listen to what she has to say.”

Bo: Shoulders sharply raised, falling as his hands fanned out and slapped back to his thighs.

"And what does she have to say that's so important she had to steal you?"

Brett: “She didn’t steal me, baby. She asked and I agreed to go. As far as what she has to say?”

Brett shrugged. “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me.”

Bo: "How long did you know you were going to New Orleans?"

Brett: “Since I asked for permission to leave the city one hour after sunset.”

Bo: "How long have you kept this from me?"

Brett: “Since lunch today.”

Bo: "You didn't think to tell me? Text me?"

Brett: “I didn’t know what she wanted to discuss or if I’d even be able to see her so I didn’t tell you beforehand. I’m sorry if I made you worry.”

Bo: Bo's fingers softly twitched, before turning away towards the kitchen. Occupying his hands with a glass of whatever wine they had left from celebrating their new home.

His eyes found Brett again as he took a wincing gulp.

Brett: Brett knew murder in a man’s eyes when he saw it. Only question was whether it was directed at him, Vincent, Bronwyn, Torsten, or all of the above. Smart money said all of the above in some combination or another.

At least the wine glass hadn’t made contact with a solid surface. Yet.

“Hva tenker du på?” he asked in an even, calm voice.

Bo: "Det er bare dritt," Bo managed through his teeth.

"She should have come directly to me. Something could have happened to you and I wouldn't know because you didn't tell anyone."

As much as he wanted to scream, he didn't, but the empty glass in his hand did crack. Slammed onto the counter in his irritation. The damage he could fix, but the rage affected his husband no matter how he tempered it.

"Give me her number."

Brett: Aaaaaand there it was. Yep, definitely saw that one coming.

Brett could have said that Bronwyn hadn’t wanted to approach Bo directly because she was afraid he’d refuse to talk to her—she’d admitted as much—but that wouldn’t be productive. Bo was already upset and Brett had a feeling even the hint of a word in her defense would only add fuel to the fire.

Brett took out his phone and sent her information to Bo.

“Are you going to talk to her?”

Bo: Bo took the time while Brett fished for her number to lower himself to eye level of the glass. Despite gritted teeth, whispered an incantation under his breath, taking hold of the stemless cup only to slam it back on the counter once more, sealed to perfection. Not quite as neat and quiet without his wand.

"What do you think I'm going to do?"

Brett: That wine glass wasn’t long for this world. Brett would lay bets it would be broken a couple more times before the night was out.

“Honestly? I think you’re going to call her to yell at her and tell her you’re not interested in whatever she has to say.”

Bo: "Is that all I am? All I do? Just scream when I don't get my way?"

Brett: “No,” Brett said softly. “It isn’t. But I saw how you reacted to just her name. I know what she represents to you, as does she. I also know that despite whatever I say, there’s a not zero chance that it won’t matter and you won’t talk to her.”

Bo: Bo was reminded of the last time her name had been between them. The air had been acrid then. Tears and screaming that day. It had been long and exhausting and excruciating.

A slow breath was taken through his nose.

"Don't... go off like that again. Don't... scare me."

Brett: “I’m sorry. For going off and scaring you and not telling you what was going on. I’m really sorry, sweetheart.”

Bo: One hand remained clenched against his will. He was trying. That's all he could do.

"I know... you'll have to. Someday. Being... with him. I can't stop everything, but this is important."

Brett: Brett could see as much, and he was proud.

“You’re right. It is. And I should’ve told you what was going on after Vincent came to see me.” That he hadn’t could be chalked up to two things: curiosity and a fear similar to the one Bronwyn had shared with him.

Bo: He wanted nothing more than to be angry. To throw his cup across the room and perhaps the bottle along with it. Anger on par with an orgasm, burning his skin from the inside out. But he had magic now. Healthier outlets because he knew how much his anger could frighten the man across the room, and that look of fear he hadn't seen in so long had crept into Brett's eyes, however briefly, and he hated himself for it.

But no matter how he felt, his chest was still hot, and his skin tingled. Adrenaline he couldn't simply wish away.

"I'm going for a walk. Have... dinner delivered. Whatever you want."

Brett: After all these years, Brett no longer had to grapple with the urge to press his company on Bo when he had an outburst. He knew his husband needed to feel what he was feeling, to let it burn itself out. All Brett could do was give Bo the space for that to happen and offer his support afterward.

One thing that hadn’t changed, however, was the way his voice would naturally slip into that gentle, calm tone at the first sign of an outburst.

He nodded. “Okay. Take all the time you need. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

Bo: Bo didn't reach for keys or wallet, but his wand and his phone. Slipped into his jacket in the foyer as always, despite the weather, and shut the door behind himself.

Bronwyn's number was punched into his phone, stared at it for a time, standing motionless on the front porch and its newly painted pillars.

No. Not here. A block away would do, where Brett would be unable to hear. So he walked, and by the time he reached the stop sign his phone was to his ear.

Brett/Bronwyn: Brett watched his hand go, holding in his sigh until the door had shut behind him. That hadn't gone as well as he'd hoped, although it hadn't gone as badly as he'd anticipated. It was in moments like these that the progress Bo had made was most obvious. That was something to be proud of.

All of Bo's favorites would be ordered for dinner, but not before Brett gave the kitchen a little clean to occupy his hands.

Across the country, Bronwyn paused the TV and picked up her ringing phone, gasping softly when she saw the number on the display. She didn't recognize it but it had an Edenton area code.

Brett hadn't been home for very long. Could he already...?

Don't get your hopes up.

"Hello?"

Bo: There was so much Bo wanted to say. Scathing, terrible things so she might feel the same consternation he had felt in the silence and absence of his husband. The same rug swept from under him, feeling vulnerable and useless.

But her voice was familiar. Soft. Anticipating. The same woman that had saved his life was the same woman in love with his beast.

That's what this was about.

"The next time you feel the urge to speak with me, don't involve Brett Parker."

Bronwyn: It was him. Even so, she knew that the fact that Bo was calling was no guarantee of anything except maybe an impending argument.

“I was afraid you would refuse if I didn’t. Would you have agreed if I hadn’t asked him?”

Bo: "I should refuse anyway." But what he wanted wouldn't be achieved by salting this ground.

"Have your bird transport me now or you'll never hear from me again."

Bronwyn: “Oh.” She sounded surprised, like she hadn’t been expecting his answer. “You don’t want the plane ticket then?”

Bo: "What are you waiting for? More calculations?"

Bronwyn: “I thought—never mind.” Bronwyn shook her head. Gift horse, mouth. “I’ll send Vincent right over. Where should he collect you?”

Bo: "Where did he collect Brett?"

Bronwyn: “At the police station.”

Bo: "I'll be there in ten minutes."

Bronwyn: “All right. See you in ten minutes.”

Ten minutes. That was precious little time to prepare. She’d expected to have a week at the bare minimum but apparently she’d underestimated how Bo would react to her talking to Brett.

She set her phone aside and eased to her feet. “Vincent!”

Bo/Vincent: Not Bo returning to the house only to walk inside, grab the keys to his Beetle, and walk back out without an explanation. Perhaps later he would say they were even, but much like Brett, his focus was on the next step.

Vincent poked his head through the entryway not a moment after his name.

"Ma'am?"

Brett/Bronwyn: Brett had barely opened his mouth to speak before Bo disappeared as quickly as he'd appeared. So much for dinner.

"I deserved that," he said to himself, nodding in resignation. Since it seemed he'd have some time, might as well cook something instead of ordering, so Bo could have a hot meal when he returned.

Bronwyn went into her closet to select something to wear that wasn't the nightgown she currently had on.

"How's yer energy holdin' up? Do you think you can make a couple more roundtrips to Edenton?"

Vincent: Considering Vincent rarely flew far from the neat that was Bronwyn's home, not even to his own in Maine, there was plenty energy and to spare.

"Whom I getting now?"

Bronwyn: "Bo. He just called. In ten minutes can you pop over and get him?"

Vincent: The familiar blinked and straightened. Surprise surprise.

"Same place?"

Bronwyn: They were two of a kind on that score. Surprise after surprise after surprise.

She nodded. "Aye, he'll meet you at the station. Do you know if Torsten's doin' anythin' right now?"

Vincent: "He's building toys out back." By toys, he meant little wooden swords, sheaths and all.

Bronwyn: Hearing that made her entire chest clench in one breath and reminded her how important this all was in another. Whatever ended up happening this evening, and even if her efforts were already doomed, she had to at least try.

"Can you fetch him for me? I better call Lucien, too. We don't have a lot o' time."

Vincent: "Lucien?" But he was quick to turn around, conserving his energy and running downstairs to the backyard, rather than popping in and out.

Bronwyn: Bronwyn selected a dress from her closet and returned to her bed to straighten the covers. She didn’t want to appear quite as pitiful as she felt.

As she worked, she dialed her eldest son.

Torsten/Lucien: Vincent had given nothing, as usual, which had Torsten upstairs nearly as swiftly as his wolf form. Eyes like a forest stared at the druid expectantly.

Lucien picked up after three rings.

"Hey, Mama B. What's up?" asked her son, out of breath.

Bronwyn: Torsten would find her with her phone between her shoulder and her ear, trying to get her nightgown off.

“Hi, lovey. Are you busy? Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Torsten/Lucien: "Just workin' out. You okay?" His usual question since her pregnancy.

"What? What is it?" Torsten whispered.

Bronwyn: “I’m fine, I promise.” Meant for both Lucien and Torsten. “Do you think you can be done and over here in the next ten minutes?

Torsten/Lucien: "Like, no?" Call it his blond moment. "With Vincent, yeah. What's wrong?"

Torsten crossed his arms and waited for an explanation.

Bronwyn: “Wh—right, Baton Rouge.” She sighed and rubbed her forehead. Maybe she wasn’t totally fine and was in fact more frazzled than she thought she was.

“Nothin’s wrong, I just have somethin’ to do and hopin’ you could keep Torsten company while I did it.”

She met her revenant’s eyes. “Someone’s comin’ to see me today.”

Torsten/Lucien: "Someone... So, I gotta distract him or let him play dad?"

The man of subject was rubbing his eyes with two fingers, taking a deep, slow breath.

Bronwyn: “The former. I’ll ask Vincent if he thinks he can go and grab you but if he can’t and you can’t it’s okay.”

Half-undressed, she held her hand out for Torsten’s.

Torsten: "You can hang up the phone on your son and tell me what's going on. I don't need distraction, I need answers."

Bronwyn: “I’ll text you in a bit, darlin’.”

Bronwyn hung up and took a deep breath, resting her hands on Torsten’s crossed arms.

“In ten minutes Bo is comin’ to see me. I want to talk to him in private.”

Torsten: The revenant took another slow breath. Reluctant arms wrapped carefully around her waist.

"He's in North Carolina. He can't do anything to me there, Thistle."

Bronwyn: “I know. But I need to talk to him, and by some miracle he’s agreed to talk to me. There are things I need to say to him, Torsten, things I can only say if we’re alone.”

Torsten: "Not alone." Knowing the man he had once been was not the same as knowing what he had become. That apprehension was as obvious as his irritation.

"Keep Vincent within earshot." Which, he realized, he couldn't be. "Vincent, or I'm not leaving."

Bronwyn: Bronwyn nodded. Vincent would have to be around anyway since he’d be taking Bo home after they spoke, but she’d only ask him to remain nearby and willfully deaf.

“All right. Vincent’s going to Edenton to get him and he’ll be the one to take him home so he’ll be here. Do you promise me that you’ll go to a bar or somethin’ and stay until Bo’s gone?”

Torsten: "You're asking about my collar. At some point you'll send for me or you won't."

Torsten stared at the floor between them. His eyes were small and thoughtful, searching for something profound to say.

"He tried to save my sister. For his own academic clout, but he tried. He listened to her stories. Told her about his mother. Let her into his life. Underneath all of that anger and hatred is a terrified child. Terrified things use their claws. Are you certain this is what you want?"

Bronwyn: She knew nothing of Bo’s life prior to meeting him years ago, but just from what little she’d seen since, he had all the reason in the world to be angry, hateful, and afraid. She didn’t hold it against him, how could she?

He was so painfully…painfully human.

“I’m certain that I have to try.” She whispered without meaning to. “Trying is all I can do.”

Torsten: "Put yourself first." His chest caved with a massive sigh. "Don't let him get into your head." By complying, he knew he gave himself away. He wanted the collar removed; this would be their only chance. Still, the concern in his eyes was evident. As were his lingering hands covering her hips.

"This should be me."

Bronwyn: Bronwyn stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "It can't be you, love. It has to be me." It couldn't be a battle or an argument or a struggle for higher ground; it had to be a conversation, one that was entered into with sincerity but no expectations on either side. It would work or it wouldn't.

But she had to try.

"You better get goin'. I need to finish gettin' dressed."

Torsten: Torsten remained like a stone for a time. Her hands were small in his own, and he contemplated their life together, and what would change from this moment forward. Such small hands with such heavy intentions.

"Vincent," he emphasized, waiting patiently to lock eyes. "I'm trusting you to keep your word."

He would be the first to let go. To turn away in search of his boots and leave without another word. Before he could deny himself this window of freedom.

Bronwyn: Bronwyn sighed as she watched Torsten go. She could feel his concern even if he hadn’t voiced it, and she couldn’t deny that she felt some of her own.

But she had to take this risk. She had to try.

Once she finished putting on her dress, she combed her hair and tried to do a little something with her face. Just enough to look put together and not like a pitiful creature that couldn’t go outside.

She studied herself in the mirror. It would do.

Now to go downstairs and start some tea.

“Vincent, is there any o’ my grandmama’s shortbread left?”

Vincent: The familiar sat up from his hunched position over the breakfast nook. Eyes wide as though having been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but it was, in fact, several shortbreads stacked neatly in front of him.

"Ye....yes."

Bronwyn: The sight made her smile and it was a welcome relief. Leave it to Vincent to break any tension.

“Good. You can have two before you go get Bo. The rest are goin’ to be shared once he arrives, provided he doesn’t decide to throw them at me instead.”

Vincent: "He'll think they're poison," he shrugged. "I wander to wondering thoughts, if he was a bad man, before."

Bronwyn: “Judgin’ from what Torsten has told me, I don’t think so. Too ambitious for his own good maybe but no’ bad.”

Vincent: "Torsten said my name a lot. Want me on your shoulder?"

Bronwyn: “I really think I should talk to him alone but Torsten doesn’t want you far from me.”

Vincent: "I don't wanna be far from you."

Bronwyn: “You don’t have to be. Maybe just upstairs or in another room?”

Vincent: He considered for a moment. Realizing the innocuous perception she wished to display didn't sit well with him, but nodded just the same. She was his mistress.

"Another room."

Bronwyn: "Ye're worried about him too, aren't you? You think he might try to hurt me?"

Vincent: "He's just... unfriendly." A man he could marvel, perhaps admire, but from outside the searing area of effect. "He's got glass shards for body armor."

Bronwyn: Bronwyn sighed. “Do you think I’m bein’ naive?”

Vincent: "I'll be in the next room."

Bronwyn: “Would you feel better on my shoulder?”

Vincent: "Think he remembers me?"

Bronwyn: “I’d lay bets that he does, even if it’s only a little. Ye’re a hard one to forget, lovely.”

Vincent: The familiar nodded. "Next room, then."

Bronwyn: “Are you sure?”

Vincent: "Yes, ma'am. Are you not anymore?"

Bronwyn: “I don’t know. I wasn’t exactly confident about this whole thing but I can feel myself waverin’ and wobblin’ regardless.”

Vincent: "Is... Is that what happens to pregnant women?"

Bronwyn: She smiled. “Shaky confidence and emotional wobblin’? Can’t say whether it happens to others but it’s been happenin’ to me for months.”

Vincent: "I'll never let anything happen to you, mistress."

Bronwyn: Bronwyn took his face in her hands and stroked his cheeks with her thumbs, wondering if he knew just how much of a lifeline he’d been to her since the day he’d come into her life. Her sweet familiar.

She kissed his forehead. “I know, love. I know.”

Vincent: He had a notion, and not just because they sometimes shared minds, but because of her affection, such as this sweet moment before a storm.

"I'll go get him now?"

Bronwyn: "Aye, I think you'd better," she said with a nod. "Tread lightly, okay? He isn't likely to be as cooperative and polite as the sheriff." Plus, judging from their conversation a few minutes ago, he was already in a less-than-friendly mood.

Vincent/Bo: Not conspicuously hostile, but neither was he polite. Standing beside his car in a tucked away area of the police station parking lot. Bo waited with his eyes to the sky, and then towards the feeling of primal energy.

He said nothing when taking his place beside the familiar, hidden further by the weathered brick wall and out of sight of security cameras. No hellos or needless small talk. Only stiff arms and raised chin, refusing to look his porter in the eyes.

Bronwyn: Bronwyn left the tea to brew and took the seat Vincent had vacated in the breakfast nook to rest for a moment before Bo arrived. Between dressing and coming downstairs, she’d managed to wear herself out.

Such was her new normal.

But, as long as she had a bit, it couldn’t hurt to pray to who or whatever was listening for a little bit of help. Asking for her hopes to be realized was asking too much. Help was enough.

Vincent: Rather than appear in the house, Vincent returned them to the backyard, out of sight. An opportunity for his mistress to prepare herself with a knock on the back door.

Bronwyn: Even if she’d had an hour, Bronwyn doubted it would make a difference. Time wasn’t the deciding factor here. At least, not in the short term.

The woman who opened the door was more or less the woman Bo would remember. Her skin was paler, her face a bit thinner despite the curve of her growing belly, her eyes tired. But it was still Bronwyn MacAllister.

“Come in,” she said softly. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

Bo: Her greeting was as much expectation as the situation itself. This was a long time coming, but the bump in her middle had caught him off guard, and it was all he could stare at. Brett had said as much, but seeing her so far along...

The man in front of her was older, of course, but one could hardly tell if not for the updated wardrobe and stronger spine.

"Just... conversation."

Bronwyn: She nodded and gestured to the breakfast nook. "Please sit."

There were three teacups sitting on the table beside a pretty teapot, as well as a plate of shortbread and a sugar bowl. Bronwyn poured tea into two of the cups, leaving one at her seat and offering the other to Vincent along with two pieces of shortbread.

Only then did she take her seat, looking across at Bo with a gentle and inexplicably fond expression. "You look well. I'm glad."

Vincent/Bo: Vincent would keep to his word, taking his tea and shortbread and quietly disappearing into the neighboring room to eat in silence. An ear out, of course, and his mind open for private words.

There was a quiet, hidden part of Bo that was humored only two cups had been filled. She knew him well enough. What had it been, one encounter? No. His memory was hazy, but not that much. It had been days. Years ago, but she had left an impact, and a tingle in his spine.

He didn't know what to do with her compliments. Evident by his lack of eye contact, but he knew what he could do.

"You look sick."

Bronwyn: "Aye." She nodded as she stirred half a spoonful of sugar into her tea. "I'm sure I do. Pregnancies take a toll even in the best of circumstances. In mine, well...it goes without sayin'." But her babies seemed to be healthy, and they were alive. That's all that mattered.

Bo: "It's because of his species, isn't it? Half alive, half dead."

Bronwyn: Bronwyn nodded. "It is, aye. They're only alive because there's magic keepin' them that way. Otherwise...they'd end up like the others."

Bo: "Clearly they can procreate, so what is the issue?"

Bronwyn: "My species," she said quietly. She'd told herself she would answer anything he asked her as honestly as she could, even if it hurt to do so. He deserved that much.

"If I was like him there wouldn't be an issue. But because I'm no', even though I can get pregnant, my body thinks the baby's already dead and rejects them."

Bo: Some of the venom in his expression seemed to dissolve. His gaze dropped to the table. In a gesture she might have been familiar with, Bo gently rubbed his hands together, only to slowly spread them apart.

"Leslie Issott's been here."

Bronwyn: It did seem familiar but Bronwyn couldn't place exactly why until Leslie's name was mentioned, then it hit her. She could swear she'd seen him do it before.

"Aye. He's the one who provided me the magic to keep my babies alive. Do you know him?"

Bo: There seemed to be conflict behind those lashes. Lips thinned and tight before deciding to breathe.

"He's... useful."

Bronwyn: "He's a good man. A verra good man. He deserves the world and I owe it to him."

Bo: "Not the world."

Bronwyn: Bronwyn sipped her tea again, falling silent for a moment as she looked at her reflection in the teacup.

"This is the third time he and I have been expectin' a child." His name wasn't said, but it didn't have to be. "Losin' the first one was a shock. Losin' the second was a nightmare. Both times, my babies didn't get the chance to be any bigger than the palm of my hand. This is the furthest I've ever been along.

"I can feel them. They have heartbeats. There was a time when I didn't think I'd ever get the chance to hear a heartbeat that wasn't my own comin' from inside me ever again. If I can this time, it's because of Leslie. He does deserve the world."

Bo: "That answers the question of which you'd choose, holding the hands of your child or Torsten, hanging over a cliff."

His empty teacup was pushed aside.

"So then why am I here?"

Bronwyn: She took a deep breath and closed her eyes as she felt the gathering moisture in them. "Ye're here because...there's ev'ry chance that that question won't need to be answered.

"My babies are alive. For now. Leslie's magic was a blessin' but it was always meant as a temporary solution. Without his help, I wouldn't be pregnant and without help from someone else, I'll die long before I ever get to meet my babies. I do look sick, ye're right. My body wasn't built to be pregnant for the three years revenant pregnancies last. It's been put in no uncertain terms to me that if a solution isn't found to speed things along, childbirth will probably kill me."

Bo: Bo stared at her, wondering if this was even about the collar anymore. Seemed the conversation had been derailed by grief and unborn babies. Perhaps Brett had been mistaken, or she was very good at manipulating. She didn't seem the type, but he hardly knew her. It had all been a haze buried beneath his curse.

"Life is not my expertise. You didn't bring me here for this."

Bronwyn: It was about all of it. The collar, her grief, the children who had been lost and the children whose lives were hanging by a thread.

Bronwyn shook her head. Her battle was lost, and her tears fell. “No. And if I’m tellin’ you all this it isn’t because I want yer help. It’s because I want you and I need you to understand that I’m no’ askin’ what I’m about to ask lightly. I’m sure Sheriff Parker told you that I want to ask you if you could remove Torsten’s collar but I want you to understand why.”

Bronwyn wiped her face with her hands and found herself resisting the sudden urge to take Bo’s hands.

“It wasn’t just me that felt the pain of losin’ our children. They were his children, too. He wants to be a father so badly and he’s been given hope twice already and had it snatched away. There’s a chance it will be again and if I can’t give him a child, if what I am snatches his hope and his happiness again, then I at least want to try to do this for him. If all I can give him is the sight of the collar bein’ removed from his neck, then I want to try. I have to try. That’s why ye’re here, Bo.”

Bo: All it took was a single tear for him to avert his gaze. The nearest window would suffice. He would listen, but he appeared well determined not to look.

"Why do you talk like that? The self-pity. 'What I am snatches his hope. If I can't give him a child.' You speak like a problem. Did he do this to you? Made you feel this way?"

Bronwyn: He couldn’t even look at her and that spoke volumes. She already knew she was fighting a losing battle; that just sealed it.

Bronwyn took a napkin from the holder on the table and wiped her face, shaking her head.

“No. He’s never once made me feel like it’s my fault. He’s never reproached for me anythin’. He’s been lovin’ and supportive.”

Bo: "Then why do you speak that way?"

Bronwyn: “Wouldn’t you, if yer children kept dyin’ because yer body kept rejectin’ them and a hundred hoops needed to be jumped through for a chance that it wouldn’t happen again?”

Bo: "You're not the undead one."

Bronwyn: “But I’m the one who carried them. People can tell you somethin’ isn’t yer fault a hundred times but that doesn’t mean yer brain will believe them.”

Bo: Eyes closed a second longer than they should have. A bit of his bottom lip was pulled by his teeth.

"They'll hunger for... things. Liver and raw meat. They'll have tempers. Short fuses like their father. They won't age the same. Did he tell you that?"

Bronwyn: She nodded toward her refrigerator. “There’s been liver in this house since the day Torsten first stepped foot in it. I haven’t ever made him a steak that wasn’t rare enough to still be mooin’.”

As for the temper and the aging?

She took another sip of tea to calm herself down. “Ev’ry parent hopes their children will outlive them. If these babies live, they certainly will outlive me. Like their father. I’ve made peace with that. I’m just glad my soul found his again. Short fuse and all. A temper isn’t a reason no’ to love someone.”

Bo: Now Bo was looking at her. His brow slightly knitted. Just barely a wrinkle.

He wanted to be offended. Every petty bone in his body wanted to regenerate the venom he had lost, but there was too much to relate to.

"You think he's your soulmate?"

Bronwyn: “I do,” she said, suddenly aware of her engagement ring and comforted by its presence.

“Have you ever felt a pull toward someone that you couldn’t fight or explain?”

Bo: The window was much more interesting now.

"If you have something to say to me, you say it to me directly. Don't go behind my back like that again. Unless you swear to that, we're finished here."

Bronwyn: Bronwyn nodded. “I swear it. You have my word that I won’t go behind yer back ever again.”

Bo: He could look at her again, if only to judge her expression. His ear hadn't tingled once in her presence. Her bird, yes, but not her.

"Call him."

Bronwyn: She was tired and sad and perhaps even desperate, but Bronwyn’s eyes were sincere. She was laying her heart bare to Bo.

Her phone was taken out of her pocket, his number dialed, but still she didn’t dare hope.

“Torsten?”

Torsten/Bo: The phone was answered before a single completed ring. Bo returned to staring out the window, contemplating his life and choosing to ignore the voice on the other end.

"Are you alright?"

Bronwyn: “Yes, I’m all right,” she assured him, holding in a sniffle. If he thought she was crying she just knew he would assume the worst.

“Can you come home?”

Torsten: His question came in slow and deliberate. "Just tell me, you're safe?"

Bronwyn: “I am, I promise. Come back.”

Torsten: "Do you want me to stay on the line?"

Bronwyn: Bronwyn shook her head. “No, you don’t have to. Just drive safely, okay? I’ll see you in a wee.”

Bo: "How long is a wee?" Bo asked once Torsten had hung up.

Bronwyn: She slipped her phone back into her pocket. “Probably just a few minutes.” She doubted Torsten would have gone too far, worried as he was about her seeing Bo.

Bo: Some sugar was slowly brushed off of the table with fingertips.

"Why him? Of all people, you chose a nearly feral half-vampire. Why?"

Bronwyn: “It goes back to what I mentioned earlier about soulmates.” She selected a shortbread from the plate and dunked it in her tea.

“Sometimes you feel a pull toward someone that you can’t fight or explain. I don’t think I consciously chose him but I was drawn to him.”

Bo: "He comes from Vikings. Real Vikings. Killers. Wolves." All from the pages of his journals, but he couldn't bring himself to elaborate. "You're a..." Fingernails tapped on the table. "...You're not like them. They're going to hurt you. When it happens, you shouldn't hesitate to destroy him."

Bronwyn: He’d said when, not if. In Bo’s eyes, her being hurt by Torsten or his family wasn’t merely a possibility, but a foregone conclusion. Was it fear or hatred or bitter experience that made him so certain?

“Nothin’ in this world is set in stone,” she said softly. “What we are doesn’t have to determine who we are and what we do. We make choices ev’ry day that matter more than what we happen to be.”

Bo: "A vampire cannot change their bane any more than they can change the stars in the sky. They're cursed. Do you understand?"

Bronwyn: Fear, hatred, and bitter experience; it wasn’t just one fueling this conversation, but all three.

Bronwyn nodded. She didn’t have a vast knowledge about vampires but curses? “I do, aye.”

Bo: "D'er lettast aa laera av annan manns skade."

No, he would not be translating. Only smoothing his clothes as he stood. Unable to sit still any longer, he pulled out his phone and pulled up Brett's last message to read. Something to do and consider.

Bronwyn/Brett: No translation meant Bronwyn would have to try to remember what he’d said and ask Torsten about it later. Her curiosity wouldn’t rest otherwise.

Brett’s last message wasn’t a message, but a photo of Olek in the kitchen that had been caught mid-yawn.

Torsten/Bo: {Text to Brett} I'll be home soon.

And Torsten had only allowed himself a five-minute distance via drive. Not a whisper nor a scream would be heard from the young mage. Bo had been a dangerous man, but never once to him. Not before. But the man he had known had died with a curse Was this collar that important, he asked himself, stepping into the threshold to find that very mage straightening with his presence, returning his phone to his pocket and raising his chin. There was a level of fear behind those eyes only he knew. That man he thought had been destroyed was in there, somewhere, behind those blond lashes. The tightening of his jaw, the deliberate blinks in twos.

Neither man would speak, as though caught in the gravity of each other's existence.

Bronwyn: Bronwyn felt a lump form in her throat the longer the two of them stared at each other. She couldn’t begin to imagine what either of them were thinking, if they were thinking anything at all.

How many years and how much pain had passed between them?

She got to her feet and moved to stand beside Bo, putting herself in Torsten’s line of sight.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked softly, unable to bear the silence.

Torsten/Bo: Both sets of green eyes found her. Neither said a word. Only the one she had regarded moved, nodding. Something had to be said, but words failed both men.

It took everything in Bo's power not to pull out his wand and materialize a crystal prison around the revenant. Maybe one just too long and sharp in his chest. Perhaps a curious case of bad luck. Perhaps send him back into the ocean again. His chest began to burn to the point of having to touch himself.

He turned away entirely.

Bronwyn/Brett: Shaky hands got another teacup out of the cabinet and filled it. Even if Bo hadn’t wanted tea, it didn’t feel right to give the cup that had been meant for him to Torsten. Just looking at it sitting on the table was enough to threaten tears for reasons she didn’t understand, but that could possibly be attributed to the suffocating tension in the kitchen.

{Text from Brett} Okay, baby. Dinner will be waiting

{Text from Brett} I love you

Torsten/Bo: Bo took a breath and placed his hand over one of his pockets. They didn't need to see what was underneath.

"Jeg bryr meg ikke om hva vi en gang var. Når dette er over, vil jeg aldri høre navnet ditt igjen. Jeg vil aldri tenke på deg igjen."

His voice had remained strong until the last sentence. He managed to swallow and keep his composure. He could have asked for nothing else but the strength to hold his head high.

"Jeg skjønner," Torsten sighed.

Bronwyn: She didn’t understand a word that was being said but it wasn’t yelling and that was reason enough to keep hoping. Everything felt so fragile, including her.

Perhaps she should sit and try to drink more tea. Anything to calm down.

Torsten/Bo: Torsten took a step toward the kitchen and was stopped abruptly by a twitch in Bo's shoulder. A tick he'd seen before, at the mill. One would think the revenant a statue.

"I'm sorry what happened to us. To you."

"I've already agreed. Opening your mouth is not intelligent."

Bronwyn: And up she got once more to stand not between them, but near to Bo’s side.

“Would you rather we all sit?” she asked him. “Or are you more comfortable standin’?”

Torsten/Bo: It was seeing Vincent from the corner of his eye, standing in the entryway watching them both that stuck one of his many nerves. Knuckles cracked with a fist, scoffing.

"Come here."

As though he had never left. Torsten could do nothing but stand directly in front of his long-left master.

"Bend down." A command purely out of intent, for once, to observe the ivory and gold collar. He could feel quintessence like a current running through the antique. Old, old magic. As old as revenants themselves.

This time, Bo's swallow was visible. Hands gently shaking. This felt like forgiveness. Doing away with one more piece of his control.

His hands retreated.

"Say it again. What you promised." Bo looked to Bronwyn.

Bronwyn: The commands were what did it. Seeing Torsten compelled to obey them was what made the dam overflow and had tears streaming down her face again. It was just as painful now as it had been then, back when she realized just how much Torsten meant to her.

She wanted to close her eyes, but then she wouldn’t have been able to meet Bo’s. And she needed to.

“If I have somethin’ to say to you,” she began, turning to face him fully, “I promise I’ll say it to you directly. I will never go behind yer back again. I give you my word.”

Torsten/Bo: A mantra had begun in his head. The only reason he didn't have Torsten picking up a kitchen knife and using it on himself. If he were honest with himself, there were two reasons. This was for Brett. This was absolutely for Brett, but this was to give Bronwyn peace. To dry a mother's tears. He was almost certain she was a sirin.

In one swift movement, the golden circle center of the collar was pushed. With a loud clack, the two metal ends split apart.

The collar was held in a white knuckle grip. He couldn't look at the man that was once his. Refused to note the white tan line around his throat. Only gasped and recoiled when pulled into Torsten's arms. His entire body shook. Cheeks red and eyes moist.

"Jeg gjorde det ikke for deg!" I didn't do it for you!

"I know. Takk. Takk."

Bo managed to retreat, refusing to look at anyone but the familiar watching him in the other room. Straightening his clothes like a lifeline.

"Take me home."

Bronwyn: Words were impossible. All Bronwyn could do was nod and gesture for Vincent to come and take Bo back.

The tears wouldn’t dry for a while yet, but that there was peace, there was no doubt. Peace and a gratitude and relief so profound she could hardly stand. She wanted to say something to Bo but couldn’t begin to find the words to express what she felt. This didn’t feel real.

“One day,” she managed, “I’ll know how to thank you. Get home safely.”

Torsten/Bo: There was a piece of Torsten gone. A nakedness to his throat. He wouldn't dare touch where it had been. Not in Bo's presence. After unwanted affection, he didn't dare move until Vincent neared and disappeared with the mage. Only then did he walk the few steps to the weeping druid and lift her in his arms. Their burden had been lifted.

And Bo's mind felt as though it were unraveling. He didn't want to walk to his car, drive himself home, and face his husband. He didn't want to do anything but process what had happened. No sooner had Vincent disappeared did he bite down on the back of his hand, doubling over just managing to breathe.

Bronwyn/Peabody: If hearing the final commands Torsten would ever be given overflowed the dam, Torsten touching her broke it completely. The release of tension, the realization that this was the very first time she was seeing him without anything but the clothes on his back, it was all just too much.

The only thing she was capable of doing was clinging to the man she loved and sobbing into his shoulder.

Whatever respite the universe decided to grant Bo wouldn’t be nearly as long as he would perhaps desire.

Not long after he returned, a pair of headlights would cut through the darkness as a squad car pulled into the lot. Their light had spotted the mage.

The headlights cut out, the engine shut off, and Jeremy Peabody emerged from the open door.

“…Bo?” he called. “That you over there?”

Torsten/Bo: The blond figure straightened with a deep nostril inhale. The two pieces of the collar were tossed in the passenger seat of his car. He couldn't pretend Peabody didn't exist, but there was nothing he could say without harming one of them. His means of escape was language.

"Jeg har det ikke bra. Du aner ikke hvor mye jeg vil skrike. Jeg vil ikke hjem. Jeg vil bare drepe noe. Jeg ønsker deg..." The mage sniffed again.

I'm not alright. You have no idea how much I want to scream. I don't want to go home. I just want to kill something. I wish you...

I wish you weren't so kind.

In New Orleans, Bronwyn was being carried upstairs to their bedroom. No words spoken. Only to exist with their emotions and allow his beloved to touch the pale line servility had created.

Bronwyn/Peabody: Peabody had heard Bo speaking his native language before, but that wasn’t what gave him pause. It was his tone and the distraught look on his face.

When Bo didn’t feel like talking he had no problem telling him to fuck off; this wasn’t that. This was closer to what some would call a cry for help.

“Do you want me to call Brett?” His tone wasn’t soft and gentle like Bronwyn’s had been. His was calm and reassuring.

Bronwyn didn’t dare to do that yet. She didn’t think she’d be able to handle it.

Right now it felt like she was finally releasing not just the past few months’ worth of tension, but years of it. For so long she’d wanted to see Torsten free of that collar and now that he was, she was nearly hysterical with relief.

Torsten/Bo: Torsten didn't feel anything in regards to his collar. Not with Bronwyn in his arms. His only priority was her comfort and that of their children. If she needed to cry, so be it. If she needed to be held, or a bath, or kissed into her hair, so be it.

His concern was also on the man he would never lay eyes on again. Every conversation they had ever had. From Poland to Iceland. To the comfort of his sister's den, surrounded by dogs and birds and the sweet sound of Flora's voice, filling the room with history and wisdom. To the sound of Bo's quick scratch writing, hanging on her every word. To their first and last kiss in his old bedroom. Where Bo had simply said, "I just wanted to know," before meeting his fate in America. It was done. He was gone. That man, he told himself again and again, was reborn into someone else.

But that someone else was very much the same. Traumas he couldn't remember. Those he wished he could forget. Those he was reliving right before Peabody's eyes.

Bo sat sideways in the driver's seat, wiping his face with just a little too much aggression.

He could manage to say it, but the bite wasn't there.

"Fuck off." But he didn't mean it, and he hated that he didn't mean it.

Bronwyn/Peabody: These days it was hard to say she needed to cry. A more accurate statement was that she couldn’t seem to do anything but cry.

Eventually she would exhaust herself, however. The ragged sobs would quiet until they became sniffles, her shoulders would gradually stop shaking, and she’d become a rag doll in the revenant’s arms.

No, he didn’t mean it. A deaf man in Reno could tell that he didn’t mean it.

How to proceed? It was established that when Bo wanted something, he asked for it. That included Brett. If Brett wasn’t here it was because Bo didn’t want him here, which meant he also probably didn’t want Peabody to call him.

Well. Answer was clear enough.

“…Want a beer?”

Torsten/Bo: She would cry for both of them. With a little encouragement to drink a sip of water, nothing else was said by the revenant. She would remain in his arms, above the sheets, eyes closed, allowing both of their minds to rest, free of at least one more burden.

Bo was watching the grass by his feet. He couldn't bring himself to look at Peabody. He didn't want to make that connection. The deputy already gave him mixed feelings. The obvious response to such nonsense was anger. Anger was exhausting.

"Beer is disgusting."

Peabody: The deputy wasn’t dissuaded. He could spot a situation that needed alcohol a mile off.

“Want a glass of wine? My place is close, and empty.” Bridget was working the night shift all week which worked out great since Bo didn’t like her.

Bo: Bo nearly scoffed at the idea of Peabody with a bottle of one before remembering Bridget. Of course.

He didn't want to go home. He knew what would happen when he did. But, Brett was waiting for him. Perhaps months ago...

"I have to go home." He felt it necessary to add, "Don't tell Brett you saw me."

Peabody: Peabody nodded. “Hey, I just returned from patrol and went in to do my paperwork. Didn’t see anybody.”

Bo: Deep breath. Held. Exhaled. "Thank you."

Peabody: “Don’t mention it.” He gave Bo another nod and walked across the lot to the side entrance of the station.

Bo: He'd forgotten what he'd requested for dinner. Forgotten what shirt Brett had been wearing. Driving back to the house was a blur. He'd managed to stop when required, but he couldn't say which route he had taken.

Walking through the front door, all he had in his hands were the keys and the collar.

Brett: Since the choice had been left to Brett, he’d elected to cook something simple and comforting. He’d made pasta with grilled veggies and some garlic herb toast and had a bottle of wine breathing on the counter.

He was dressed in a comfortable T-shirt and sweatpants and his hair was still wet from his shower.

And when Bo walked in with the collar in his hands, any and all questions he might have had were immediately answered.

“Hungry?” he asked softly.

Bo: Eyes and cheeks were still red. The collar was still in his fist, white-knuckled when he raised both hands to his forehead. Shoulders heavy and shaking. This was exactly what he knew would happen. One look at Brett. Just the softness of his voice, and he was doomed. He had no intention to cry, but such gentleness tore at his walls so expertly.

Brett: “If you want to scream,” he began, “the walls are soundproof. If you want to talk, I’ll listen. If you want to eat in silence, we will. If you want to throw something, the table is set.”

Brett stepped closer. “If you want comfort, I’m right here.”

The choice was Bo’s to make and would be respected.

Bo: He wanted to hate this man. Wrath was an easy emotion. Cathartic. Rage was an old friend with a hand on his shoulder. Had been since childhood. But this was a man he actually cared about. A man worth the effort.

But by bedding his primary instinct, all that was left was raw and tender. Words he could not articulate.

The lights in the foyer flickered.

"I feel... it. On me. Him." Elaborating would hurt his husband. Hurt himself. Show more vulnerability. He began to pull at his hair.

Brett: Brett didn’t have to ask who ‘he’ was or question the why or the how of Bo being able to feel something on him. Not when Brett himself was so familiar with such a sensation.

The flickering lights didn’t startle him. Not anymore. “I’ll start the shower for you and wash your clothes so you can get clean.”

Bo: All he could manage was a single nod. The two pieces were placed on the foyer table. It took everything in his power not to throw the collar. The catharsis it would bring would pale in comparison to the memory he would harbor of Brett flinching.

Every movement was mindful, shaking just to sustain, not to scream or break.

His wand was placed on the bathroom sink. Arms aching and loose, making his clothes a struggle.

Brett: Brett turned on the shower and got Bo a fresh towel while the water warmed. A bath probably would have been more relaxing but he knew how much better it felt in circumstances like these to feel like you were actively getting clean. Besides, having water gently fall on you felt just as good as sitting in it.

He longed to help Bo, to reassure him in some way, but he wouldn’t. Not unless he was asked.

Bo: "I frighten you, don't I?"

Hands rested on the edge of the sink, staring down the drain so as not to look at his husband.

Brett: He shook his head. “No, baby. You don’t and you never have. I’ve been afraid of blood, my father, the vampires in this town, but never of you.”

Bo: "Not when I scream? Why? Why are you like this?"

Brett: “Screaming’s never been something I’m afraid of.” He’d have a rough time doing the job he did if that were the case.

“Why am I like what?”

Bo: "Why are you complicit with everything I do! You let me do anything! When I throw things! When I scream! I left the house and you let me! You're a doormat!"

You are the balm and the gauze and the cool running water and you save my life again and again and I don't deserve you. I'm not worthy of you, and I will push you away before you hurt me.

Brett: Brett was quiet for a moment. He let himself listen to the shower running, let the echo of Bo’s raised voice fade into it.

“I’d rather be a doormat than a jailer,” he said quietly. “You know what I spent a lot of time wanting when I was a kid? To be allowed to be upset. To be allowed to feel anything really. If something made me sad, I couldn’t show it. If my parents made me angry or hurt my feelings, I couldn’t say anything. I had to swallow it. I made myself learn how to be silent when I cried because if my dad heard me, he’d call me names and slap me. As I got older I told myself that when I became an adult, I was never going to be like him. I wasn’t going to get angry with someone for feeling something. I wouldn’t hurt someone when they were already hurting.

“So if you need to call me a doormat, that’s fine. Maybe I am. But I’m not going to get upset with you for being upset, and I’m not going to keep you chained so you can’t ever leave the house. You’re not a doll. You’re my husband.”

Bo: The more Brett spoke, the heavier his words became. Weighing on his shoulders to the point of bending over the sink, held up solely by his elbows. Hands rested the weight of his face by his forehead. He couldn't remember a single instance of his childhood, but he felt Brett's experiences as though his own. He had seen them upon the pages in ink. A tyrant Catholic and Ventrue dictator for father and uncle cut from the same cloth.

"I'm sorry," Bo sobbed. "Jeg mente det ikke. Jeg burde ikke ha gjort det."

Brett: “I know.” Brett’s voice was so, so soft. He hadn’t been given permission to touch his husband, and he didn’t, but he did step closer so Bo could feel that he wasn’t alone.

None of this was personal. He knew Bo wasn’t lashing out because of him or something he’d done. This was simply a rough situation, and Bo was simply a man with demons trying his absolute best to fight them and keep them from winning.

“I know you didn’t, baby. I know you didn’t mean it. I forgive you.”

Bo: He simply needed to exist. To breathe and allow the tension in his chest to subside. He waited, and it lingered. Only the sobs between broken breaths eased the clench.

Some minutes later, he managed, "Will you... shower with me?"

Brett: That was perfectly fine by him. Bo didn’t have to say or do anything. As long as he was breathing and trying for calm, that was already a victory.

Brett nodded. “Absolutely. Do you want help getting undressed?”

Bo: "No." He'd already dismantled enough of his pride for what remained of the year. The least he could do was remove his clothes.

Brett: “Okay.” In that case, Brett would go grab another towel and start removing his own clothes.