Y'all can call me Lady or The Lady. I currently have mostly Sandman content, but I've got plenty more fandom's to explore. My masterlist is pinned feel free to check it out! MATURE CONTENT MINORS DNI! She/Her, 20+
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TW: not really any tws this time! Just a whole lot of idiot fluff for y'all!
For weeks, you had been telling yourself that it was all in your head. Every glimpse, every moving shadow, every hint of lavender and poppies. It wasn’t real. It was all just in your head. And in your head, it was going to stay, even if it drove you insane.
Countless times, your friends had asked: “So, what’s new?” Not too long ago, that would have been the simplest thing in the world to answer. Work, taking care of whatever animal fell into your lap, and maybe a good TV show or book, and that was it. Simplicity had always been a comfort to you. Now, however, even your simplicity was warped and wrapped up in whatever delusions your mind had conjured to trick you, or perhaps torture you, you didn’t know.
Work was awash with lavender and poppies, the smell as well as the physical bouquet. In just a matter of days, the pairing you’d not seen a lot of turned into the most requested thing. Every animal you found, or that found you, was followed by a tall shadow that you could never quite catch a full glimpse of. And all were shockingly well behaved, as was the cat you’d rescued that night. Each page of your book turned slower than usual, your eyes beginning to drift shut almost the moment you began to read.
The most damning of it all were the moments you could have sworn you’d seen him standing in a crowd of people or outside your window in the rain. Those glimpses were what truly drove you mad. The possibility dangling in front of you, only to be so crudely ripped away at the truth you still struggled to convince yourself of.
Still, you carried on with your simple life, determined not to let whatever mental breakdown you were so clearly experiencing stop you from doing what you always did. The formerly stray cat purred from between your feet, curling around your legs like he’d been doing it from the beginning. You loved the change in his attitude, especially since it meant no more claw marks that needed tending, but it was still… odd.
“I’ll be home in time for dinner,” you lovingly whispered down to him as you crossed your heart. “Promise.”
The moment you stepped outside, the caw echoed from above. A beautiful raven sat on top of your windowsill, glossy eyes watching you with careful tilts of its head. You smiled and waved up at it. “Good morning, pretty bird!” Reaching inside your pocket, you pulled the simple handful of seeds and nuts out and scattered them on your porch. “Just in case you’re hungry!”
And then it was across the street and into work. Normal was the goal for today. Normal, quiet, simple. Surely that would be easy enough to accomplish.
*
Dream watched through Matthew’s eyes, taking in every smile, every greeting, every single detail he could without physically being there in front of her. He was ashamed to admit it, but he’d been following you in earnest the past few days. Showing up at her work to stare at her from the front window, as he had that first time, and even slinking into the shadows to assure she’d settled into a peaceful slumber each night. He’d had several conversations with the cat she’d rescued, as well as other animals in need of a loving hand or a place to find aid.
The simple fact was that he, the King of Dreams, had already fallen head over heels for her. Though what to do about it was far less simple. He had read through every book within the library’s shelves about her and her dreams. At first, he’d hoped that doing so would reveal some horrid secret that would rid him of his affections. Then, it shifted into a deep hunger to know her more.
Now, with each passing day and night - with each book he practically swallowed whole - he wondered how he’d not noticed her before. She was talented and inspired, graceful and beautiful and kind and her dreams only reflected such.
She dreamt of rolling hills filled with wind and wildflowers and starlit skies. She dreamt of dances so elegant and moving. She dreamt of sunshine and vast oceans.
She was a true dreamer. A wonder he’d not seen in centuries. A wonder he’d not seen coming.
How was it that a mortal saw dreams as he did? How did this woman hold the same capacity to craft and create unimaginable things as the King of Dreams? How was she so perfect?
Dream practically threw the book back onto its shelf and sighed. Somewhere behind him, Lucienne cleared her throat. “Having trouble, My Lord?”
“No.” He shook his head and turned to glance at her. “Yes.”
“May I be of any assistance?”
Yes, he thought, and then thought better. With a quick turn, his starlit coat fluttered around him in a most dramatic way. “No.”
He heard the librarian chuckle. “As you say, My Lord.”
His steps faltered. “How is one meant to rid themselves of… unwanted thoughts?”
“Strictly speaking, there are a multitude of ways one can try to reestablish control over their thoughts.”
“And what if one’s tried all of those?”
“A confrontation,” she finally said, plainly. “If one were to face whatever it was that plagued their mind, and took power from whatever or whoever it was, then it is only reasonable to assume the consuming thoughts would also lose their power.”
Of all the answers she could have offered him, that was the one Dream dreaded the most. “What if I do not have the strength to take away her power over me?”
Lucienne did not reply right away, instead allowing him to cling to the small hope that she hadn’t heard him. After a moment of silence, she set another book on the table between them and hummed. “If the unwanted… thought isn’t hurting anything, then who is to say what the correct way to handle it is? Perhaps coexistence… connection would be a more preferable way to retake control of one’s mind?”
“Perhaps,” he quietly agreed. Turning his head ever so slightly, he nodded to her. “Thank you, Lucienne.”
“Always, My Lord.”
His feet moved then, each step calculated. He pulled the sand from his cloak and let it swirl around him. When the flower shop came into view once more, he did not deny his feet their desire to keep moving.
*
The bells above the door rang softly in your ears as you finished wrapping one of the many online orders you had to get ahead of before closing for the night. “Be right with you!”
One more delicate pull of the silk ribbon and you were done. Your head lifted, eyes meeting the small mirror sitting just above the workstation table. In it, you saw him. Your heart hammered, head quickly shaking as you repeated the truth to yourself. He’s not real. This is just in your head. And then you could smell it, lavender and poppies.
You turned quickly, too quickly. Anyone else would have been startled by your unnecessary speed and the way your eyes regarded them with a scrutinizing glare. Your stranger, however, was not. He stood there, unmoving and unwavering as you watched him. “You…” You felt out of breath. “You’re real?”
His brow quirked slightly, eyes drifting away from yours as he looked at the flowers around you. “I am… and I am in need of a bouquet.”
“A…” You laughed then, a loud and embarrassing laugh that only made you feel crazier. The stranger watched you carefully, and you were suddenly horrified by your own stupid response to him. You shook your head and quickly tried to return to whatever normal was supposed to be. “I am so sorry! Um, okay… a bouquet. You need a bouquet.”
“And you do that here,” he quickly asked, smirking slightly. “Correct?”
“Yes!” You almost shouted. “I… yes, we do flower arrangements.”
“Good,” he chuckled. “I was worried for a moment I’d come to the wrong place.”
Oh my god, he’s real! He’s real! It wasn’t all just in my head! I’m not crazy! You dug a pen and a pad out of the drawer and tried to silence the screaming inside your mind. “What are you looking for today?”
“I’m…” he paused and just watched you for a moment. “I’m not sure.”
“Okay, well, are you shopping for someone specific?”
“Yes.”
“A romantic partner? Or a loved one? A professional acquaintance?”
The stranger hesitated for a moment, sparkling eyes drinking you in for a moment that you could have easily mistaken for something else, but refused to allow yourself to. After a bit of thought, he quietly replied, “A loved one, I think.”
You disregarded his seemingly confused reply and happily jotted it down. “And what sort of flowers does this loved one like?”
“Wildflowers,” he almost whispered, his voice sending shivers up your spine, just as it had that night. “Something unique and… unexpected.”
“I think we have the perfect ones for that,” you quickly said, desperate to busy your hands with something. “If you give me one moment, I can get it all ready for you.”
“Take all the time you wish.”
You smiled at him, and before you could stop yourself, you were talking, “I just wanted to say thank you again… for that night.” What if he doesn’t remember? “You know… when you kind of saved a feral street cat and me from being pulverized by a car?”
The stranger grinned, almost laughing as he nodded. “I remember. And thanks are not necessary.”
He remembers me. You smiled wider. “Still. Thanks.”
“You are most welcome.” He paused for a moment before asking, “How is the cat?”
“Good!” You happily replied. “He’s doing much better now.”
The stranger nodded. “I’m gladdened to hear it.”
“Yeah…” You stood there a moment longer, just admiring him in all his otherworldly, ethereal beauty. Then, you quickly turned. “I’ll just get that bouquet ready for you.”
With a quick palm to your head, you hid behind the flowers and mumbled to yourself, “Ohmygodcanyounotbesoweird?!”
*
The moment he saw her, Dream felt elated. The sight of her realizing he was, in fact, there, standing in front of her, made his heart soar like nothing else. It was intoxicating and healing all at once.
She moved less gracefully beneath his gaze, but Dream didn’t mind. She was still generous and thoughtful and simply perfect. His perfect Dreamer. He’d quickly had to shake himself of that thought, trying not to let himself fall even harder after just one moment.
He watched her move, assembling the bouquet he did not actually need with careful precision and a perfectionist’s eye that reminded him of his own creative process. After a moment, she returned, pulling a silk ribbon and a card out from the pile. “Who should I make the card out to?”
“Dreamer,” he answered. “You can simply put Dreamer.”
She nodded, hastily scribbling it on the card, followed by an adorable little heart that he quickly found himself smiling at. Her hands moved quickly, wrapping it all together in a neat bow before she held them out to him for inspection. “What do you think?”
Dream admired her art for a moment, nodding his head. “They’re perfect.”
“Good!” She quietly laughed to herself. “I’m glad you like them.”
“You are quite the artist.” He reached into his pocket, fully prepared to pay as any mortal would, but she stopped him.
“This is on me. Another thank you for saving my life.”
“That is hardly necessary.”
“Maybe not, but still.” She held them out to him, eyes sparkling as they had the first time she looked up at him.
He reached forward, his fingers gently brushing against hers as they wrapped around the bouquet. A rush of lightning pulsed through him. A simple touch, and Dream of the Endless was practically weak in the knees. He wanted to pull her close, recreating the first time he’d held her as she breathlessly stared up at him with a similar longing.
She eventually pulled her hand away, a blush of crimson rising to her cheeks as she turned her gaze anywhere but his face. “See you soon.”
Dream smiled, quickly suppressing a quiet laugh at the unintentional truth her words held. His fingers curled tighter around the neatly wrapped flowers. “See you soon.”
He remembered very little of returning to The Dreaming. His mind was too busy replaying the interaction over and over again. Somehow, he found himself in the library, approaching Lucienne’s desk as she glanced at him through the top of her glasses. Without a word, Dream set the bouquet in a vase on her table, the heart hastily scribbled on the card facing out for all to see.
TW: (as always the TW's will contain spoilers) I'm not gonna lie, I'm struggling with the tws on this one, so I'm gonna just keep it kind of simple/straightforward this time. There's not a lot to cover, but we've got a lot of longing and angsty fluff in this chapter, along with some real tws of Roderick taking his power a bit too far! So, we've got some non-consensual stripping, slight noncon touching (don't worry its not anything super crazy or graphic)
One month had turned into many months before I’d even realized it. Time passed differently in the basement. Madness and paranoia always lurked in the darkness as my body and mind began to succumb to the barbaric treatment Roderick dished out. My only saving grace was the ethereal being of stars trapped beside me, always just out of reach.
No matter how bad the beatings got or how hideously disheveled I grew without proper care, the Sandman never wavered. Perhaps it was stupid, silly of me to think I could read him at all - he was an immortal being of immense power after all, but somehow I just knew. Each glance, each twitch, every tiny detail he offered was something I could read the meaning behind as though he’d spoken words aloud.
He listened to me ramble day in and day out and never once seemed annoyed by the endless stream of questions he couldn’t answer or stories he likely didn’t care about. He just… listened. While it was the only thing he could do, given the circumstances, I could tell he actually listened by the curious tilt of his head or the glimmer in his eyes. It was as if he were saying, More. Tell me more.
Eventually, Roderick decided to change tactics. He’d not beat me, not truly, in weeks, and he’d quietly cleared out one of the empty rooms in his estate and had told the guards to show me the grounds. He’d said I was no good to them if I went mad, though the words sounded more like Alex than his father. So, I’d said goodbye to the dark, dank basement - to the Sandman - and was thrust into another prison to navigate.
The room was nice enough, filled with extra clothes that Roderick’s new mistress, Ethel, had given me. They were too large, especially now that I’d been half-starved, but they were better than the tattered and torn bits of my old dress. Despite the mattress’s softness or the warmth of the covers, it was nearly impossible to sleep. I found myself missing the cold, hard floor of the basement and the bite of the chain around my wrist. Most of all, I found myself missing him… my Sandy.
I tried my hand at escaping a few times, never making it further than the old willow tree. Roderick eventually pulled a guard from the basement door and assigned him to watch me practically every moment of the day. Escape was out of the question, and probably for the best, all things considered. Even if I had managed to get free, I doubted anyone would believe me, and that meant leaving the Sandman trapped within his prison, which was something I just couldn’t bring myself to do. So, I tried to spend my time wisely at least, eavesdropping and stealing anything I thought could lead to some answers. I tried to learn as much as I could, but it seemed Roderick’s money or his power kept their mouths sufficiently shut. The only thing I had learned since being moved upstairs was that a little bird seemed as keen on helping the Sandman as I was.
Every day, I was allowed one walk around the grounds, so long as someone accompanied me. At first, Ethel had been keen to get to know me. She’d said something about always wanting a daughter, but in the end, she was sorely disappointed, much like my father. After that, Alex volunteered himself. I’d thought he meant to bridge the gap between us since he’d left me to rot in the basement, but he seemed far more focused on fawning over the gardener Paul than on me.
As the days passed, his loyalty to his father forced Alex and me further and further apart. He’d grown busy, tending to whatever his father needed of him. With my guard in tow, I helped Paul whenever he needed. It quickly became clear he had no clue what was going on in the Burgess house. He never asked about the cuts and bruises; instead just offered a helping hand in tending to them. And in time, he grew to be an unexpected friend.
The bird, however, was far harder to impress. I’d tried leaving food for her on my windowsill whenever possible, but she seemed almost disgusted by the scraps. Then, I started leaving trinkets I’d nicked from Roderick’s mansion. This seemed to attract her far more than the food. After a month of tedious work, she’d eventually flown into my room and hung about. Alex had been quick to tell me her name, prying for information that could help him on his hunt for her. When I’d offered him nothing, the raven, Jessamy, returned with a marble for me. Another unlikely friend to break up the new, hopeless routine of the Burgess house.
The sunlight sparkled through the long wisps of the willow trees’ leaves, bathing me in the fragments of warmth even deep within the shade. Being outside was always bittersweet when I held the knowledge that the Sandman, the most unlikely of friends out of them all, hadn't seen the sky in who knew how long. Beneath the privacy of the willow tree, I welcomed Jessamy’s weight on my shoulder as she swooped down from her perch above to get a closer look at the new bauble I’d stolen. Her sleek black feathers had a greenish-blue hue in the distorted rays of sunlight, and her white tufted chest poked out as her glossy eyes watched the shining object with curiosity and delight.
Lifting the smooth stone up so she could see it, I leaned my head into her a bit. “What do you think, Jess? Is this one shiny enough for the collection?”
She gave it an inspecting peck before letting out a soft caw.
I added it to the little pouch filled with other shiny things, some I'd found, most I’d stolen, and others Jessamy had brought me. “Any new schemes this time?”
One thing I knew for certain about the odd bird was that she wanted the Sandman free. I’d caught her attempting to reach the basement a few times when I’d tried my own hand at escaping. After gaining her trust, I’d started trying to help her, so far to no avail.
She cawed again, eyes flashing to the edge of the willow, where the tree’s leaves began to lift. In an instant, she was far from my side, soaring off into the sky. Oh, how I wish I could fly off with you. The guard moved the willow leaves out of his way. “Times up.”
I dusted the dirt from my dress and followed him inside. “Well, it was nice while it lasted. Will it be the stockade or the pit today, Frederick?”
“Pit, I’m afraid,” the burly man answered, gently correcting my course.
Suppressing the relief I felt at finally getting to see the Sandman again after yet another grueling week apart, I clicked my tongue. “Shame, I was just beginning to enjoy the stockades!”
The door opened, and I merrily pranced down the steps into the dark.
*
The first few days of her absence had reignited the thought that his initial assumption had been correct, that she was just a tool Roderick wished to use to force his hand. For a while, the old man was far too civil. He’d tried flattery, tried assuring him that the girl was safely tucked away, ready for him to lay his claim to. When that did nothing to break his silence, his tune quickly changed. He began bringing her down alongside him and beating her when his demands still went unanswered. She is no less a prisoner upstairs than she had been down here. It was all far less violent as of late, a thing he found himself almost grateful for.
When the old man would finally storm off, she would smile that smile and resume her rantings and questions as if they’d not just spent a week parted. Morpheus found himself having difficulties keeping the dead look on his face each time he saw her. He’d grown used to hearing her voice fill the dreary silence of his prison. With her being moved upstairs each night, that silence now felt as empty as it used to. So when he saw her walk down those steps, he could not refrain from the surge of relief and joy that blossomed in his chest.
Though he’d now been able to recognize her as an ally of sorts, he still refused to acknowledge the brand they both bore and what that meant now that it was clear she was no puppet of the Burgess. What questions shall she ask this time? He wondered, trying to steer his mind clear of the dread the truth brought upon him. What stories does she have to share?
She was loud and colorful and annoyingly cheerful, even after being beaten. She called him Sandy, that alone almost caused him to break his silence. Yet despite her annoyances, Dream often played the memory of her laughter back in his head throughout those long weeks without her. He’d even wondered, in the furthest parts of his mind, what it'd feel like to speak her name.
Penelope.
It took him more effort than he was expecting not to think of her. She was beautiful, especially now that her skin had received more color and she’d stopped losing weight due to malnourishment. None, not even the King of Dreams himself, could deny it. The way she smiled, the sound of her laughter, even just the simple feel of her heart beating beside his own… it’d grown almost intoxicating.
In the infinite silence that had become his world, his thoughts were all he had. He'd thought of his realm, of the people he’d unwillingly left behind. Those thoughts always formed a tightly wound noose of guilt that choked the breath from him. He'd thought of escape. These were the more vengeful thoughts... Filled with darkness and fear and nightmares. And then he'd thought of her, Penelope. The only time he truly allowed it was moments where his future was filled with nothing but the dark room and a mere reflection of his weakened self in the glass.
Hope. As annoying and human as she was, Penelope Barlow had become a ray of light in his dark cage. He almost looked forward to when Roderick would leave her beaten, chained to the pillar, just so he could listen to her - be near her for a moment longer.
She told him about everything she heard that could potentially mean something to him, a thoughtful gesture, but one that bore no fruit. What he looked forward to most was her stories of what she saw outside. It both annoyed and amused him to learn of her newfound friendship with his raven. It brought him some comfort to hear her speak of Jessamy, to know that she was well, that she had someone outside the glass cage to care for her. She would describe the sky and the gardens to him, and if it rained, she'd be dragged down, soaking wet, and tell him all about how she danced out in the downpour.
There was a small part of him, one that he'd never acknowledge for longer than a fleeting second, that hoped he'd be able to see her dance one day.
With the sound of the gate screeching open, Morpheus’ thoughts returned to the cage and the basement and the anger. He always held his breath, waiting for the day his captors would enter, and the girl would not be there, or the day that she’d return to the basement with her rebellious spirit broken at the hands of Roderick’s cruelty. Above it all, he feared the day she’d enter the basement void of her tender heart and bright smile, void of the brightness and goodness that she was.
Today, however, was certainly not that day. A smiling Penelope swung the gate open, merrily singing the horrid nickname he’d been cursed with, “Morning, Sandy!”
His lips tugged up, held back only by his ironclad will to not let the lesser mortals around them see him smile. He couldn’t do anything more to confirm that Penelope was, indeed, important to him. For her sake, and perhaps, his own.
*
Roderick had interrupted our “talk” just when I’d begun asking about mermaids and sirens. He’d followed his script, stalking around the cage spouting off all the kindness he’d offered Sandy over the years. If he could have rolled his eyes, he would have.
For a moment, I couldn’t help the way my eyes wandered, admiring his ivory skin and the rigid muscles that accentuated his lithe figure in a way I could only describe as otherworldly. Is his skin as soft as it looks? I wondered to myself.
The Sandman’s pools of darkness flashed to me, and I felt a wave of dread wash over me at the thought he’d somehow heard what I didn’t say. After a moment beneath his curious gaze, dread shifted to embarrassment and shame. Don’t start gawking at him now, I quickly scolded, hands balling into fists at my sides. You are not one of Roderick’s wanton party girls!
“Fine then,” Roderick’s voice cut through the tension like a newly carved knife. “Have it your way.”
He turned to me, unlatching the chain and pulling me to my feet. Here we go, I thought, preparing myself for whatever show of brute force he’d planned for today. Instead, he walked away, standing beside the glass cage as the Sandman watched him with weary eyes. The old man looked down the length of me, that leering gaze making my skin crawl.
“Strip,” Roderick suddenly commanded.
My heart stuttered in my chest, anger and hatred quickly turning to humiliation as I stared at him. “No.”
“Child,” he laughed. “It’s been what? Five, six months you’ve been under my roof? In that time, I’ve noticed the… wandering eyes of my guards. I’ve given you the option to remove your clothes yourself. I suggest you take it, lest I need to involve them. Men clouded by the beauty of a woman can get… carried away in the wrong situations.”
It felt as though my heart had dropped into my stomach, dread curling and twisting inside me as I held the old man’s gaze. Roderick was cruel, evil, and vile, but above all, he was smart. My value, as I’d been told from the moment I could remember, was directly tied to my purity. No man wanted something that had already been sullied.
My eyes shifted to the Sandman, to the void that now filled his eyes. Alex had said he wasn’t a man, and I now knew it to be true, but would that stop him from throwing aside whatever care he held for me the moment I lost the virtue this world seemed to covet so? Not a man… but would that stop him from being disgusted with me when I no longer hold a woman’s purity?
With a reluctant, terrified sigh, I began loosening the ties of my dress.
*
“Strip.”
The moment the word had been uttered, Dream felt his entire being rage within the confines of his prison. He stared ahead, watching Penelope - watching the way the guards behind her moved to get a better view. Even when he caught their gaze, they did not retreat as they usually did. The prospect of seeing her bare before them was apparently more appealing than he was terrifying.
From within the magical binds of his cage, he could do nothing to them. He was weak, and she was vulnerable. There was nothing he could do to stop them. His heart raced, mind conjuring up every horrific display a twisted mind like Roderick Burgess’ could imagine. He’d strip her, defile her, beat her, and repeat until either the girl broke or he did.
“No,” Penelope’s reply was soft… terrified, and it only made him burn hotter. I will kill every last one of them, he told himself, memorizing their faces, memorizing every grin and whispered vanity. The unspoken threats did little from behind the glass.
“Child. It’s been what? Five, six months you’ve been under my roof? In that time, I’ve noticed the… wandering eyes of my guards,” Roderick spared him a smug, knowing glance. “I’ve given you the option to remove your clothes yourself. I suggest you take it, lest I need to involve them. Men clouded by the beauty of a woman can get… carried away in the wrong situations.”
He could feel her thoughts raging, a rapid current of fear and disgust and humiliation making his whole body ache with the strain of remaining still. Penelope’s eyes shifted then, meeting his as one thought materialized fully in his mind. The shock of hearing her voice within his head faded quickly as her words settled within him. “Not a man… but would that stop him from being disgusted with me when I no longer hold a woman’s purity?”
For a moment, brief as it was, Dream felt offended. Does she truly think so lowly of me? Does she think I care for the vanities of mortal men? That feeling quickly faded as her shaking hands lifted to the ties of her gown.
It would be a lie for him to claim he’d not thought about what her body looked like beneath the hideous clothes Roderick’s mistress dressed her in. He’d thought of it more often than he should have. This, however, was not how he’d wanted it to happen. Morpheus’ eyes never left hers. It was all he could think to do to show her the respect that his captors did not. Even when she was bare, nervously standing with her arms crossed against her chest, he looked into her eyes, watching tears build within them.
I will make them pay for this, he thought, hoping that she would in some way hear him as he had her. I swear it.
When the guards’ whistles and crude comments finally died down, Roderick stepped forward. His cane tapped against the stone floor as he circled her, eyes freely wandering, gazing upon that which was meant to be his. Possessiveness, protectiveness clawed beneath his skin as he watched the old man’s fingers reach out to graze the supple skin of her shoulder. Penelope flinched, lips quivering as she fought back tears.
“You see, as of now, I hold the deed to her life.” He hummed, thoughtfully. “By law, I can do whatever I desire to this girl you find so intriguing.”
He was practically shaking now, gaze burning into Penelope’s eyes, watching as fear turned to flame. He’d seen it many times, that fire. Each time she’d steel herself before a beating, each time she’d remind him of his promise, her eyes were always alight with that blaze. It was beautiful, consuming, and it never failed to make him question whether she was truly human or something else entirely.
Roderick’s hand ventured lower, and that fire erupted in an instant. Penelope’s head slammed into the old man’s, sending him to the ground. The guards broke from their heinous trance and rushed to help their benefactor. This time, he didn’t fight against the swell of pride that overtook him at the sight of her spewing vicious threats at any man who so much as looked at her. She will not be broken.
He was livid, quickly administering a few slaps before chaining her to the pillar and storming off, screeching louder than usual. Then, when the quiet settled once more, Dream looked down at the shivering girl, still bare and clinging to herself in an attempt to hide from the leering gazes in the far corner of the room.
She sniffled, quickly wiping away tears as she pulled herself to the side of the pillar opposite him, the side the guards couldn’t see. Her arm was twisted, the chain barely allowing for any movement, but she didn’t care. Though his eyes were still on her, he could feel the immediate warmth of relief slow her racing heart. Safe, he thought. She feels safe with me.
*
I’d made it a point not to cry in front of Roderick or the guards if I could help it. But there, naked in the basement, I couldn’t help myself. After pulling myself into a position where their leering eyes couldn’t see me, I curled inward and sobbed into my bare legs for what felt like hours.
The Sandman’s eyes never wandered. I could feel them fixed to my head, and that knowledge helped soothe the ache in my chest. Once my tearful fit died down - once I no longer had any tears to cry - I’d adjusted as best I could, holding myself tightly against the pillar and hoping I’d sufficiently covered myself with my free arm.
“I suppose this is only fair,” I mumbled once the weight of humiliation and anger had lifted. “Earlier… my eyes did wander a little bit.”
A pulse of amusement settled against my skin like a lover’s laugh, and a blush rose to my face in an instant. “Oh, don’t let it go to your head, Sandy.”
When I finally dared to look up and meet his gaze, I found it soft, full of that ethereal blue I’d come to enjoy seeing. Usually, silence felt stifling in that basement, full of madness and uncertainty, but that silence felt comfortable… intimate. It made me blush harder, quickly tearing my eyes from his with a clear of my throat. “So… Mermaids.”
And so my pitiful, completely unrealistic crush on the Sandman began.
Hours later, Alex snuck into the basement with an arm full of clothes and mumbling apologies. I said nothing to him, taking the clothes and pulling them on as best I could with the chain still limiting my movement. Alex had the decency to look away, standing in front of me, shielding my body from the Sandman’s view as if his were the eyes I had to worry about. Once I’d settled against the floor once more, Alex sighed and handed me a bundle of food. “He’s livid tonight. Said you’ll be lucky to ever leave the basement again.”
“Oh, whatever shall I do?” I replied in feigned terror.
“This isn’t funny, Pen,” he chided.
I smirked. “No, I don’t suppose it is. But seeing as I have very little say in the matter, you’ll have to forgive me for trying to find some momentary joy.”
He gulped, turning to look at the Sandman. “You should stop making yourself such a target.”
“Your advice is unwanted and unnecessary.”
“What do you think you’ll gain by talking to him?” He demanded, glaring at me. “Your ‘conversations’ convince my father more that he’s spoken to you. And that… that makes him more determined to do whatever it takes to get what he wants from you both.”
I rolled my eyes, hungrily stuffing my mouth full of the bread. “What do you want from me, Alex?”
“Give him what he wants,” my old friend pleaded. “Tell him what the Sandman said to you that night, tell him everything, and get yourself out of here, Pen… before it kills you.”
“Fuck that.” With a bitter shake of my head, I gestured to the scars on my collarbone. “I didn’t get these from the Sandman. He’s the only one here who hasn’t tried to use me.”
“He’s locked up!”
“It doesn’t matter!”
Alex’s eyes seemed to darken for a moment. “What is it he offered you that made you so loyal to him?”
I looked past him, staring at the Sandman as he stared at me. “Nothing. He’s offered me nothing.”
No expectations, no cruelty, no leering looks or unspoken vanities. No, the Sandman hadn’t offered me anything, but he’d not held me to any of the expectations that the world seemed to. Even after however long he’d endured this torment, he’d never once looked upon me with hatred in his eyes. Even after everything Roderick had done, the Sandman had never broken his promise, and deep down, somehow, I knew he never would.
*
Weeks continued to pass, and I saw the Sandman less and less each day. Roderick had seemingly had enough of rejection, or whatever magic the Sandman radiated just by being trapped here had given him enough power to feel satiated for now. I’d heard a few hushed whispers from the guards talking about how odd it was that the old man hadn’t seemed to age since they’d started working for him. From what very little I knew, I could only assume it was a result of the otherworldly being currently trapped.
On slow days, when Frederick, my guard, felt lazy, I’d pull books from Roderick’s library. Every odd, magically sounding title or uniquely decorated book that caught my eye was quickly pulled from the shelves and stashed in my bedroom. In the night, when even the dreary darkness of sleep refused to come, I’d read each one.
I didn’t know what I expected to find. A spell? An answer to at least some of my questions? A name? No matter what it was I’d been searching for, I didn’t find it among the books, and the guards had long run out of useful gossip.
Slamming another useless book closed, I tossed it aside and flopped down on the too springy mattress with a groan. Jessamy cawed from the bedpost, flapping her wings as if to show her displeasure at yet another useless read. “Sorry, Jess. No answers there either.”
With a curious tilt of her head, she hopped onto the bed, onto my lap, and ruffled her sleek feathers until my hands smoothed over them. I sat up and smiled. “You’re right. I can’t give up hope. We’ll figure it out.”
Jessamy flew out of my lap and through the open window so suddenly that I jumped. It wasn't unlike her to come and go, but once she settled somewhere, especially somewhere she deemed comfortable, she was usually quite reluctant to leave. I watched her soar out my window and disappear into the clouds, jealous of her beauty as well as her freedom. One day, we’ll get to follow you far from here.
I picked up any of her feathers off the bed and placed them into the pouch of trinkets we’d collected together before stuffing it beneath my pillows. Roderick didn’t know I’d been spending time with the bird he hated with all his might, and I intended to keep it that way. The last thing I needed was barred windows.
The knock on the door brought tension to my body as I sat on the edge of the bed and waited. When Paul stuck his head through and smiled at me, I relaxed. “Good morning, Ms. Barlow.”
“Paul, how many times do I need to tell you to call me Penelope?” I teased, greeting him with a hug. “Good morning.”
“It would be improper of me to address a fine lady such as yourself in such a common manner!” He insisted, as he often did.
I looked down at the ill-fitting dress that hung off me. “I'm no fine lady, I assure you. Penelope will be more than proper.”
“Very well,” he relented, linking his arm with mine and guiding me out to the gardens. “Frederick said it would be all right if I accompanied you today. Are you in the mood to get a little dirty?”
“Always!”
“Perfect! I have so many things we can do!”
After our last conversation, Alex’s latest attempts to speak with the Sandman had increased. Roderick had come down on him hard for it, of course, paranoid as ever. A good whack with his cane and an impossible task to earn his favor. I’d been proud of Alex for trying to prove to the Sandman that he wasn’t like his father. Stupidly, I’d thought it was his turning point, that he’d be more willing to help me and maybe even the Sandman himself. I was wrong, of course. Every day since Alex was out roaming the grounds with that stupid rifle on the lookout for Jessamy.
“Kill the bird,” had been Roderick’s only instructions. None of that mattered, though. Jessamy was smarter than both of them, and she had me.
Paul and I spent hours in the gardens, repotting plants, picking weeds, everything that, as he'd promised, would get my hands dirty. Frederick sat beneath the pavilion and read his paper, not even bothering to glance up at me. After the first month - the first few attempts I’d made at escaping - it became pretty clear now that I had no interest in going anywhere, not without my Sandy.
It was still nice, the more comfortable trust that had blossomed between Frederick and me. The other guards were mostly subscribers of Roderick’s magic cult. They enjoyed the pain and the strict rules, and looked at me like I was a piece of meat being dangled in front of them. I’d no doubt that they’d pounce the moment Roderick gave the word. Frederick, however, was just an ordinary man who took the job because his family needed the money.
A shadow hovered above us, casting the soil Paul and I worked in darkness. Alex stood awkwardly, gun pulled over his shoulder and a book in his free hand. Paul immediately dusted off and smiled, a bright blush rising to his cheeks. “Good evening, Sir.”
“Good evening, Paul,” Alex answered just as timidly.
“I see you’ve started the book I recommended. How do you like it?”
“It’s good!” he answered just a bit too quickly. “It’s very good, thank you for suggesting it.”
“Always a pleasure to help, sir.”
God, this is painful, I thought, grinning down into the dirt. I hope this isn’t what I sound like when I talk to the Sandman.
Alex looked at me and nodded his head politely. “Penelope.”
“Alex.”
“You look…” he stopped for a moment. “You look well.”
You look less naked and bruised than last time we spoke. That’s what he really meant.
“As do you,” I said stiffly, resuming the weed pulling.
Paul stood awkwardly for a minute before excusing himself to get more plants. Alex knelt in front of me and sighed. “Listen… I know that I’ve been a terrible friend.”
“Terrible is putting it a bit mildly, but go on.”
“I’m sorry. For all of it, Pen. I should have never asked you to come to that party, and I should have tried to help you more every day that followed.”
I looked up at him, my eyes searching his face. He looked the same, that man desperate for his father’s approval, and yet there… hiding deep in his eyes, I could see the sparkle of the boy I’d known. The stress Roderick had placed on his shoulders was starting to take a toll on him; that much was obvious. Through the still bitter sting of the wounds Alex’s inaction had brought me, I admitted softly, “I miss my friend.”
“I miss mine too.”
“I’ve been here, Alex,” I reminded him. “You were the one who disappeared when I needed you.”
“I know… I know, and I’m sorry. I just want him to see me like he saw Randall… I want him to love me.”
“I know, but you can’t keep chasing his approval. You can’t keep trying to be Randall. He wouldn’t want that, and neither do I.”
“Can you forgive me?” Though he seemed sincere, I didn’t just write off all the pain he could have helped ease, nor did I ignore the efforts Alex had made. He’d brought me food, bribed the guards whenever possible, and he’d always made sure I was alive at the end of it all. “Can we at least… I don’t know, try to reconnect?”
“Maybe…” I wasn't certain whether the hesitation that filled my gut with tension was out of an old fear of disappointment or something more, but I still nodded. “Let’s just take it slow, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said with a smile. “Slow is better than nothing.”
“So… are you ever going to make a move on Paul?” I asked with a knowing smirk.
Alex turned into a stuttering mess, and for a moment, it felt like my childhood friend had returned. Even if it was just for that one moment, I was happier.
TSaTGWD Amended Edition chapter 3 is up! Sadly, this week was absolutely nuts and I realized a bit too late that I didn't actually finish writing Part 3 of Cursed sooo that's gonna be coming next week! 😅 Sorry again, hope you all enjoy TSaTGWD!
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TW: (as always the TS's will contain spoilers) alright y'all, here come the real tw's xD Obviously you guys are pretty familiar with this series and what to expect, but here we go nonetheless. In this chapter, you can expect lots of existential dread that comes with realizing you knew absolutely nothing, Roderick's beatings begin so obviously blood, abuse, and the like. Penelope's parents make an appearance, and you know that goes so well. More mentions of abuse, abandonment, mentions of selling a person and a little mix of fluff and angst to end our chapter with!
As always, enjoy!
The silence was maddening. Even the noises the guards made as they watched the Sandman and I from afar sounded as though they were miles away. It reminded me of my “dreams”, the far-off sounds of pages turning and hushed conversations I couldn’t understand. My eyes drifted to the glass ball, to the man still sitting within it like some statue. Can he even hear anything from in there?
Despite the lingering anger I felt towards the trapped god, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. I’d only been subjected to the basement for a few weeks, and I was already going insane. I couldn’t imagine spending years in a fishbowl on display for an old pervert and his cronies. It was obvious he didn’t need to worry about the mundane things, such as starvation or thirst. The Sandman never seemed to need anything… though that might’ve just been my human way of thinking. Just because he didn’t die from not eating or sleeping didn’t necessarily mean he didn’t require those things.
My list of questions had grown nearly endless the longer I sat among the strange runes and guards and the imprisoned god. How long has he been down here? Where did he come from? What strange powers does he have? How did Roderick manage to trap him? But, chief among them was one singular question: If he’s real, what else is?
I’d spent the majority of my life being told that magic was just another part of made-up children’s stories, and that had been somewhat of a relief. If magic were fake, then it only made sense, in my mind at least, that true love and happily ever afters were also fake - stories conjured up the same way magic had been. The bitterness I’d felt, the one that had pushed me to pack my things and run away from home, had been validated by the facts I had. Now, though… now everything felt different.
If magic is real, I thought to myself, watching this strange being as intently as he watched me, then what else do I have wrong?
No words had been exchanged between us, and from what little information I could gather, no words would be. The Sandman, it seemed, was playing the quiet game with Roderick Burgess, and - judging by the way the old man would saunter in with his inflated ego and list of demands, and leave with a slew of curses - he was winning. Though I hated to admit it - that small child within me, still clinging to her utter hatred of the dream god that had cursed her so - his willpower was impressive.
Roderick was at it again, stalking around the cage like a lion and reciting that damned list like a poet. I’d slumped against the pillar, watching with exhausted disinterest. I'd shifted this way and that, the sharp pain of the chain digging into my already raw skin drew a hiss from my lips.
The Sandman’s pools of darkness flashed to me, and a wave of something unfamiliar washed over me. Was he concerned? Or had my sudden noise startled him?
Roderick’s eyes moved too, flickering between the two of us as if there was anything to see. He hummed, “You will speak to me. Or I shall have no choice but to resort to more unsavory methods.”
The Sandman's eyes shifted again, meeting the old man’s gaze with a cold stare and his usual emotionless face. In the reflection in the glass, I could see the anger in Roderick's face grow as he stared down at the man. “I am not an evil man. But, I am not above hurting an innocent girl to force that stiff tongue of yours.”
Fear crushed the air from my lungs as quickly and painfully as a rock would have. I’d been beaten before. I knew what was coming, but it did little to alleviate that fear. I closed my eyes, repeating the words I would when my father would finally snap. I will not let him win.
I breathed. In and out. In and out. Forcing myself to keep breathing steadily, I vowed silently that nothing he said or did would break me. I didn't know what power my cellmate had, but I knew Roderick didn't deserve it. He'd use it to bolster his own power… to take over the world and have everyone bowing to his every whim. Powerless as I was, just a girl in a basement, I refused to let that happen.
When he finally turned and grabbed me, I could only hope that the Sandman would not relent.
*
Fear filled him, the girls, and his own. Morpheus watched helplessly from his prison as Roderick turned away from him with a sneer and took a handful of the girl’s hair. “Speak now, or she shall suffer for you!”
Even with her hair wrapped around the old man’s hand and her body twisted in an unnatural position, the girl did not cry. Above her fear, above the pinpricks of pain he could feel echoing through her, Morpheus felt the mortal steel herself. She breathed in and out, gritting her teeth and swallowing the cry of pain until all that remained within her lungs was the burning fire of her will.
If she did not intend to break, then neither would he.
He watched every second of the beating, memorizing the sound of Roderick’s fist striking her flesh. Every moment of cruelty, every mark inflicted by the Burgess’ hands, he would remember. If this girl, what she was, were indeed real, Dream would recount their crimes against her when he had his vengeance.
Roderick left angry, as he often did, spewing threats as he slammed the gate closed and stormed up the stairs. Dream couldn’t know how long had passed, and such seemed irrelevant as he watched the girl settle onto the floor. Every movement was followed by a wince and stifled cry. Though he wasn’t fond of her, though he still did not trust her, he knew she didn’t deserve this. He’d blame his worry on the fact that she would one day break and find a way to betray him to stop her own suffering.
“Don’t worry about me, Sandy, I… I’ve had worse.” Her eyes met his just as his face twisted at the name she’d called him. Sandy? Sandy? His lips parted, the words hanging on his tongue, but the sight of her wide smile stopped him.
Even after being beaten, even after years believing he’d stolen her dreams, she spared him a smile. This girl looked up at him like she actually cared about him, like she’d known him far longer than a mere handful of days. What surprised him more, however, was that he, Dream of the Endless, felt the same.
Morpheus could feel his anger, along with the fleeting sensations of pain and the hate that had kept him alive for so long, now fade away the longer he looked down at her. Her eyes sparkled, two stars that almost mirrored his own shining back at him in the dark. “This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you or anything. I still fully intend to throttle you whenever we get out of here.”
He practically rolled his eyes, his annoyance and tepid humor only making that smile of hers grow as she filled the silence with her voice. Though Morpheus didn’t really know what she was talking about, he found he didn’t care. So long as her voice kept the dark at bay, he’d listen.
Perhaps… If, of course, she was who - what - she appeared to be, she was not as bad as he’d thought.
*
The weeks quickly turned to a month, and though Roderick’s beatings became a new normal, it wasn’t anything new. My father had beaten me plenty of times before. My unhinged rantings to the ever-quiet Sandman were, however, new.
At first, I couldn’t really tell if he could even hear me, but the longer I talked, the more intense the sensations and feelings that were not mine grew. That and the Sandman’s eyes practically gave away everything he didn’t say, to me at least. Glances and phantom feelings. It was insane, but given all I’d seen so far, it wasn’t any more or less crazy. Whether he cared or not about the random topics I’d taken to rambling about remained a mystery.
“How would an old woman go about living in a shoe anyway?” I asked, that day’s ranting, having been on fairytale stories, I found odd. “Was it a regular-sized shoe and a tiny old woman? Or was the shoe a giant shoe, and the woman was regular-sized? And what kind of person looks at a shoe, giant or otherwise, and thinks, ‘Oh yes, this is an exquisite shoe! It would make a lovely house!’? And, do you think she invited people over for tea?”
There was the faintest ripple of amusement in his eyes.
“I wouldn’t say no to many invitations at present, but I think I’d seriously consider things before I had tea in a shoe. That is, if I could even fit inside.”
My mind wandered through stories, old women in shoes, tiny people flying around helping the seasons change. “Are fairies real?”
The Sandman said nothing, but there was a glimmer in his eyes that made my own sparkle.
Before I could ask more, the gate screeched open, and familiar footsteps echoed as they hesitantly walked across the basement floor. The Sandman’s eyes narrowed, and my head turned, meeting the gaze of my timid mother as she stared down at me. For a moment, I felt relieved, like breath could finally fill my lungs as I stood with a smile. “Mother!”
She smiled, tears in her eyes as she took a half step towards me. Then, in an instant, the relief was gone. My father practically shoved past her, belt already in hand and fire in his eyes. “You think you can just run off and leave me with nothin’?”
The belt struck me across the face, as it had so many times before, and my body reacted on instinct. I fell to the floor, curling into a ball with my hands shielding my head as my father began his relentless assault. The fine leather would leave welts on my skin, his fists would leave bruises, and his newly polished shoes would break a rib or two. I’d grit my teeth and hold back the tears until they were gone. I’d harden myself and then crumble to dust later, but I’d survive. Just as I always did.
It was my mother’s voice that finally broke through to him, shaking as she desperately called out his name, “Edward, please.”
My father’s ire switched in seconds, a slap echoing through the dark basement. “You want some too?”
“We’re guests,” my mother said. “I simply don’t wish to offend.”
“Offend?” Roderick asked. “Oh, you could never offend me, Mrs. Barlow. Your husband and I are close friends after all.”
And there it was. My father had gotten the one thing he really wanted. Status. Power. He has no use left for me, I thought. Once, it would have been a glad thing, but now… now I was trapped here, unable to run off and live the life I'd wanted so desperately. Now I knew nothing was standing between me and Roderick Burgess.
“No matter,” father said, eyes drifting towards the glass cage and the man glaring at him. “This is it, then? Your prize?”
Roderick laughed then. “Oh, yes.”
“Huh, I thought he’d be a bit… bigger.”
“He is quite the specimen, I assure you.”
“And you think he’s taken a liking to my girl?”
“I do,” Roderick said with a pointed look at the Sandman.
“Least someone can get some use from her.” Father grinned then, putting his hand in his pockets. “So, let’s talk price, Roderick, dear boy.”
The old man grinned back. “Shall we discuss it over drinks in the parlor?”
With a clap to his shoulder, my father strode past me as though I were nothing. I suppose to him I was nothing. “You old snake you, always saying just the right things!”
My mother stood in the corner of the basement, teary eyes fixed on me. With a soft, broken whisper, I called out to her like a child, “Mother… please.”
“Woman!” My father yelled from the stairs.
With a jump, my mother tore her eyes from me and followed after him like a dog.
My breath stuttered as I looked up at the closed gate, and when the sounds of voices finally faded, I let the burning tears free. I cried in the silence for what felt like hours, and perhaps it was. The Sandman watched from his cage, sorrow and guilt and anger humming in the air like lightning.
I didn’t need Roderick to return to know the truth. My parents had sold me. My father’s agreement didn't surprise me, especially not if Roderick had offered him a cut of whatever wealth he thought the Sandman would give him. But, even knowing that my mother was powerless to stop any of this, I still felt betrayed. How much had Roderick given them? I wondered. What price had my father deemed fair?
Eventually, the devil himself returned with a parchment in his hands and a victorious grin plastered onto his face. He leaned down, petting my hair like I was some prized show dog. “You belong to me now, just as much as he does.”
I grit my teeth and pulled my head away from his hand. “Go to hell.”
With a deep laugh, he glanced at the man in the glass and smiled widely. “If I'm right about you, hell won't be an issue. Now… I have what you want.” He held up the paper, the deed that marked my sale. “Speak to me. Give me what I ask, and I shall release you. You’ll hold the deed to her life in your hands, and you can do whatever you wish with her.”
Even without words, the disgust was evident on the Sandman’s face as he stared back at Roderick.
“No?” He asked, looking back at me with a wicked grin. “Perhaps I’ll find another use for her then.”
I spat at him.
“I’ll give you the night to think it over.” Roderick made his way out of the basement, leaving the Sandman and me in an uncomfortably tense silence.
After a long moment, I shook my head and forced the pain, sorrow, and fear from my mind. Wiping my eyes, I looked back at the Sandman and smiled again. “So… Fairies, that’s where we left off, right?”
He didn’t smile back, but the darkness in his eyes subsided, and that glow within them that I’d come to find most precious returned.
*
Roderick returned the next day, just as he promised, interrupting one of my many rants. “Having an interesting conversation?”
“Oh yeah, he's got some pretty wild stories,” I joked tensely, trying to at least seem like my parents’ selling me hadn’t affected me.
Roderick forced a smile. “I'm sure he does, and you, my dear, are going to get him to tell them to me.”
I looked over at the Sandman. “What do you think? Should we include big, bad Roderick in on storytime?” Silence, but not without a flash of amusement. I clicked my tongue and looked back up at Roderick's sneer. “Sorry, he thinks you're a bit of an ass.”
“I see why your father was so willing to pawn you off,” he retorted. “You are quite an unlawful little thing.”
Ignoring the sting of his words, I shrugged my shoulders. “It's one of my many gifts.”
He passed me, staring into the glass. “Have you considered my offer?”
The Sandman was silent still, but not without an offended look that made it apparent to me that Roderick’s so-called offer was little more than an insult to the god.
“Speak to me!” Roderick yelled, hitting the glass with his cane. “Speak, damn you!”
The Sandman didn't even flinch, just stared ahead.
Roderick growled and turned, unlocking the chain that bound me before grabbing me by the hair and pulling me with him. He pushed, pressing me right up against the glass, face to face with The Sandman. A knife, pulled from Roderick’s cane, dug into the side of my neck as the Sandman met Roderick's eyes, the stars within them fading in a sea of darkness.
“Speak. To. Me,” he said, voice ragged and desperate. “Or I'll carve her up till there's nothing left.”
Those black eyes shifted to mine. Don't, I thought, as if he'd hear me. Don't you dare. I hoped my eyes were enough to convey the message as the blade dug deeper. I clenched my jaw to hold in the pained scream, and Roderick dragged it down my neck, leaving a long cut oozing with crimson in its wake.
"SPEAK TO ME!!!" He roared, cutting another section of my flesh, followed by another and another until he finally threw me into the pillar and forced the chain back onto my wrist, letting me slump to the ground. He turned and stomped up the stairs, cursing and yelling.
I pressed a shaking hand to the cuts that now decorated my collarbone, eyes hazy with tears, staring down at the blood staining my skin. After a moment of silence, a moment filled with the burning gaze of the Sandman’s eyes on my back, I moved to sit with my head against the stone. I silently tore a piece of fabric from the bottom of my dress and pressed it into my bleeding shoulder. “Don't give him what he wants. Not ever. I don’t care what he does to me. I… I’ve got nothing left to lose.”
Looking up into his dark eyes, I felt that now-familiar tug of emotion and held back tears. “You don't give him an inch, you got that, Sandy? Not one inch.”
His eyes held resistance in them, and I could practically feel an argument on the tip of his tongue, but after a moment, the stars returned, carrying the silent agreement in them. Not an inch.
I smiled, tiredly looking at him with a sigh. “Guess I should get used to you, huh? It looks like we'll be here for a while.”
A feeling of contentment warmed my chest as I looked deep into his eyes. He was otherworldly, and I found it hard to look at him for too long without getting lost in his otherness. In the quiet moments like this, where it seemed like just me and him, I found my thoughts wandering to all those impossibilities he presented. That list of questions replayed in my mind until only one remained. Does he have a real name?
With that one question, a realization hit me that I’d never even told him who I was. A quiet laugh escaped me as I thought about what his internal monologue must’ve sounded like, calling me girl or maybe even it.
The Sandman’s head tilted, a silent question of his own.
“My name,” I said lamely, “I just realized I never gave it to you. I… I’m Penelope.”
*
Morpheus watched her eyes drift shut, lulled into another dreamless sleep either by the exhaustion or blood loss, he couldn’t tell. Usually, he would detest these moments of quiet, reminded by her lack of dreams just how trapped he was - how trapped they both were. And though he’d never admit it, in the silence that came with the loss of her ramblings, he found himself missing the sound of her voice. Tonight, however, after everything that had transpired, he was simply glad she found some peace.
Penelope.
Her name echoed in his mind, resonating somewhere deep within him - a place he’d thought had long withered away. With that single word, that sacred name, Morpheus felt… Different. It was as though he’d finally received the answer to a question his soul had been asking since the beginning of his very existence. It was as if knowing her name suddenly changed everything.
Penelope.
From within his prison, his thoughts raced for an explanation - an excuse - that would banish this mortal girl and all that came with her from his existence. His soul was a fickle beast, a complex knot woven into existence by his hand alone. There was no bond, ancient or otherwise, that could exist so deeply within him without his say or his knowledge.
Penelope.
The excuse came as a simple fact, a law as old and as harsh as he was. The lives of the Endless and the lives of mortals can never mix. Even if this was no ruse concocted by his captors - even if she was exactly who, what, she appeared to be… She was not his, and he could not be hers.
Hi! Love the Sandman stories but I miss seeing Nightshade too, will we see them again soon? Again, I love Morpheus tho ❤️
Hello! Im glad you're enjoying the Sandman content! 😁 Nightshade will absolutely be coming back into the rotation soon! I have the next twoish (I think I went all through August) months planned out as Sandman and The Batman content. After that I will be going back to posting Nightshade for a bit and just kind of alternating projects so everyone gets a bit of everything.
I will be posting a "schedule" of what to expect and when every few months so be on the lookout for those! 😊 Here's the link to this posting schedule if you want to check it out!
Chapter 2: The Sandman and the Girl Without Dreams
TW: (as always, TW's will contain spoilers!) We've got some kidnapping (kind of), being chained in a basement, lots of existential stuff, nothing too crazy/TW worthy this time.
This is a ruse, Morpheus thought. He’d spent the whole night and a large portion of the day, if his interpretation of the guards’ rotation was correct, staring down at the girl from his suspended prison. There was little else he could do.
Outwardly, he expressed no more than he usually did, but inside, he was a raging storm of questions without answers and feelings without a place to express them. His mind swam with her. Thoughts and sensations rippled beneath his skin like parasites, always just out of his reach.
No Endless had ever received a mark before. No Endless had ever been bound, least of all to a mortal. It was impossible and yet…
His eyes shifted to the slightly raised skin now branded upon his wrist - her mark upon him, mocking him. As the hours passed, the blotches of dark pigment had twisted and woven meticulously, until the desired shape had formed. Now, a butterfly stained his pale skin, its wings unfurled, filled with the vague shapes of stars and swirls encircled by a neatly woven ring of flowers and branches. Even in his bitter anger and confusion, he could not deny its beauty.
Once the first wave of disbelief faded, the strings Roderick Burgess had so finely woven together became all too clear to Morpheus, and anger had replaced all else once more. He must be growing desperate if he thinks I’ll fall for this lie of his.
Once the girl had fully lost consciousness, his body nearly trembled with anticipation. If she were sleeping, she’d be dreaming, and if she were dreaming, he believed he could muster up just enough power to free himself of this prison and finally have the revenge he’d spent the past eleven years curating. But, it all turned to bitter ash in his mouth when he’d discovered there was no pull of The Dreaming, nothing to tether himself to, within her. It was as though there was nothing at all swirling in her mind as she slept.
It was interesting, a puzzle that under any normal circumstance, Morpheus would have been thrilled to solve. Here, now, though it only angered him more. First, she thinks she can placate me with false sorrow, and now she’s just as useless as all the rest. Perhaps it was harsh of him, cruel even, to think such. Perhaps they had made him so.
A strangled cry erupted from the mortal’s dry lips, and his attention shifted to her instantly. She looked so frail, lying curled up on the floor of the Burgess’ dungeon. Her hair was soaked with sweat, her skin glistening with it too, as she trembled. Morpheus refused to acknowledge the worry that had begun to bloom within his breast as her heart beating alongside his never wavered.
This is a mere trick and nothing more, he told himself once again, trying to pull his eyes from her and failing. He told himself it was unwise to take his eyes off a potential ally of his captor. Roderick had looked far too smug when his little ruse succeeded in getting a rise from him, and Morpheus had vowed never to let it happen again.
So there the King of Dreams sat, watching, waiting. Hours had passed, and the girl remained asleep but not dreaming. Is this what it feels like for the Burgess? He'd wondered. So close to answers and yet nothing he did could reach them. No, he concluded. For this to be like the Burgess, he'd actually have to care about the girl, which he did not.
Dream did quite well ignoring the discomfort he felt at the forced thought, but then the door to the basement opened, footsteps echoing down the stairs, and all his focus poured into the pang of fear that settled in his stomach. Fear, now that was something the dream king found harder to ignore.
For the first time in years, he'd been afraid, and that in and of itself was startling. But for the first time in longer, the fear wasn't for himself or his realm, but for a mortal girl, and that sent him into a spiral trying to weave the perfect explanation. The simple fact, however, was that Roderick Burgess could do whatever he wanted to this girl. If the mark on his arm was real, his soul had been bound to her, and he was powerless to stop whatever horrors his captor could conjure. She was at the whim of a man who had no concept of kindness or mercy, a man who now held the one thing Dream couldn't resist, the pull of fate’s thread, both his and hers.
He, of course, ushered these thoughts away with a simple reminder, This is not real. It is but a lie, forged by my captors, made to force my hand. Morpheus pushed down the sting left by his thoughts, denying the way his whole being raged against him at the very thought of harm befalling this strange girl. I will not yield, he thought, forcing his spine to straighten and his eyes forward as the gate screeched open. He’d expected to see the old Burgess come once again to gloat and sow the seeds of his lie, but it was the boy, however, who slipped through the gate and bribed the guards with cigars before approaching.
The boy regarded him as he always did, a mixture of awe and fear making it difficult for him to meet Morpheus’ gaze for long. After a mere glance, Alex Burgess moved to the girls’ side, hands settling upon her skin as the boy shook her. A primal rage hummed through Dream of the Endless, an urge he had to curl his fingers deep into his palms to ignore. I will not yield.
*
“Can you hear me?” The gentle voice echoed in my ears as though it were miles away. Blistering hot hands shook my shoulders, the touches felt delayed… Warped… Wrong.
My head throbbed as I willed my eyes to open, though the too-bright light stung and burned them. The shooting pain that engulfed my arm in phantom flame never dwindled as I hazily gazed at the blurry mark of ink that stained the irritated skin.
“Hey,” Alex whispered, gently cradling my head as my eyes slowly began to adjust.
“Alex?” I breathed, a fog of confusion holding my mind for a moment as it struggled to recall the events before my eyes opened. “What… What happened?”
“I was going to ask you that,” he said. “One minute you're showing up at the party, waiting for me to come back, and the next thing I hear is you screaming in the basement of all places!”
He looked away from me, towards the bright light I'd been trying to avoid. I followed his gaze, blinking tears from my eyes and willing them to focus. When they finally did, two dark eyes glared down at me. The man in the glass. All at once, everything came rushing back to me, fleeting sensations that felt foreign, making my stomach churn. My heart hammered in my chest, panic, disbelief, and utter disgust making it difficult to breathe.
I tried to roll over, to get myself as far from the man, the cage, and the Burgess basement as I could, but the painful sting of my flesh giving way against the metal chain that now tethered me to one of the pillars stopped me. No. No. No. No. I was leaving, I thought, desperately as I thrashed, trying to pull my arm free.
Alex wrapped a hand around my wrist to stop me from moving. “It's alright, it's going to be alright.”
“Alright?” My voice cracked as I pulled myself into a sitting position and yanked my bound wrist from his grasp. “What about any of this do you think is alright?”
A look flashed on his face, one I could only describe as the kind of look one had right before they lied. Whether Alex was lying to me or himself, I couldn’t tell. “My father just needs to ask you some questions. Once he gets the answers, he’ll let you go.”
“Questions?” I laughed bitterly. “Questions like: why the hell am I chained to the wall? Or why the fuck does your family have a man locked in some glass cage in your fucking basement?”
“He isn’t a man,” Alex whispered, timidly looking back at the dark-haired “not man” sitting unmoving in his prison. “He’s something more than a man.”
“Oh my god.” I scoffed, hands running down my face as I shook my head. “You’re psychotic.”
With a wince, my old childhood friend looked at me with those wide, puppy eyes of his. “Please, you have to just try to understand -”
“Understand what, exactly?” I demanded. “The chain or the cage?”
“He's... A being of great power.” Alex's voice lowered, scared. “My father… They summoned him by accident.”
I couldn't help but laugh a little. "You're joking, right? This whole thing is a joke, yeah? My father found out about my plan to run off, and he’s fucking with me now?"
“Run off?” Alex questioned, quickly shaking his head and gesturing around us. “No, this isn’t a joke. My father’s been trying to speak with him for years.”
“Okay,” I stifled another laugh, mirroring his wild gesture. “Who is this, not a man man supposed to be then?”
“He’s… some kind of dream god.”
“Dream god?” I looked at the man in the glass cage and shook my head. I suppose he does look the part, I admitted before quickly correcting myself, No. Gods and demons and devils aren’t real! “Alex, are you seriously expecting me to believe your father has the Sandman locked up in his basement?”
“This isn't a joke. He's been obsessed with him, and now he’s obsessed with you.”
“Me?” I shook my head dismissively. “Your father hated me when we were children. Why would he suddenly be obsessed?”
Pointing to the mark on my wrist, the mark I'd somehow managed to forget about despite its painful burn. Now, with my vision clear, I studied it. Not a tattoo, not a burn, but something in between - a splotch of inky black that seemed to swirl and move the longer I looked at it. The shape it’d formed looked like a raven, pitch black save the middle, where a strange patch of blank space stood out against the rest. Alex squared his shoulders and stood up straighter, much like he had with the crowd last night. “What did he say to you?”
“Him?” I gestured to this “Sandman”. “Nothing.”
“Pen...”
“He didn’t say a word to me, Alex.”
“Then explain this!” He sounded raw, desperate.
I swallowed thickly, anger and disbelief smoldering as the fear in my gut grew harder and harder to ignore. “I... I just touched the glass and it... happened.”
Alex rose to his feet and pressed his hand against the glass, looking down at me with a furrowed expression. He doesn’t believe me. “He's been down here for years. People have touched the glass a dozen times or more, and nothing... Nothing has ever happened until you.”
“What do you want me to say?” I demanded. “I don't know what happened or why.”
“That, Ms. Barlow, is precisely what we’re going to figure out.” Roderick emerged from the darkness, shoving Alex out of his way to stand directly in front of the man. His smirking face reflected perfectly in the pristine glass, and the pit of fear in my stomach erupted. Alex’s father had always been cold, mean, even, but now, as I looked up at him from the floor, I could see the evil plain on his face - evil that I’d known my whole life.
“Father -” Alex began.
“Leave,” Roderick replied.
Our eyes locked, and I knew immediately what he would do. Ever since I could remember, Alex had been terrified of his father - or rather of disappointing him. After Randall died, his cowardice only grew despite my efforts to help him realize his value, and, it would seem, in the years I’d been gone, he’d truly turned into a sniveling excuse for a man. With nothing more than a sad smile, Alex left.
Roderick regarded the man in the glass, pride swimming in his eyes. “Quite the sight, isn't he?”
I tucked my knees into my chest and looked at the man in the glass, whose body had tensed as he met Roderick's gaze unflinchingly. A sudden and terrifying chill filled the room, and I knew then I’d have to be cautious. “Mr. Burgess… I'm afraid I don't quite understand what's going on.”
“Yes, the situation is a bit... Odd, I'm sure. To put it simply, this being holds a great deal of power. Power that I wish to harness, to use, so my family is kept safe.”
“Safe from what?”
“Him,” he answered simply, face contorting as he tried to appear distressed. His eyes showed the truth that lay beneath the surface. Some part of him, if not all, was enjoying this. “He seeks to take vengeance on my house for imprisoning him by mistake.”
The man in the cage's jaw thumped at the word mistake. “I'm afraid I don't understand how I fit into all this.”
“That mark on your arm, he gave it to you, did he not?”
“I don't… I don't know. I just touched the glass, sir.”
Deep in his eyes, I could see the doubt festering, turning into paranoia right before me. “What did he say to you?”
“Nothing.”
He sighed, a sound that reminded me of my father. “I do not appreciate being lied to, Ms. Barlow.
“I am not lying,” I said, carefully watching Roderick’s lips curl slightly as he turned back to the man in the glass. “I only wish to leave this place, Mr. Burgess. If you’d please just… release me, then I will leave and never return, you have my word.”
“I’m afraid that’s just not possible, dear,” he said in a voice devoid of any remorse. He turned to look at me once more. “Help me, and you shall live here in comfort. Anything you wish for shall be given to you. Oppose me…” He paused for a moment, trying and failing to hide the glee that flashed on his face at the thought of my opposition. “And I'm afraid I'll have to keep you locked away down here just like him.”
I shook my head, grinding my teeth together as I replied, “This isn’t legal. You can’t just keep me locked -”
The slap echoed in the silent room, heat and pinpricks of pain blossoming across my cheek as I stared down at the floor, willing the tears my body had produced to recede.
“I can do whatever I wish,” he spat down at me. “He is the devil, child. I only seek protection from his terrible plans.”
Once I was certain no tears would escape, I looked up at the trapped man now watching me. I never believed in gods or devils, but the longer I looked into his star-lit eyes, the harder it was to deny the truth. This was no mere man. I’d expected some sort of fear at the revelation that all I’d known my whole life was pittifully wrong, but as I looked at him, this Sandman, it wasn't fear that filled me.
The darkness in his eyes, though startling at first glance, held the stars within them... a whole night sky swirling and sparkling like gemstones. No, not fear… Hope. It would have been far simpler to just agree with the insanity that Roderick Burgess spewed. I’d had enough practice doing it with my father, but the longer I stared into those eyes, the more impossible I found it to keep my own mask in place. I’d played the part of dutiful daughter, of meek lady, for as long as I could remember. I’d taken beatings for the tiny slivers of my true self that I’d dared to show.
No, I thought, no more masks. If I couldn’t stand up to Roderick Burgess, a devil in his own right, then I didn’t deserve the life I’d hoped to find outside of my own cage. If I couldn’t do what was right, then I was no better than any of them.
I turned away from the caged man to meet Roderick's overconfident gaze. “I’d rather put my trust in the devil I don’t know, than the one I do.”
His lips curled in anger as he stood to his full height. “Chains and the wet floor, it is then.”
“My parents -”
“Your parents think you’ve run away,” Roderick said with a grin. “But, don’t fret, I intend to call upon your father shortly to tell him I’ve found his rebellious daughter. He and I will speak of what we’re to do with an unwed, unruly girl such as yourself, and I think he’ll welcome my suggestion.”
I ground my teeth together and turned my head away from him. Damn them. Damn them all.
As he moved to leave, a satisfied and smug chuckle echoing around me, he turned to the guards. “Keep her awake, by any means necessary, and watch both of them. I want to be informed of any movement, no matter how small.”
“He don’t seem to be able to escape when she sleeps, sir.” One of the guards said.
“Did I ask for your opinion?”
The gate slammed shut behind him, heavy steps echoing up the stairs until the door to the basement too clicked shut. I ground my teeth together and thrashed against the chain, pulling until my skin peeled and my wrist bled. I screamed for hours, shouting and cursing, anything in an attempt to get the guards to act. Nothing worked.
After a few hours, the exhaustion finally hit me. I collapsed onto my back, glaring up at the basement ceiling, fighting against the fears and the hopeless sorrow that steadily began sinking into my bones. Eventually, I lifted my hand and traced the stars painted on the ceiling with my finger. The so-called Sandman watched me intently with an air of mistrust, stuffing up the already dank room.
We sat in the stiff silence, staring at one another as if through our eyes alone we could somehow answer the questions that hung between us. The day passed, and I began to understand exactly the kind of torture Roderick was putting him through. The small glass cage gave him nothing, not one speck of privacy or room to breathe, and with each passing hour, the silence became almost painful. I felt sorry for him, and in a sense for myself, seeing as if Roderick Burgess had his way, this would be my new reality as well.
Hours quickly twisted into days. Time felt warped down in the darkness… like it passed far too slowly, or far too quickly for it to be real. I’d begun trying to use the guards’ rotations to try and deduce just how long it’d been since that damn party. The silence made it easy for me to curse myself, to curse my curiosity, my need to see Alex, and the posh crowds one last time, my need to be me. Life would have been so much easier if I’d just done what I was told, I thought bitterly, mentally beating myself up, not unlike my father would have done in person were he there. Eventually, I didn’t have it in me to be angry about it. That wouldn’t be a life. Not for me.
An uneasy routine soon fell into place. Alex bribed the guards to smuggle me food and water. The guards had finally grown tired of my fits of anger and screaming and allowed me short bathroom breaks, tiny glimpses of relief that I’d soon begun to cling to. At some point in the afternoon or evening, Roderick would stomp down the stairs, cocky and controlled at first, asking the same questions and getting the same answer. He always left angry and unhinged, which, small as it was, brightened my mood.
The Sandman, however, never faltered. His stoic, defiant silence was unnerving -frustrating - at first, as was whatever power that lay smothered behind the glass, but the longer I looked into his dark eyes, the more used to it I got. I was still full of doubts - still trying to conjure up a logical explanation for all the insanity that seemed to overtake my life. Magic marks, otherworldly beings, cages of glass… It was all just so insane. My doubts jumbled around in my head for days, but the longer I gazed at the nude man, a prisoner like me, the more certain I became.
This was the Sandman, and he was absolutely livid.
I had no idea what it was that finally broke the silence in me. I was lying down on the concrete, looking up at the cobwebs, when the thought struck me. The Sandman and the girl without dreams. Before I could rein it in, I'd started laughing, immediately drawing the man in the glass’s eyes away from the wall and to me.
Turning my head from its uncomfortable spot on the floor to meet his bitter, curious gaze, I shook my head and regained my composure. For the first time in too long, I spoke, “Sorry, I guess I just realized that this is all kind of ironic. You're the Sandman, like the literal god of dreams, and I… I haven't ever actually had a dream.”
This seemed to grab his attention, judging by the slight narrowing of his eyes and the faintest hints of disbelief. Still silent, still watching me, I continued talking as though he cared to listen. “The Sandman never forgets a dreamer. That's what my mother would always say, something to reassure me that everyone dreams… That if I'd tried hard enough, I would too. When I was a kid, I was convinced that I'd go to bed one night and finally just drift off into a beautiful dream like everyone else. I hated sleeping… I hated it so much I started staying up, constructing the perfect dreams.”
I closed my eyes and breathed in a deep breath, imagining the hints of sea salt and wet sand in the air of the dank, dark basement. “The beach. A vast ocean on the edge of a grand kingdom, beating down on black sand. You can feel the wind, no matter where you stand. It’s the perfect breeze, not too cold or too strong, just enough to give you goosebumps while you walk and listen to the song of the sea. Tall mountains span as far as your eyes can see in either direction, leaving you with only one path forward.”
An air of anticipation filled the silence, one I wasn’t entirely sure was real.
“The gate. It’s nearly as tall as the mountains, slabs of ivory carved with intricate shapes and figures - a history not for you to understand, but for you to feel with your whole being.”
A swell of hurt filled my chest, one I'd quickly written off as my own and shoved back down into the space I’d reserved for it. Silence.
I released a deep breath, the darkness in my mind twisting much like the ink branding my arm. The sounds changed to that of footsteps and passing conversations, to books with flipping pages, and the distant sounds of rushing water. “The palace. Winding spires of white and gold stand tall across a long bridge, illuminated in ever-burning flames. Two stone hands hold it up over the winding river that separates it from everything else. Three great creatures stand, guarding the gate and the endless rooms beyond it. A gryphon. A unicorn. A wyvern.” I laughed quietly, remembering the look on my mother’s face when I'd described such a place to her. “My mother always said I had quite the imagination.”
The hurt smoldered into a faint disbelief. Silence.
“The meadow. The one I always thought of when none of the others worked… the one I’d wanted more than anything to see. Perfectly green and full of life. Everything feels right in that way that makes you just feel at peace… Like everything will somehow be alright. Wildflowers bloom in every direction, trees climb as high as the sky can go, waterfalls and lakes so clear you can see every fish swimming and every stone shimmering at the bottom." I paused, clenching my eyes shut, tears finally spilling over the edges, as if that would magically take me there. “I wanted nothing more than to lie in those flowers, look up at the stars, and just exist.”
When I looked over at the Sandman, he still hadn't moved, but the usual coldness of his face had softened, and the darkness in his eyes seemed to clear, revealing the bright starry blue. “Why can I hear it all… feel it so vividly, but can't…” I cut myself off, clearing the lump from my throat and turning my head away from him in a poor attempt to hide the tears that now slid freely back into my hair. “Anyway... I just thought it was ironic that we're both stuck down here. The Sandman and the girl he forgot to give a dream.”
I didn’t speak again for the remainder of the day.
*
Morpheus had grown so used to the silence that he’d forgotten how utterly annoying so many sounds were. It had felt like another five years had passed as he listened to the constant noise of the mortal girl. She didn’t speak much, only curses and bouts of screams, but she moved constantly. The chain binding her to the basement alongside him scraped against the stone every time she moved, and that wasn’t mentioning the hours she’d spent thrashing and throwing herself around.
He was still wholly convinced that she was just another of Roderick Burgess’ schemes. She’s a fine actress, he’d think as she thrashed around enough to draw blood. He’d also still refused to acknowledge the way seeing her bleed made him feel, as well as the mark upon his arm. Morpheus hadn’t even looked at it in days, as though it would simply vanish should he not acknowledge it. The girl, however, did not vanish, no matter how much he ignored her - or tried to. He’d stare at the wall beyond for hours while she continued her recklessness.
It was all so infuriating. It made him wish he’d never touched the glass. Then at least he’d have quiet enough to hear his damn thoughts. As though she could hear his internal frustration, she harshly settled on the basement floor with one final cry of frustration before she finally fell silent. After a long stillness, she lifted her hand and pointed up at the ceiling. The movement was odd at first, until he realized she was tracing the patterns painted upon it. Hours turned into days, and the girl remained silent, staring up at the ceiling or watching him with a look of confusion that he supposed mirrored his own. He almost felt… bad for her.
She’d been dragged into his prison without warning or mercy - she’d been dragged here because of the brand on her arm, and, assuming it was real at all, that meant it was his fault. He never should have touched the glass that day, never should have even acknowledged her presence in his dark surroundings. It would have saved her from the idle torment and, in turn, saved him from acknowledging the truth of it all.
Her sudden laughter filled the room and brought a chill of delight over him, one he quickly smothered with a cruel reminder that she was a spy. He looked down at her, the same expression stuck on his face, but curiosity consumed every inch of him. What was she laughing about? She turned her head and gave him a sad, sheepish smile, something else that sent his heart into a frenzy. “Sorry, I guess I just realized that this is all kind of ironic.” She shook her head, giggling a little more. “You’re the Sandman, like the literal god of dreams, and I… I haven’t ever actually had a dream.”
He narrowed his eyes. Never dreamed? Impossible. Everything dreamed, everything had entered and known his realm. Morpheus thought back to the first night of her capture, the stillness that surrounded her mind when it should have been filled with The Dreaming, home. “The Sandman never forgets a dreamer.” Her words sent a pang of guilt through him. “That's what my mother would always say, something to reassure me that everyone dreams… That if I'd tried hard enough, I would too. When I was a kid, I was convinced that I'd go to bed one night and finally just drift off into a beautiful dream like everyone else. I hated sleeping… I hated it so much I started staying up, constructing the perfect dreams.”
Her eyes drifted shut as she breathed in deeply. “The beach. A vast ocean on the edge of a grand kingdom, beating down on black sand. You can feel the wind, no matter where you stand. It’s the perfect breeze, not too cold or too strong, just enough to give you goosebumps while you walk and listen to the song of the sea. Tall mountains span as far as your eyes can see in either direction, leaving you with only one path forward.”
From his cage, it was as if he could feel the wind she described so perfectly.
“The gate. It’s nearly as tall as the mountains, slabs of ivory carved with intricate shapes and figures - a history not for you to understand, but to feel with your whole being.”
He could see it, his realm… the Gates of Horn and Ivory. Home. His chest filled with the hurt of knowing he was not there, was not free to return to the place she described.
The sensations, soft and fleeting, of her sorrowful emotions mingled with his as she continued to speak. “The palace. Winding spires of white and gold stand tall across a long bridge, illuminated in ever-burning flames. Two stone hands hold it up over the winding river that separates it from everything else. Three great creatures stand, guarding the gate and the endless rooms beyond it. A gryphon. A unicorn. A wyvern.” She chuckled. “My mother always said I had quite the imagination.”
This wasn’t possible. She should not have been able to describe his palace, not in any sense. No dreamer was permitted to remember their visits to these sections of The Dreaming. “The meadow. The one I always thought of when none of the others worked… the one I’d wanted more than anything to see. Perfectly green and full of life. Everything feels right in that way that makes you just feel at peace… Like everything will somehow be alright. Wildflowers bloom in every direction, trees climb as high as the sky can go, waterfalls and lakes so clear you can see every fish swimming and every stone shimmering at the bottom.” Fiddler’s Green. She paused, her eyes shut and glistening with tears as a feeling of longing, not unlike his own, filled her.“I wanted nothing more than to lie in those flowers, look up at the stars, and just exist.”
Her wet eyes met his, shining like moonstones up at him. “Why can I hear it all… feel it so vividly, but can't…” She stopped herself and turned her head away from him. For a moment, he wanted her to look back at him, wanted to look into her eyes for just a second longer. “Anyway... I just thought it was ironic that we're both stuck down here. The Sandman and the girl he forgot to give a dream.”
Is that what she thinks? He asked himself with regret and shame. That I am some cruel god intent on torturing her with dreamlessness? The girl paid him no mind after that, staring up at the ceiling as though she couldn’t feel his eyes burning holes into the side of her head, willing her to look back at him. Why? He wondered. It isn’t like I have the means to answer her.
Morpheus bristled silently for the remainder of the day at the girl’s quiet. He appeared to have gotten his wish.
TW: (as always the TWs contain spoilers) not many tws for this part! We've got lots of pining (Dreams literally the king of this 😂), thoughts about near death experiences and thinking you're crazy, all in all just some good old fashioned Dream shenanigans! Enjoy! ❤
It had been a long time since the Dream Lord found himself so lost in thought. Even when faced with hunting down his tools, restoring his realm, dealing with his rogue nightmares, and confronting The Vortex, Morpheus hadn’t felt as powerless over his own mind as he did now. At least when dealing with all that, it had made sense. This, however, did not.
He was as old as the collective unconsciousness, a monarch of his own realm with power far beyond mortal comprehension, and yet there he was… Distracted. Distracted by a human. It was preposterous, absurd, and something he'd not at all expected.
Even after he'd saved the girl's life, he'd argued with himself - and his sister, of course - that he'd done it for the cat. That was not out of the realm of belief; his fondness for the feline creatures was well known among his siblings and the other host of immortal beings. The cat, he'd argued, deserved a life of dignity, and he'd simply wanted to ensure that the mortal was able to give the creature such.
That had been a month ago, and still his raven could be seen outside the mortal’s apartment… And her place of work across the street… And her favorite restaurants, coffee shops, at the homes of her other mortal acquaintances. Matthew had voiced his opinions at length each time he returned to his master's side to provide him with an update on the “cat”. The raven's gossip had spread until the whole of The Dreaming spoke of the mortal girl their creator was definitely not watching.
So, there he was, Dream of The Endless, sitting stiffly upon his throne, head tilted back, starlit eyes watching the cosmos of shifting color above him, yet unable to think of anything but her face. Through the raven's eyes, she looked so different than how he remembered her. When she'd stood tucked within his shielding embrace, she'd looked so small… So fragile. Perhaps that had simply been because of her close encounter with the front side of a car, he'd reasoned. Either way, she seemed so much more alive when he looked upon her through Matthew's eyes. It was… Frustrating and relieving, and all of it just confused the immortal being more.
*
You gently fluffed the soft petals of the flower in front of you, urging it open just a touch more before meticulously setting it into place within the arrangement in front of you. It was simple, a variety of purple and red flowers dappled with the calming white of baby’s breath. You’d made similar bouquets before for several occasions, but you still found yourself enjoying the mix of colors.
The life of a florist was hardly complicated, and you enjoyed it that way. You enjoyed the simplicity of your job and of your life in general. It was predictable and safe and yet… something in you ached for something more. What? You had no idea, or rather, you didn’t want to admit you knew exactly what that part of you longed for.
Somewhere deep in your mind, the part you’d been trying not to think about, the colors pulled your thoughts to that night a month ago. The cat - who had grown only slightly less afraid and prone to scratching you - had run into the road, and you, foolish, stupid, idiotic you, had run in after it.
A month ago, you'd almost died, and yet all you could seem to care about was that smell… That stranger.
Lavender and poppies.
It wasn’t a particularly rare pairing, though it was one you'd rarely encountered before, but somehow that only made you feel worse. It was a known pairing. So, one would assume it’d be easy to find that smell again… to find some tangible proof of your stranger. Over the weeks that followed, you'd searched stores and online shops trying to find the cologne or perfume that he’d certainly had to douse himself in for it to stick to you so primally. Nothing came of it, of course, only lending more power to the thought that had plagued you since.
You made it all up, you'd told yourself almost immediately after it happened. You did something moronic, and to cope with your own life-threatening stupidity, you conjured up some tall, handsome stranger to explain away how you didn't die. It was the only thing that made any sense at all.
No one could be that fast. No one could be that tall and handsome and… You set your palms flat against the counter and shook your head. Lavender and poppies… It simply wasn't real, and you simply had to accept that, no matter how difficult.
*
This is foolish, Dream thought to himself for the third time since his fine leather boots had touched the sidewalk of the mortal realm. Matthew had said very little on their walk through the streets, hovering close by with a glint in his eyes that made Dream feel even more foolish. “Stop that.”
“Flying?” Matthew replied. “That’d be a serious nosedive.”
“Staring,” he’d practically growled back.
“I’m not staring.”
“I can feel your attitude from here.” He shook his head and stood up just a hair straighter. “As I told you, we’re just here for a moment.”
The bird laughed. “Riiight. Just coming to stretch our legs as it were.”
“Yes,” Dream agreed, quickly offering up the excuse he’d practiced last night. “I find it helpful to walk among humans every so often, especially when crafting new nightmares proves difficult.”
“Has it?”
The offense he felt was instant, and Dream couldn’t help but glare up at the bird. “No.”
Mathew practically beamed back. “Then why do you need the walk?”
“I do not need anything. I simply…” Dream sighed. Of course, he’d make this insufferable. “I am your sovereign, I may walk if I wish to walk.”
The raven reveled in his victory with a loud caw. “As you say, Your Majesty.”
Why did I even let him come? Dream wondered, trying not to make it obvious that he’d purposefully changed course and began walking towards the coffee shop where he’d last seen the mortal sitting in through his raven’s eyes. It was a hopeless endeavor, he knew, but even that, it seemed, couldn’t deter him from continuing his foolish mission.
A sickly aroma wafted from the building that made him wince. Coffee beans, caffeine, and a mixture of the many bodies that stood within the small shop. It was horrible. Overwhelming and all for not.
She wasn’t there, in the spot she’d been sitting in that morning. Dream felt his face fall as he gazed through the window, eyes searching the crowd of people, hoping he’d simply missed her. Matthew hopped at his feet and cleared his throat. “She’s not here.”
“What?” Dream looked down at the bird. “I am not-”
“Cut the bullshit, boss,” he replied quickly. “It’s so beyond obvious it’s getting painful.”
Dream turned his head away, glaring back in at the window, at the shop full of people that weren’t the person he’d not been looking for. Through clenched teeth, he eventually asked, “Where is she?”
Matthew’s chest puffed up. “Who? I thought we weren’t looking for anyone.”
“Matthew.”
“Alright, fine.” The bird took to the sky once more. “She’ll already be at work by now. Follow me.”
For a moment, he considered not listening. He’d considered turning around and summoning his sand to whisk him away from the mortal realm and back home, where he felt safe, where everything was familiar and known. But, in the end, he could not ignore the pull within him - the longing.
And so, Dream followed his raven around the corner and down the busy sidewalks for another block or two before Matthew landed on a nearby lamppost. His small beak gestured to the familiar flower shop tucked away between a bakery and some sort of laundry mat. It was just as he’d seen it through Matthew’s eyes over the past month, small and simple, bursting with color and the floral scent that had clung to her that night.
There, standing at a counter with flowers scattered about in a methodical madness he understood all too well, she stood. Her head was down, hair hanging messily around her soft face as she diligently worked on cutting and placing the flowers properly. For a moment, foolish as it was, he felt as though his breath was stolen from him. She was just as he remembered. Simple and sweet, not unlike the flowers she arranged. Not asking for attention, not wishing to stand out, simply doing so because she was beautiful just as she was.
He remained across the street, looking breathlessly in through the front window. His whole body swayed, a desire to walk towards her nearly making his feet move on their own. Dream remained steadfast, forcing himself to be content with this.
Distance. Stolen glances. Never being known by her. That was all he could truly offer, and yet that knowledge did not stop him from wishing. Even for something as simple as a glance, Dream of the Endless would give practically anything.
Her head lifted, and her soft, human eyes met his. A sigh fell from his lips, one of a wish come true. Her eyes sparkled in the sunlight, the color quickly becoming his favorite.
Even from afar, he could see the awe that struck her as her hands fumbled the flower in front of her, sending it falling to the ground. She bent down to retrieve it just as his sand fell through his fingers.
*
You’d been so consumed by the intricate arrangement in front of you that’d you’d unknowingly skipped lunch. Instead, sustaining, or pretending to, yourself with every delicate petal molding beneath your fingers and every quick snip to trim too-long stems. You’d let the arrangement consume all else. It was really the only way to keep your mind from wandering to places that just made you feel crazier.
Admiring the arrangement of flowers, the balance of pinks and whites, and baby blues, you couldn’t help but smile. The wedding will be gorgeous, you thought, as you often did when working on wedding arrangements. This would usually be where you’d allow yourself to imagine what your floral choices would be at your own, very pretend, wedding. Today, however, it was the moment you’d once again let your thoughts slip back to the stranger.
Tall and handsome with eyes that sparkled like starlight. He would make a lovely groom, you thought. All it took was one picture of you standing beside him again, dressed in a pretty dress, for you to shake your head and scold yourself, “Stupid.”
You didn’t even know him. He could be married or gay or some horrible monster of a human being. Again, you shook your head and busied your hands. He isn’t even real.
A loud caw echoed through the window, and your head turned, eyes casting up to gaze lovingly at the raven you’d been seeing practically everywhere. You smiled and tried to think back to whether you’d packed his favorite treats in your bag that morning before leaving. Then your gaze fell to the sidewalk, to the figure clad in black standing there… to the eyes of shining starlight that had been haunting your every thought.
Your fingers twitched, sending the delicate peony falling to the floor. In a moment of confused disbelief, and perhaps panic, you quickly tore your gaze away and bent to retrieve it. When you stood again, placing the flower back on the work table, and turned your head back to the window, he was gone. You’d stumbled around the counter and out the front door, desperately glancing left and right in search of that midnight black.
Nothing. You almost laughed at yourself, at the way your eyes slightly burned and began filling with tears. Of course, it was nothing.
Nothing save the faintest hint of lavender and poppies.
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TW: (as always, TWs will contain spoilers!) not many TW's for this first chapter, just some language, mentions of drugs and alcohol, nudity, abuse (Dream locked in the cage and Pen getting chained in the basement). Pretty straightforward for this chapter, you guys know the gist of it, but please enjoy anyway!
I never dreamed, but I always wished I would. When I slept, it was like a dark shroud had been thrown over my mind. I could hear things, memories, voices, ocean waves, and the distant flipping of pages in books, but there were no shapes, no mystical places or beings dreamt into being by my mind. Just darkness. Always darkness.
“The Sandman never forgets a dreamer.” That’s what my mother would say each night she tucked me into bed, usually after one of my father’s beatings. She’d smile at me so brightly, even on the nights I could see the bruises on her skin. Her shaking hands would tuck my hair out of my eyes and do the same to the doll I’d adored so much, and she’d say those words.
I believed her for a time. Innocent and hopeful and lively as I was, I was determined to force my dreams into being. Yet, as the years dragged on, the darkness remained until it became another simple fact of my dull, meaningless existence.
“Dreams are for the lower class.” That was my father’s only contribution to my struggles and questions, well, that is, if you didn’t count the threats of a smack should I continue to pester him.
All I knew was that each night when I’d lie my head on my pillow and close my eyes, I’d desperately repeat the simple prayer to a god I didn’t even know I believed in. Please. Let the darkness fade. I’ll bring my own dreams, Sandman. I’ll not trouble you. Just please let me dream tonight.
The beach.
The gate.
The palace.
The meadow.
Nothing.
Always nothing.
Each year that passed, the darkness grew to feel more hollow. I could hear less and less until those sounds that had once brought me a sliver of hope were mere inaudible mumbles. Each night, I’d repeat that list of dreams I could picture so vividly, and each night, I’d be met with nothing.
Maybe it was simply something my mind was incapable of. Maybe it was a birth defect. Maybe it was a punishment carrying over from a past life in which I’d angered the Sandman, and thus he’d stolen my dreams away and thrown that damned shroud over my eyes himself. Whatever the reason, I’d vowed that if I ever did meet this so-called dream god, I’d scream and yell and throw things at him until he returned what he’d stolen from me.
I never dreamed, and after so long in the darkness, I eventually stopped wishing I would.
*
The Barlow estate sat in the center of a field of finely kept grass as green as emeralds and as soft as clouds, or that’s how my mother described it when their posh friends would compliment the house and the land it’d been built upon. In reality, that land had been stolen from multiple poor families, their simple houses knocked down and dug up until nothing remained of them. The grass that grew here was no softer than that of the unkept field just beyond the treeline.
A mighty oak stood solitary on the very edge of the property, an old and gnarled tree that my father hated. It was this lonely tree I’d taken to sitting beneath since before I could remember. As a child, I’d talk up into the twisting limbs and dancing leaves as though they could actually hear and understand me.
“You seem lonely,” I’d say, sitting down in the grass. “I’m lonely too.”
The river ran behind it, gentle noises of the rushing current filling the silence that was so prominent in my menial existence. Butterflies perched upon the edges of my bag, their wings seemingly sparkling in the silver rays of moonlight. If it were anywhere else, anyone else, the estate grounds would feel peaceful. Sadly, I knew the truth of it.
I’d heard my father’s yelling, and I’d taken the brunt of his fist, though not as much as my mother had. I knew what vile curses lingered in the very walls. The Barlow estate was little more than a cage, especially to me.
My family was one of class and sophistication. “Unlike some of these hawty families, we Barlows actually worked to be here!” My father would rant and rave in his frequent lectures meant to tame my lively attitude. He didn’t need to utter the name Burgess for me and anyone privy to the conversation to know who he spoke of.
It had been eleven years since the close-knit bonds between the Barlow and Burgess families had been severed. Though I hadn’t been in the room where it all happened, the son of the gardener who worked both family estates, a sweet boy named Paul, had heard the shouting from an open window. My father had thought it wise to mock the war in which Roderick Burgess had lost his eldest son, Randall. I’d been thirteen at the time and had wailed at the sudden loss of my friend, the young Alex Burgess. The chits fell where they wished after that.
My father’s business ventures had struggled in the years that followed, and so that closed fist of his grew ever hungrier for one to take his failings out on. My mother practically volunteered, something that had perhaps been meant to shield me from his ire, but I often found my own way to anger the man, especially when the prospects of marriage began pouring in. I truly knew I was some sort of beauty - or of tolerable enough looks - when my father began offering to take me into town for new gowns or books.
It had been my father’s wish to marry me off young. He’d campaigned for some of the richest families in Wych Cross to take an interest in me, often parading me around town in those hideous gowns he couldn’t afford in hopes of drawing in an acceptable suitor. That proved difficult, however, because as sweet as I appeared from afar, any young man who actually took the time to come to the estate and meet me quickly fled the premises.
Even from a young age, I had absolutely no interest in playing the quiet role others had assigned me simply because I’d been born a female. I wanted to see the world, meet people from far-off lands, and I wanted to experience all that life had to offer. Perhaps it was that far too ambitious nature that led me to sneak out the night of another Burgess party. Or, perhaps it was something more… Something far beyond my mortal understanding. Either way, I found myself stuffing that bag beneath the gnarled roots of the lonely oak tree and vanishing off into the night. I’d walked all the way from the Barlow house until I was there, standing in the crowded front lawn of Fawny Rig. I’d stared up at the large Burgess estate that I’d not seen since I was thirteen years old, a mixture of feelings only adding to the ball of uncertainty that had lodged itself in my gut.
From what I’d gathered in my father’s drunken rantings, the Burgess house had become quite the rage. Those seeking the unconventional joys of life found their way to the front steps of Roderick Burgess, who’d been rumored to have the devil locked away in his basement and at his mercy. I didn’t particularly believe in devils, but even now, after eleven years, I remembered the guards that prevented anyone but the head of the Burgess estate himself - and those he’d deemed worthy enough - from entering the basement.
I’d been a child then, though, now, at the ripe old age of twenty-four, I’d summed it up to another parlor trick of which Roderick Burgess had plenty.
Even in the dark of night, I could see the great willow tree Alex and I had loved to hide beneath when we were children. I’d missed him often in the years we spent apart, and we’d only recently enlisted Paul to carry letters between our estates. I hadn’t seen him since he was eleven; even so, Alex hadn’t changed.
He stood in front of the crowd, nervously trying to get them to disperse. From the back, I could just make out his face, gentle as ever, with hints of that innocent child still desperately clinging to the now young man. Though we'd spoken in letters, I couldn't shake the feeling that the sweet boy I'd known was practically gone, swallowed by the man desperately trying to win his father’s love.
“Excuse me,” Alex cleared his throat, anxiously picking at his fingers. “I’m afraid that there's no more room inside this evening. But, if you'll all come back tomorrow -”
The crowd grew restless, bitter, and angry in the blink of an eye as men shoved their way to the front. “Been out here for hours! We're not goin'.”
“But, I'm afraid the Magus insists.”
“Oh, the Magus insists, does he?” One man asked with a shove. My jaw clenched, and my feet began to move around the mass, making my way towards the front to Alex's defense. “And who are you to speak for the Magus? Who the fuck are you?”
“He's the Magus’ son,” a voice practically shouted from within the sea of people. A fair woman with golden hair and cold eyes stepped forward, the white feather strapped to her head, and those adorning her shoulders swayed in the slight chill of the wind. The fine string of jewels she wore swayed and sparkled with her every step as she confidently proclaimed, “And he can do magic too. Can't you?”
I almost laughed at the thought of Alex performing some magic ritual, or perhaps at the idea of magic itself. But the woman continued, unswayed by the simple appearance of the boy, weaving a story the crowd couldn't help but devour. “Do you want him to put a curse on you? Hex you and all your unborn children? No? Then you should leave right now.”
The man took several steps away from Alex, asking in a suddenly meek voice, “Can we still come back tomorrow?”
The woman in white grinned, looking at Alex with a tilt of her head. “Can they?”
I watched Alex straighten his back, the innocent boy erased from his face entirely. “Yeah. If they bring cash.”
“Well, you heard him. Cash only. Now piss off.” She smiled, a smug expression settling on her pretty face as the crowd dispersed with no fight.
Alex relaxed as he looked at her with a modest smile. “Thanks for that.”
Her flamboyant attitude, too, appeared to soften. “You didn't need my help. I'll bet you can do magic, can't you?”
“Can't do much of anything, really.”
“That's not true. You’re more powerful than you know,” she said, velvet voice making her true intent sound more like a favor than manipulation. “You can get me in to see the Magus.”
He only laughed, accepting her flattery with a grand sweep of his arm, gesturing her through the door. He looked back, eyes settling on me for a moment. “I’m sorry, you'll have to come back tomorrow night.”
“Oh, I, uh, I got your last letter,” I began, holding the parchment up with an uncertain, nervousness filling my stomach with butterflies. Would that be all I was now, after all these years? Another stranger? “It's been a long time, Alex.”
His eyes went wide, and a beaming smile spread across his face. “Penelope?”
“The one and only.” I made a mocking curtsy, willing that ball of tension lodged in my gut to cease.
Alex enveloped me in a hug, the childlike features plain on his bright face as he looked down at me. “It’s been so long. You… You’re gorgeous.”
I laughed, tugging on his ear. “Likewise, little Burgess.”
“Come in,” he finally said, leading me to the door. “It's about time you showed up! I thought you'd abandoned me to be eaten by these people!”
“Still such a dramatic,” I teased. “Glad to see you haven't changed too much.”
“Likewise, Barlow.”
“Though, how you ever thought I'd be cruel enough to leave you with this lot is a wonder! Do you think so lowly of me?”
“Of course not,” Alex replied, taking the modest fur coat from my shoulders. “I just knew it was a long shot, asking you to come here tonight.”
With a nod, I smiled up at him. “My father will be very cross if he learns I've come. So, best to keep it between us.”
Running his fingers over his lips, Alex swore, “My lips are sealed!”
The Burgess house was alight with music and candles, and drinking. Bodies congregated throughout the spacious living room. Women in every manner of dress and undress entertained their male companions in a horrendous display that only reminded me of my father’s promise before I'd left home in the dead of night.
“Come next week, you'll be accepting a proposal. Whether it’s from Lord Taylor's son or one of the William's boys, I don't care. But, you will accept or so help me, girl, you'll not live long enough to regret it.”
Marriage. Love. The whole concept felt more akin to ownership to me. And seeing the women in the Burgess estate throwing themselves at any man - and seeing the men grab and grope whomever they pleased - put an even more bitter taste in my mouth. Perhaps it was just the nature of the Burgess parties, but I doubted it.
No, love - true love - was only something of fairytales and children's stories.
Alex squeezed my hand. “Wait here. I've got to introduce someone to my father. When I get back, we'll catch up.”
“Look at you, all responsible now!” I teased, nudging him. “Don't be too long, responsible Alex, or I'll be the one who becomes the meal.”
The woman offered me a single glance before she followed Alex away into the crowd. I found the emptiest corner and quickly hid within it, watching the clouds of smoke gather around the crowd and listening as they giggled and made small talk with one another. From my corner, I watched the partygoers drink themselves into a stupor, each face that passed feigning happiness. It's all just one big act, I thought with a solemnity. Is this to be my fate as well?
A tall, burly man quietly made his way past me, where two equally large men stood in front of a closed door. The basement, if memory served me. They spoke for a moment before one of them opened the door and let him slip through. From the main living room, the people were buzzing with the rumors.
“I hear he's got the devil locked down there,” one woman whispered.
“Heard it was some demon that grants him immortality.”
I rolled my eyes and watched the door shut only partially. The latch caught the edge of the doorway and bounced back, leaving the thinnest sliver open. It was curious, but I'd quickly chalked it up to some well-rehearsed theatrics as the women cowered and the men puffed up their chests.
“The door didn't close all the way!” One of them breathed. “What if the Burgess beast gets loose?!”
“Don't you worry, my dear, I'd fight any manner of beast!”
With a sigh, I settled against the wall. “Idiots.”
Growing up among this crowd had been a struggle. The men were either incompetent fools or hot-headed manipulators. The women were expected to be meek and alluring, innocent beauties for some man to defile as he saw fit, but many were brilliant and strong, forced to adhere to their husbands’ expectations. It was sickening. All of it.
Goodness, brilliance, and honesty are all meant to die just so the lesser men of this world don't feel small.
Through the years, I'd grown accustomed to the lavish parties and the fake pleasantries. I'd gotten good at seeing through the masks people wore, learning early on that their eyes held all the words people wouldn't or couldn't say. When Alex and I were younger, we'd make a game of it, one I never lost.
“How are you so good at this?” He'd ask.
I'd shrug. “If I could teach you my ways, young Alex, I would, but alas, it appears only one of us can be destined for greatness!”
An hour soon passed, and Alex had yet to return. Maybe he'd forgotten I was here, or maybe he'd been given another ridiculous task by his father. Whichever it was hardly interested me. I took one last look around the room, watching the people and their masks. This would be the last time I saw them. Tonight, when I left this wretched party, I'd return to that tree and grab the things I left hidden there, and then I'd vanish.
It was a plan I'd come up with years ago, one I'd been saving every spare penny my parents would offer me for books or gowns. I’d planned on waiting longer, at least until I’d scrounged up enough to buy myself a ticket out of Wych Cross, but with my father’s recent demands for marriage, it had to be now. And tonight was as good a time as any.
From the corner of the room, an older man, donned in black, with streaks of silver in his well-kept hair, watched me. I took a step forward, one that felt heavier as I prepared myself to actually leave. I was finally going off to see the world, to live the life I wished, and unbeknownst to me, I was seconds away from possibly avoiding the fate that whatever powers that were in the world had waiting for me.
An older, prestigious man in the crowd suddenly fell to the ground. He began convulsing, drawing cries of horror from the guests and urging the guards away from the door. The shouting drew up the other man, who ran into action with all the others, leaving the door to the basement - and Roderick Burgess' devil - open and unguarded.
For a moment, time felt frozen. My eyes stayed fixed on the doorway, and then a small, black butterfly flitted across the room and flew into the dark. Maybe… I thought, my steps shifting towards the door, following a path similar to the butterfly. I'll give myself a glimpse of this so-called devil before I go.
I’d never believed the rumors, but the opportunity to look Roderick Burgess’ lie in the eyes was oddly appealing. I didn’t know exactly what I expected it to prove. That he was a liar? That they were all liars? That I was justified in leaving this cage of mine?
My foot hit the first step, and it was like I’d suddenly entered a trance. The darkness around me swirled and sparkled as a pale blue glow radiated from deep within the basement. The very air around me felt heavy, the steps seemingly distorting beneath my very feet as my body carried itself down. Is this what dreaming feels like? I wondered to myself for the first time in years.
It was dank and dark, smelling of mold and old cigars as I pushed the iron gate open, expecting to hear the crude scrape of it against the stone floor, but instead I heard nothing at all. Silence, complete and utter silence, consumed me as my head lifted and my eyes stared into the bright, glowing light. Hanging in the center of the Burgess basement was a large glass sphere, surrounded by strange marks and warped metal. A cage.
An ache settled deep in my chest as some strange force continued to pull me forward, closer to the cage until I could see the figure - the man - sitting within it. A head of midnight hair lifted, star-filled eyes meeting mine and watching me with raw, unbridled rage and hurt swirling within them like sand in a glass.
This is wrong, I thought to myself. It wasn’t supposed to be true. Horrified disgust unfurled within me as my breath caught in my throat and tears began to swell in my eyes. This was a fleeting feeling, though, one quickly consumed by the man himself. To say he was beautiful would have been a gross understatement. He was otherworldly, ethereal, nothing like I'd ever seen before, and certainly not what I’d expect of a demon or devil.
His dark, wild hair contrasted against the paleness of his lithe figure as he sat rigidly within the center of the cage. There wasn’t a shred of clothing on him or anywhere in sight, exposing him to me in a way that felt cruel. He watched me with a stoic expression on his angular face, but deep in his eyes of stars, I could see a confusion that matched my own.
“I…” My voice was little more than a hoarse whisper as I inched closer and closer to the glass.
He said nothing, watching me warily as I stood right in front of him, sorrow, longing, rage, and hurt all unfurling inside me at once. “I’m sorry.”
Those impossible eyes softened ever so slightly as the pull became unbearable. I lifted my hand toward the glass, and the man within it seemed to mirror me. A shock met the tips of my fingers as I flattened my hand against the cage, his own sliding into place beneath it. The pull ceased, and air filled my lungs once again as my heart raced within my chest, almost as if a second one had begun beating beside my own. Relief, like an answer to a question I’d not even asked, filled me.
That relief didn’t last long.
Pain erupted from where my hand met the glass, a burning cold, colder than anything I'd ever felt, pulsing from the palm of my hand to my shoulder. My head swam with images and voices I didn't recognize, as a scream was pulled from my lungs.
*
Dream of the Endless had grown used to the silence in the eleven years he’d spent held captive by the lowly magician called Roderick Burgess. From his cage of glass and magic, he could see the guard return from the home just beyond the gated doors of his prison. Above the noises of a party echoed, distorted as though he were a thousand leagues beneath the sea. He’d much prefer that to the dark basement still filled with the old trinkets and furniture that his mortal captor had no use for.
No, the only thing of any worth in the basement was him.
He lowered his head, staring at his reflection with a mournful gaze. King of Dreams, he was… a Monarch of his own realm… he looked so different, so weak. His power had too long been smothered and buried behind tempered glass and runes that clouded the air with the vile tang of dark magic. He was weak, and he hated the mortals that had made him so.
A shadow moved in the dark, quick and quiet. An insect, he mused as it landed on the glass. The butterfly was entirely black with sleek wings that seemingly held rainbows within them. Its long spindled legs tread the glass carefully, hovering over his face for a moment before the chaos from above startled it back into the dark.
The gate scraped against the stone floor, pulling his eyes up to the new figure now sweeping through his dark prison. A girl, he mused, looking at her long, dark hair and simple gown. Another mortal come to gawk.
Below the hum of binding magics, a tug consumed him. It felt as though his soul, his very being, was being pulled upright towards the girl beyond the glass. Her eyes were glossy with tears, her face a confounding mixture of awe and rage and sorrow. Her voice was soft, full of remorse for a thing she hadn’t done. “I…”
Once she stood directly in front of him, Morpheus felt the crushing weight of feelings both his and not. He said nothing, as he had from the start of his torment, as the girl watched him. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry? He thought in a haze of bewilderment as she lifted her hand toward the glass, and his own lifted to meet her. A shock pulsed through his veins, lightning scattering beneath his skin, as their hands touched through the glass, and that tug was pulled taut. Images flashed within his mind, each wrapped in haze that almost felt like home.
A smile. A laugh. The warmth of a soft touch. Eyes shining up at him, looking at him in a way no one else ever had. He could see the blurred shape of The Dreaming stretching out before him, a figure happily skipping forward in the distance, turning to give him that smile, that laugh, and an extended hand. “Come on, Sandman. Dream with me.”
The rapid hammering of a second, hummingbird heart joined his, and a burn pulsed up his arm, consuming his cold, exposed flesh in heat. The haze of images faded so quickly he scarcely had any time to commit them to memory. Morpheus watched as something akin to black ink festered beneath his skin as if suddenly pulled to the surface by the girl’s warm palm still pressed against his through the glass. It writhed for a moment, rippling like water, moving, branding him with the mark. Her mark.
Impossible. He thought over and over and over again that he'd all but forgotten about the girl screaming beyond the glass. Even the clamor of guards trying to force her hand from his did little to pull him from his raging thoughts.
It was the sound of her body crumpling to the ground - the momentary stillness of the heart beating against his own that made Morpheus' thoughts quiet. A moment passed, silence amidst the chaos of outsiders tending to the girl. Another followed, and still no heartbeat, no breath.
Wake up, he thought against his better, more logical judgment. Wake up.
A beat, slow, weak, but there filled his chest, echoing once more within him. The young Burgess boy crouched beside the girl, shaking her, holding her, uttering worried words that he himself could not, and then he turned - he dared demand, “What did you do to her?”
The girl’s eyes fluttered open, weakly staring up at him. The light from his cage shone just right, capturing the sparkling color of them. She lifted her arm, every inch of her shaking as she beheld the mark - his mark - upon her flesh with a shuddering cry that made his heart wrench and jaw tighten.
“What is the meaning of this?” Roderick Burgess demanded, cold and bitter as ever. The old man’s hand wound around the girl’s arm, roughly pulling to see the brand for himself. She screamed, a sound that made his body react, standing as if he held any power to defend her. Dark eyes bore into the Burgess’s head, and if looks could kill, he would have been struck dead in an instant. Roderick Burgess, however, only smiled.
He practically threw the girl back to the ground, moving to stand in front of him. “Send everyone home.”
“She needs medical attention,” the boy said.
“She'll live. Now do as I say.” The boy made a move to gather her up in his arms, earning the swift rap of the old Burgess’s cane. “Leave her!”
“But father..."
“I said, leave her!”
The boy spared one final glance at the girl barely clinging to consciousness before withdrawing to follow his father's command. She whimpered, uttering a quiet plea of his name, “Alex…”
This time her voice rattled through him, pulling an echo of longing from the depths of his soul he’d thought long buried. Roderick glanced at her with a horrid, leering gaze that lingered far too long for Morpheus’ liking. “If I’d known it was a young woman you desired, I'd have offered years ago.”
Morpheus' jaw clenched, teeth grinding together as he stared at the amateur spellcaster.
“Still no reply?” He hummed. “No matter, I'll loose that tongue of yours one day, Dream of The Endless. For now, it seems, I've something you want.”
His glare never faltered, nor did his silence.
Roderick turned, snapping at the guards. “Chain the girl and see to it she survives the night.”
From his prison, he could feel the cold bite of the shackle entrapping the girl’s wrist as though they'd bound it to his own. As the bodies faded from his view, lurking in the dark corners of the room once more, Morpheus let his eyes drift back to the shivering form of the girl. He did not know how long he watched her, watched the shaky rise and fall of her chest as she drew in each breath; all he knew was he couldn't bring himself to look away.
TW: As always: the tw does contain spoilers! This fic has language, mentions of drugs and alcohol, sex, nudity, general mentions of violence, past abuse, and soooo on. This week on Nightshade (said in Lena's voice) 🧐 (yeah, that's right im keeping this in from now on cause I think its funny sue me! 😂) It's Christmas bitches! And with Christmas comes a whole lot of trauma for one of our idiots! 😅 But, this time I'll keep it light, I swear! We've got lots of grumpy Jake, more Harrow Christmas traditions, Santa movies, decorations, and so much fluff it'll probably cure something inside you.
This chapter was a little rushed, so I apologize if it's not my best! I hope you all enjoy the fluff and sweetness anyway, though!
Jake hated Christmas. He'd decided for sure that he hated it when he was thirteen years old, listening to Simone argue with her parents while he tried not to listen in. It never helped. Even as the years passed and he'd grown to tune out most things, those yearly holiday fights were never something he could ignore.
He hated how angry Simone sounded, how hurt he knew she was. Moreso, he hated how cold she'd get after it all was said and done. Even if she climbed into his bed afterward, it felt different… angry and harsh, nothing like how he actually liked spending time with her. He might've been able to enjoy it a little if her eyes didn't look at him the same way they looked at her father… like he was nothing - less than nothing.
And so, each and every year, the annual trip to Cape Cod loomed over his head and made every single second of that week before Christmas a frozen hell.
Lena had been staying with him for almost a full week, and Jake had enjoyed every moment of it. True to her word, she walked around naked for the vast majority of her stay. The sex was amazing, so were the hot showers with her curled into him, and the not-so-shitty breakfasts they'd make together each morning. It was remarkable, to him at least, just how enjoyable the most mundane of things were when she was around. Folding laundry, feeding the cat, even just the morning usual of standing in front of the mirror and sluggishly brushing his teeth, turned into something he looked forward to just to see her standing in front of him, making the weirdest faces at herself as she brushed her teeth or did her makeup.
As Christmas got closer and closer, however, Jake could feel himself and all the joy he'd accumulated over the week shriveling up. He'd get snippy at random bullshit, or quiet in the midst of a conversation when something she'd said hit just a little too close to those old memories he didn't like to dig up. And, worst of all, Lena noticed.
She didn't draw any attention to it, and she certainly didn't let it ruin their time together. No matter how snippy Jake got with her, Lena let it roll right off her shoulder. She dished it back too, not letting whatever it was eating away at him change how she interacted in the slightest. It was what he'd done for her, and so, he rationalized that it made sense that she'd reciprocate. Still, it felt… weird. Not good or bad, just… different in a way he didn't quite understand.
And that was what had made him snippy on that particular morning. He'd said something half-rude, and she'd laughed and replied with her own half-rude remark. That feeling festered in his chest, twisting and turning in him like a snake trying to wrap around his ribcage and measure just how much effort it'd take to swallow him whole.
She sat on the edge of the couch while he lay on the bed, blowing bubbles she'd pulled from somewhere in her purse in his direction. It was like she didn't have a care in the world and, worse, he could feel himself drawn to join her. In every childish moment she created, every second of weird, impulsive fun that she summoned into his apartment, Jake wanted more than anything to stop being so mad and so bitter and just do it with her.
What is this? He questioned, squinting at her as if she'd suddenly grown two heads. What are you doing to me?
*
Jake had been in a mood since Monday. Not always, but often enough that it'd become obvious the coming holiday held some kind of stress he didn't want to think about. So, I'd done the only thing I could think to do to offset him. Emulate Dad.
My dad had a knack for making even the shrewdest of holiday bitches find some Christmas cheer, his evil ex-wife notwithstanding. Dad would pull out all the stops just to get one good laugh or smile. Hot cocoa, breakfast for every meal, ice cream for dinner, sugar cookies, anything and everything he could think of.
So, I'd started slowly introducing some things of my own. Random dance parties in Jake's tiny apartment. Hemingway in my arms, I'd twist and shout and try to get him to dance with us. Nothing. Movies. Christmas, not Christmas, anything I could think Jake would find funny, I popped into his VCR. Not a single grin. Finger painting was a long shot. And after I'd spilled glitter all over his couch, I kind of understood why he didn't wanna hop in and join Hem and me in our activity. My final resort had been the bubbles buried in my bag, an inside joke between Quinn and me, and a drag queen in Queens.
Stream after stream of shimmering rainbow bubbles flew into his face as he moped in bed. And stream after stream, his expression never changes. Well, I wouldn't say never. His brows drew tighter together after the fourth blow. I blew another stream of bubbles his way. "Come on, jerk, be thirteen with me for like five minutes?"
“You’re awfully chipper,” he groaned instead. “Thought you hated December.”
“I never said I hated December. The beginning of it’s just always a bit of a shit show. Buuuutt…” I blew another bubble, longer this time. “After that, it’s not so bad.”
Jake scoffed. “Agree to disagree.”
“Not a Christmas guy?”
“No.”
I turned my head and looked over at him, still in bed, staring up at the ceiling with that blank expression I recognized in an instant. The far-off look, the way his brows knitted together ever so slightly… Christmas must be Jake’s shit show. After a moment of quiet, where I’d quickly put the cap on my bubbles to keep Hemingway from spilling it, I flopped down onto his chest and curled up on top of him.
Jake’s arms eventually wrapped around me. “So, you’re like the Grinch?”
“What?”
“You know, you hate the Whos and Christmas, and your hearts three sizes too small?”
He finally chuckled. “Yeah, I’m notorious for my chronically small heart.”
Pushing myself up to stare down at him, I smiled. “Well, how’s about we fix it then?”
Jake’s hands squeezed my hips as his eyes shamelessly drifted down my chest. “You wanna play Operation?”
I rolled my eyes. “I wanna help you not have such a sucky attitude.”
“Oh, I can think of a few ways you can help me with that.”
“No,” I teased, slapping his hands away as they began drifting up. “Not like that.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“‘Cause I said so.” I stood up and began pulling on my clothes, much to Jake’s dismay. “Get dressed, eat, do whatever shit you gotta now.”
With a sigh, Jake glared at me from the bed. “What are we doing?”
“We are going to make your heart grow three sizes!” I replied, pressing a kiss to his pouty lips. “Now, hurry up.”
*
It was cold and snowing as they stepped out of his apartment and into the insanity that was the week before Christmas in New York. Even though he thought it was stupid, Jake took one look at Lena as she lifted her head to the sky and stuck her tongue out to try to catch a snowflake, at her blinding smile and infectious laugh, and instantly thought it was all worth it.
I would have liked being thirteen a lot more if I'd have known you then, he thought, but didn't dare utter aloud. Lena glanced back at him, and in that way of hers, he could tell she just knew. Her smile softened, and her hand reached out and took hold of his, an answer of her own shining in those green eyes he loved so much.
Me too.
She pulled him off into the crowd, and even though Jake hated this stupid holiday, he felt excited all the same. How could he not? It was her, leading him off on some adventure, holding his hand in hers and talking to him like he deserved to know all the little details about her life - about what this holiday meant to her. And Jake listened to every single word, absorbing it and filing it away with the rest of his "important Lena information".
They were in the first hideous store, and he pushed the cart all the while she piled thing after thing inside it. After the tenth Christmas decoration, he sighed. "Is this really necessary?"
Lena glanced over her shoulder at him, placing two more things in the cart. "Duh."
"You know, if Simone were here, she'd insist that all this is way too gaudy."
"Do you think it's too gaudy?" She asked, turning to look at him.
It wasn't a judgmental look, more a curious one. Jake shrugged. "I dunno. I'm not exactly the expert on all this Christmas finery."
She shook her head and laughed at him, picking up a snowglobe of the city to admire it. "My dad was. Every year, he'd outdo himself like it was a god damn competition. Lights, trees, reindeer, he'd even dress up like Santa and walk around the bar taking everyone's Christmas orders."
For the first time all day, Jake felt like she'd actually surprised him. "You really do love this shit, don't you?"
Lena smiled, trying to shrug off his honest observation. "I dunno. Christmas… It has its own foul memories, but my dad always found a way to make it… better."
"You like Christmas," he mumbled. "I never woulda guessed that."
"Oh, shut it." She put another three boxes in the cart. "Like you're so mysterious with your bad boy hates Christmas bullshit."
"Hey," he pretended to take offense. "I am mysterious."
"Like a cheap magician at a children's party."
He made a face and pointed at something ahead of them, shifting her focus just enough for him to quietly add the snowglobe to the cart. He'd pretend to know nothing if she asked in the checkout line. Maybe he'd even claim a magician did it, just to see her laugh some more.
Seven stores and five hundred bags later, Jake followed Lena back to the apartment and dropped everything the second the door opened. "Careful!" She hissed, pinching his arm. "You'll break Santa's workshop!"
"How will he extort the elves without his sweatshop!" He deadpanned.
"You're hilarious, grumpy grinch." Lena dug through the pet store bag and held the Christmas sweaters up to Hemingway. "Ready to try again, little guy?"
He hissed and glared at Jake
"Sorry, Hem, I shoulda left the door open for you to escape through."
Lena rolled her eyes and dug out the catnip. "I'll make it worth your while."
Jake chuckled and watched her slowly approach the tiny cat as if it were a mountain lion. "Wasn't last time enough of a lesson?"
"Shh," she whispered. "I'm cat whispering."
Five scratches and one shredded cat sweater later, Jake sat down on the couch with Hemingway hiding between his feet. "Maybe you should leave the cat whispering to Peter."
"Funny," she replied, emptying out the first bag of little Christmas decorations. "Now, help me make your apartment more festive."
"Why did I agree to this?" He groaned.
She snuggled into his chest, practically shoving the little house into his hands. "Because I'm adorable and super convincing."
With a bat of her lashes, Jake couldn't even bring himself to pretend to be mad. "Maybe."
Lena lifted herself up and kissed him softly. "Lose the attitude, and I might be adorable and super convincing naked."
"Where do you want this?" He asked, holding up the house.
She smiled. "You're a photographer, use your special eyes to find a good spot."
*
I stared at the apartment. It looked good, or more festive at least. The little snowflakes hung from the ceiling, sparkling in the light. The wreath was hung on the door, and the small Christmas knick-knacks were scattered perfectly throughout the apartment. I hummed. “It’s missing something.”
Jake rolled his eyes and flopped down on the couch. “We bought half the department store? What more do you need?”
“A tree!” I proclaimed, already grabbing my coat and scarf.
“No.”
“Yeah,” I turned and pulled on his arm. “Come on, Grinch! Your heart can’t grow that last size without a Christmas tree!”
He shook his head, stubbornly staring at me. “What if I don’t want a tree?”
“Who doesn’t want a Christmas tree?”
“Me.”
“Why not?” I asked, settling on top of his lap. “Why agree to all this other stuff but get stingy about the tree?”
Jake’s face fell slightly, and I could tell it was taking everything he had not to break apart at whatever truth now hid behind his sass. “Maybe I just think they’re ugly.”
“Maybe,” I replied. “Or maybe there’s something else about them that bugs you?”
He rolled his eyes again, but didn’t look back at me. His head turned, and he stared out at the window. After a minute, maybe longer, Jake finally sighed and said, “My mom and I used to decorate our tree together.”
There it is. I set my head against his shoulder and held him as tightly as I could. “So it’s a bad memory?”
“No,” he answered. “Those ones are good… some of the only good ones I can actually remember. And that’s why…”
“That’s why it hurts.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered into his skin.
He took a deep breath. “Me too.”
“What was she like?” I asked softly. “Your mom.”
Even with my head against his shoulder, I could feel Jake’s face contort slightly. His jaw clenched, and his head shifted, eyes staring up at the ceiling. For a minute, all he seemed able to do was sit and swallow whatever words almost took form. His fingers traced shapes into my skin, something simple to keep himself grounded in this moment and not whatever memories came to mind with my question.
After a long silence, he finally spoke, “Simone always said she was like water. Always moving, never settling… restless. But sometimes… I remember things from before. Like how we’d eat waffles every Saturday morning and how she could only eat hers if they were drenched in syrup.” He swallowed. “I remember decorating our tree every single year with the ugliest Christmas ornaments. I remember taking long walks on the beach with her, collecting shells and talking her ear off about the ocean and the animals I was obsessed with.” His lips quirked for a second, chin dipping to his chest as he glanced down at me. “I used to wanna be a marine biologist.” He scoffed at the admission, blinking tears away before finally continuing, “In what little memories I have of her, she isn’t water. She was bright and fun and loud… Like… fire or… I dunno.”
“Maybe she was a star,” I offered up, shifting until I was able to actually look at his face. “Bright and burning and fleeting.”
“Fleeting?” He asked with a tearful gaze.
“Well, yeah. The stars that burn the brightest live shorter lives.” With a tiny smile, I leaned in closer and admitted, “I used to wanna be an astronaut.”
With a choked chuckle, Jake blinked away the tears in his eyes. “Why does that not surprise me?”
I gently wiped the stray tears from his cheeks and shrugged. “‘Cause I’m so outta this world.”
“God,” he groaned, covering up the way he cleared his throat. “That was the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”
"No, it wasn't," I insisted.
He stood quickly, plopping my feet down on the floor before he began grabbing his coat and wrapping that hideous scarf around his neck. Jake stood in front of the door for a second before he glanced back at me and asked, "You coming?"
I smiled, trying to hide how desperately excited I was at the prospect of going and picking out some stupid tiny tree with him. "We really don't have to."
Reaching out, he grabbed my hand and rolled his eyes. "Come on, Princess. Let's go get you that dumb tree."
"Jake-"
"Lena," he cut off. "Come on, don't they sell out or something?"
"We don't have to." I squeezed his hand. "Tree or no tree, this has already been a great day of mostly de-grinchifying you."
He squeezed my hand back. "I know, but… I want to."
"Good!" I finally breathed, letting my body practically vibrate out the door. "'Cause I was having a really hard time holding that in!"
"I can see that." He laughed and followed me back into the cold.
For a moment, we stood outside, admiring the setting sun, when all of a sudden, Jake opened his mouth and tried to catch one of the many snowflakes on his tongue. I grinned ear to ear and lifted my head to do the same. Hand in hand, like total idiots, Jake and I stood on the sidewalk and caught snowflakes on our tongues for far longer than normal people would have. But I didn't care about the sideways glances and the eye rolls that we got from the people passing us by. Today, it was just Jake and me. Today, we would pretend to be thirteen again.
*
The smell of fresh pine and sap overwhelmed his senses. Green trees filled his vision, some towering over him while others were no bigger than his leg. It was crowded and loud as people filtered in and out of the small tree market they'd stumbled upon. Salesmen were shouting above the rest, talking in that tone that made him feel like he was at work again, but Lena was still smiling ear to ear.
It was almost annoying just how happy she was, looking up at the tall trees with wide eyes full of that magic and wonder that his were long void of. He nudged her away from the largest of them. "There's no way in hell we're gonna get that in my apartment."
She rolled her eyes. "I know. I was just admiring it."
"You're admiring a dying plant."
"Dying in the name of Christmas," she reminded, as though that meant anything to him. "It's their destiny."
He chuckled, looking up at the trees. "What a sucky destiny."
"It's fun," Lena insisted with a bump to his shoulder. "Try to enjoy it just a little bit, yeah?"
"No promises."
After almost an hour of walking around, Jake was surprised when he stopped in front of one of the smaller trees, filled with a sudden and entirely bizarre feeling. It wasn't the prettiest tree of its size. In fact, it was ugly as all hell, but something about it made sense to him.
"What about this one?" Jake asked, pointing at the smallest tree, the one with large chunks of pine needles missing.
His mom stopped and glanced back at him. She bent down and looked at the tree, fingers gently lifting its floppy branches, and a smile, wide and bright, making her red cheeks puff out. "It's absolutely perfect."
He felt so happy, giddy with joy and excitement as he vowed to carry it the whole way home. And he did, part of it at least, since the second the tree seller picked it up, a branch snapped off. His mom just laughed and said, "It'll be the most unique tree in Cape Cod!"
The most unique tree… he liked the sound of that.
"Find one you like?" Lena asked, leaning against his side as she looked down at the little tree.
Jake didn't answer for a minute, not sure whether he should brush it off, along with the memory that had just taken hold of him, or open up about it. "I…"
Lena bent down and took one of the floppier branches in her hand, smelling the pine needles with a smile. "I think it's perfect."
"You… do?"
She glanced back up at him, with red cheeks and glimmering green eyes. "Of course! It's the perfect size. Plus, it's the most unique one here, and your apartment needs a unique-looking tree for sure."
The second the tiny tree was bought and paid for, Jake carried it the whole way back to the apartment.
*
Setting up the tree had been easier than I thought it'd be. I'd expected to have to coax Jake into participating, but for whatever reason, the second we'd picked it out, his whole mood had shifted. He wasn't suddenly Mr. Christmas, but he didn't snap or brush anything off as he had earlier.
Each ornament he placed on the tree sparkled as the twisted row of lights illuminated his apartment. He put each one on almost reverently, like each one meant more to him than even he expected. Once they were all hanging, I wrapped the tinsel around the tree and handed the star to Jake. "You wanna do the honors?"
His eyes were glossy, glowing in the light as he nodded and took the star. I could tell he was thinking about home - his first home, as he lowered it on the point of the tree and stepped back. "It's…"
"Beautiful," I finished for him, taking hold of his hand and leaning against him.
"Yeah," he eventually agreed. "It is."
We went about our usual routine that night. Dinner, shower, brushing our teeth together. His bed was soft and warm when we finally turned in for the night. Every light was off except the ones on the tree. It was beautiful and peaceful, a perfect end to a pretty perfect day.
“Thank you,” I whispered, staring at the lights. “For the tree. And… for telling me about your mom.”
“It…” Jake chuckled a bit and admitted, “It felt kind of good… telling you that.”
I grinned. “It’s annoying, isn’t it?”
“Extremely.”
“Your mom sounds like she was… an interesting person,” I eventually added.
“Yeah,” he agreed quietly.
With my head on his chest, I admired the glow of the lights, listening to his beating heart until I felt tired enough to close my eyes. There in the quiet, when he thought I was asleep, I felt Jake’s arms pull me in just a bit tighter and heard him whisper, “I think she would have liked you.”
*
"I'm not gonna go," Jake announced, closing his locker and fixing his shirt with slightly shaky hands.
Lena turned, glancing at him with a quirk of her lips. "No?"
He nodded, trying to hold onto that foolish and brave thing that made his chest warm every time he thought about spending Christmas with her. "I'm staying."
"I'd love that," she answered. "But, you know, it's not about me. Whatever you want is what you should do."
"I want to be here," he said firmly, leaning forward to kiss her. "With you and your loud, insane family."
Lena smiled, looking up at him like he'd just said something absolutely magical. "I look forward to it then. Patrick's gonna love it when you sit on his lap."
"What?"
"He dresses up like Santa and insists that everyone sits on his lap so they get presents."
His brows furrowed as he looked at her, trying to gauge whether or not she was joking. "Are you serious?"
She smiled, deviously shrugging her shoulders. "Guess you'll just have to wait and see."
Before he could beg her for a clearer picture, Simone stepped into the locker room, and the tension was immediate. Lena buttoned the last button on her shirt and pecked his cheek. "See you down there."
He nodded, watching her give him a thumbs up before making her way down the stairs. Now or never, he told himself. Just be honest. "Simone-"
"I think it'd be best if I went to the Cape by myself this Christmas," she said before he could say another word.
"What?" he asked, his heart nearly stopping in his chest.
She didn't even glance back at him as she replied. "I don't want you to come with me."
"You…" The words caught in his throat, and his whole body burned. "You don't… want me?"
Simone simply shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. "You'll just fight and complain the whole time. I figured it'd be best if you didn't come this year."
This felt infinitely worse than arguing with her over not wanting to go. His chest felt tight, and his lungs were starved for air as he stood staring at her. "You…"
"I told you, I'm done carrying you." She turned and gave him a single cold look before she moved past him like he meant nothing to her. "It's time to grow up, Jake."
He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, and part of him didn't want to. If he moved, or breathed, or cried, then that meant it was real. And it couldn't be real. He couldn't live without her… he couldn't do anything without Simone in his corner.
Eventually, once the noise of the restaurant began to grow, as those rich carefree assholes began sitting down, demanding more and more and more, his body moved. He didn't know where he was going or what he was going to do, he just walked through the kitchen and out the alley door. In the distance, he could hear Lena's voice calling his name, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop, because it was real. He'd finally fucked up one of the only things he had in his life worth keeping.
*
"Jake!" I called out after him, watching his body vanish in the crowd. "Damn it!"
I turned on my heel and hurried back inside, finding Simone just as she stepped forward to grab a few plates. "What the fuck did you say to him?"
She glanced at me with a slight grin before she moved on like it was all nothing. "Maybe I simply came to the same conclusion that you did."
You fucking bitch! "What did you say to him, Simone?"
"For once in our lives, I told him the truth." She glared at me. "I thought you, of all people, would appreciate that since the truth is so important to you, little one."
"God," I scoffed. "You aren't even a little bit ashamed of yourself."
Simone smiled, the kind of smile that told me this was only the first step of whatever desperate plan she'd cooked up. "Excuse me, the guests are waiting.
I wanted nothing more than to slap the plates out of her hands and beat the absolute hell out of her, but I didn't. It wouldn't have actually helped Jake or me. So, as she walked off, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and texted everyone.
Jake's having a really bad night. Please be on the lookout for him and text me or call me if you find him.
Where'd you see him last? Patrick.
I'll get word out to the other strippers, maybe we'll get lucky, and one of them will see him on their smoke break. Quinn.
I'll hold down the fort at the gym while Pat walks the street a bit. I'll let you know if I see him. Peter.
The bars not too busy quite yet, I'll make him something strong if he stops by. Ozzy.
I'll be finished early tonight, so I can meet up with Pat and look around for a bit. Maybe I'll stop by Nana's first and let her know we're looking for him. Prue.
Don't worry, I've got the boys on it. We'll find him. Dom.
I forced myself to breathe, replaying each of their messages over and over in my head as I slid behind the bar with Nicky. After each drink, I checked my phone. There was nothing yet. No sign of him at all, and that could only mean one thing. Fuck the Cape. I wish I'd gotten the chance to tell him that before he vanished.
Each time I caught sight of Simone, I couldn't help but mentally curse her in every way I knew how. And judging by the smirk permanently straining her cheeks, she knew it. It was sickening just how quickly she was able to drop her mask once Jake wasn't around to notice. It was sickening just how willing she was to hurt him to get whatever it was she wanted.
The second service was over, and I was out the door, only popping into the locker room to grab Jake's jacket and our clothes. Then, I was out on the streets, searching every inch of it as I made my way to his apartment. The keys shook in my hands as I fumbled to unlock the door. "Please be home. Please be home."
Hemingway was curled up on the couch when I finally got the door open. His food dish was empty, and the apartment looked the same as it had when we'd left. I tossed the bag of our clothes onto the counter and quickly turned. "Damn it!"
Clad in Jake's jacket and still wearing the uncomfortable striped work blouse, I took to the streets. I checked the movie theater, the shitty convenience store on his block, even the Chinese restaurant beneath his apartment. There was no sign of him. Not on my end.
Just as I stuck my hand out, ready to hail a cab and take it to the dumb Cape, my phone buzzed. I answered it instantly. "Is he with you?"
"No," Dom replied. "But I just ran into Prue. Patrick found him and is taking him to Nana's. Figured you'd wanna know."
"Thank fucking God!" I sighed. "I'll be there in a minute, do not let him leave!"
"I've got him," he replied. "Just relax."
"I'll relax when I see him," I answered, not caring how dumb it sounded.
The cab ride felt like it took hours, but the moment I hopped out and saw Jake sitting with Nana's arms around him through her window, it didn't matter. He's here. I forced myself to breathe and walk forward. He's not in the Cape. He's not in an alley. He's right here.
Nana rocked him back and forth, quietly singing a song in Arabic as she gently stroked his hair and held him as tightly as she could. Patrick was standing by the counter, close enough that I reached out and hugged him without a second thought. "Thank you for finding him."
"Of course," he replied. "Can't have the little brother gettin' into any trouble. Especially not this close to Christmas."
"How is he?"
"He's…" he stopped himself, taking a moment to consider what words would best suit the situation. "He's rough. Hasn't said a word to anyone since we found him."
Fucking damn that blonde bitch. I turned and looked over at him. "At least he's here."
"What happened?" Patrick asked, quickly switching languages. "What was his trigger?"
"A blonde fucking cunt that needs a serious asskicking." I made sure to say it low enough that Jake wouldn't hear, and in Irish, so even if he did, he wouldn't know what I'd said.
I let Nana hold him until her song had ended, and then I stepped up to bat. My hand landed on his shoulder, soft but firm enough that he could hopefully tell I wasn't going anywhere. Jake lifted his head from Nana's shoulder and looked up at me with red eyes. I smiled. "Hey."
He shook his head. "I fucked it all up."
"No," I whispered, carefully pulling him into my arms. "No, you didn't."
"She's done. Simone… she's finally through with me." He almost sobbed.
"She's just…" A bitter, self-centered, manipulative fucking shrew. "Angry. I'm sure she didn't really mean it."
Jake didn't hear me, or he didn't care about what I'd said, having already convinced himself it wasn't true. "I was supposed to do better. She needed me to do better, and I failed. I always fucking fail! Simone, the restaurant, my mom, you."
I pulled his face up, holding it in my hands. "Hey, you haven't failed anyone. Least of all me."
Tears streamed down his cheeks. "I… I… Can't."
"Just breathe," I whispered, pressing his head to my chest. "Feel my heartbeat and just try to breathe. I've got you, Jake. I've got you, and I'm not going anywhere."
It took hours for us to pull him out of it. Eventually, Jake hit a point where he seemed to snap back into a state of quiet, avoidant shock. He didn't meet anyone's eyes and barely said anything, so I accepted Nana's trays of food and quickly decided it was time we went back to his apartment.
"Be safe," Nana whispered, hugging Jake once more. "Call if you need us, habibi."
"Sure thing," he replied quietly, still not fully there.
Patrick tapped my arm. "Call if you need anything. I'll be there."
"Can you text Quinn, let her know that I've got him?"
"Sure thing, sis."
The cab ride was quiet. The walk up to Jake's apartment was quiet. The moment we stepped inside, quiet. And then, suddenly, Jake was ripping his work shirt off and throwing it across the room.
I set the food down and quietly followed his lead until both of us were standing in his apartment in our underwear. After a sob made his back shake, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him.
"It's just fucking bullshit!" He shouted, blinking harshly through the tears. "Simone. Your psycho ex. Howard. My fucking mom… Everything."
"I know," I answered, softly rubbing my hands up his arms.
"It's not fair," Jake whispered. "It's not fair that everyone else has amazing memories of Christmas and all I have are… fractured, broken, hideous pieces. It's not fair that Simone wants me to just swallow it and… and go back there every holiday, every birthday, every single time!"
With an understanding nod, I pulled myself off him and slid so I could reach up and touch his cheek. "It's not fair, and you have every right to be angry about that. You have every right to fall apart, to rage and hate Christmas, and be a total Grinch."
"She hates me," he whispered. "She actually fucking hates me now… after everything…"
"She doesn't hate you," I answered, even though I hated her and everything she was putting him through. "Simone's just upset. She just needs some time, and then you'll be able to talk it out."
"You think so?"
"I know so." I pressed my lips to his cheek. "Nobody could hate you."
He shook his head. "A lot of people hate me."
I smiled warmly at him and blinked a few tears of my own away. "Okay, maybe. But I don't. I'm here, and I am gonna fight like hell to give you some new, good Christmas memories, and you're gonna have to make peace with that."
Jake cleared his throat with a half-scoff. He looked at me like he didn't quite believe me, quietly asking for that reassurance I was more than willing to give him. "Yeah?"
"Absolutely." I didn't hesitate. "You're stuck with me, tough guy."
"The horror," he mumbled, pulling me into his chest.
"You'll live," I replied. "And eventually, you'll learn to like me."
His arms tightened around me. "I already like you."
*
Christmas Eve was quiet, until it wasn't. Rhythmic knocking echoed loudly from his front door, waking both him and Lena up from their sleep. "The fuck?"
Lena was up in seconds, pulling one of his shirts on over her head and yanking him out of bed. "It's starting!"
"What is?"
She opened the door to the Harrow crew, shouting, "HAPPY CHRISTMAS EVE!"
"HAPPY CHRISTMAS EVE!" Lena yelled back.
"Jesus Christ."
Patrick nodded, lifting his steaming coffee up. "That's the spirit!"
"It's way too early for this," he grumbled, turning and climbing back into bed.
Lena scoffed. "He's still a bit of a Grinch. Don't worry, I'll have him at the apartment on time."
"Good," Peter replied. "You still bringing the cocoa?"
"You know it."
Quinn's loud voice echoed through his pillow. "And have him fix that attitude!"
He lifted his hand and flipped her off. "Bitch."
"I'll Who him up," Lena vowed.
Once the door closed and Lena was back in bed with him, Jake mumbled, "I'm not gonna Who anything."
"We'll see," she answered with a grin. "Now, can I wish you a proper, happy Christmas Eve?"
His brows rose, and he pulled himself out of his pillow. "I'm listening."
Pulling her shirt off and leaning over him, she shook her head. "So simple."
After a long morning in bed, the shower, and the couch, Jake couldn't deny he was in a much better mood when they walked into the Harrow apartment. It was cramped and filled with plates of food, pillows, and blankets, and of course, the loud people he'd grown to love.
"Finally!" Ozzy said, pulling both him and Lena into a hug. "Thought you two were gonna make us wait all night."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Oz," Lena replied. "Where are our seats?"
He gestured to a small chair covered in a big yellow blanket. "Best seat in the house for our new member."
Jake scoffed. "Who me? You know I don't need special treatment."
"But you'll get it all the same," the big man insisted. "And I won't tolerate any complaints!"
"Alright," he relented. "Alright."
Lena pulled him to his seat and smiled. "Want a beer?"
"Absolutely." He stopped her. "You never told me what we're actually doing here, by the way."
"I know," she whispered back. "Don't worry, it'll be fun."
Then she was gone, sliding into the kitchen with Quinn and Prue. That was when Patrick strolled into the apartment, clad head to toe in a Santa costume. "Good god."
"Ho Ho Ho!" He cheered, belly jiggling comically. "Merry Christmas!"
"Santa!" Prue squealed, running up to jump into his arms, laughing the whole time.
Katie entered the apartment shortly after, dressed in an elegant Mrs. Claus costume that only made Patrick look more ridiculous. Everyone talked over one another, noisily complimenting Katie and making fun of Patrick. Despite the loudness, Jake found himself wanting to join in.
He wouldn't, though, because that would be ridiculous.
Jake watched as everyone gathered around Patrick and sat in his lap, gushing about what presents they wanted. So she wasn't joking, he mused from his chair. Got it. Patrick Santa pointed across the room at him. "Ohhh Jaaakeeee." He patted his thigh. "Come sit on Santa's lap and tell him what a good boy you've been this year!"
"You sound like a pedophile," Jake replied.
"Santa is not a pedophile!" He said. "Come on!"
Lena pulled at him. "Oh, come on, you have to!"
"Why?" He grumbled.
"It's tradition!"
Quinn wrapped an arm around Ari and began the chant that would haunt Jake's nightmares until everyone, even Lena, was shouting it. "Sit on his lap! Sit on his lap! Sit on his lap!"
With a sigh, he pulled himself up. "Fiiineee! Just shut up, I'll sit on his damn lap!"
"YAY!"
Jake sat on the edge of Patrick's knee, stiffly staring at the dressed-up man as he stifled his laughter. "If I check my list, which one will your name be on, Jake?"
"I've been a very good boy," Jake deadpanned.
"A very good boy!" Patrick proclaimed. "And what would you like for Christmas this year?"
"Normal friends," he answered.
"BOOO!" the Harrow crowd chimed in.
Patrick nodded, still pretending to be Santa. "Normal friends, got it. Anything else?"
Jake rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I would love a Polly Pocket."
"Polly Pocket," Patrick hummed. "Of course."
Thankfully, Ozzy clapped his hands before Jake could embarrass himself further. "It's time! Everyone, get your snacks, drinks, and go sit in your seats!"
Jake was off Pat's lap in a second, finding Lena in the small apartment and watching her stuff a plate full of food, quickly shoving it into his hands. "Hold this."
"What's it time for?"
"It's movie time," she replied, wiggling her brows. "Go sit down. Don't let Prue steal my apple slices! I'll grab our beers!"
He chuckled, following her instructions and settling in the chair as Ozzy stood in front of the TV with a pair of glasses hanging off his nose as he sifted through the VCR tapes. Lena balanced their drinks on the windowsill and took the plate from Jake before she settled in his lap. "What am I, Santa now?"
She laughed and popped one of the apple slices in his mouth before quietly asking, "Are you having fun?"
"A little," he admitted.
"Well, it's about to get a whole lot better," she promised.
Better was an understatement. The second the TV lit up, and a younger-looking Ozzy's face filled the screen, Jake just knew this was going to be one of the best nights of his life. Home movies. That was the great surprise.
"Is it on?" An unfamiliar voice asked.
"I think so," Ozzy answered, turning the camera and laughing. "Told you I could figure it out!"
And there, on the screen, was the famous Jack Harrow. He was bigger than the pictures made him look, and happier than Jake could have imagined. Lena leaned further into him, smiling widely as she watched the screen with a fondness that made him wish he'd actually gotten to know her dad.
"Well, let's get to it!" Jack laughed. "The kids are gettin impatient!"
"You finally figure it out?" Peter asked, the camera panning to him with a head of hair and bushy eyebrows.
"Whooooo!" Quinn cheered. "Look at that mane!"
The camera shifted again, this time to Patrick, who looked like a scragglier version of himself with buzzed hair and a filthy face. "Took ya long enough."
Lena turned her head and laughed. "I always forget about that horrible haircut."
Patrick shrugged. "I got lice and didn't know how to handle it. Sue me."
The camera turned one last time, and Lena's sixteen-year-old self filled the screen. Jake felt his joy drop for a moment as he stared at the too-thin girl, sitting in the very chair he did now. Her hair was dull and black with red roots growing out, her smile looked strained and her eyes looked tired as she looked at Ozzy with an exaggerated eye roll. "Is that really necessary?"
"Course it is," Jack insisted. "It's your first Christmas back, we gotta remember it!"
Lena squeezed his hand, a quiet reminder that she was here now… healthy and happy. Jake breathed out his anger and leaned his head into her shoulder. She's come a long way since then, and she'll never have to go back.
Tape after tape, they watched, laughing at how ridiculous everyone looked back then and cheering for Jack and Nana. Tape after tape, Jake felt his hardened exterior begin to melt as the Harrow's odd tradition enveloped him. As Lena began to doze off in his arms, Jake could feel himself letting go of the guilt he'd been carrying since Simone left for Cape Cod.
This is where I wanna be, he decided. This is where I belong.
*
Christmas always came much sooner than I expected it to. Christmas Eve had only just ended, and here we all were gathered around Nana's tree in the diner, talking and laughing and trying to guess what presents sat under the tree waiting for us to open them. Gingerbread filled the air, and the snow outside actually felt beautiful.
Jake had been in much higher spirits since our movie night tradition, and that made me feel more at ease. Simone still deserved the biggest asskicking in the world for what she put him through, but as I watched him and Patrick and Peter talk about boxing with smiles on their faces, I couldn't bring myself to be mad at her right now. And as the day continued, Simone became nothing but a blip in the back of my mind, and more importantly, the back of Jake's.
We sat in the seats, all watching each other open gifts and sometimes trying to explain the thought process behind some of them. Quinn tossed a gift to Jake with a smug smile. "There you go, asshole."
"Thanks bitch," he replied ripping it open to reveal the tiny Polly Pocket. Jake chuckled. "Seriously?"
"You said you wanted one!"
"I was joking!"
"Well, maybe next time you'll take Santa time more seriously."
When it finally reached me, I couldnt contain my smile, hurriedly grabbing his gift from beneath the tree. "Tada!"
"When did you even have the time to get this?" He asked, taking it from me.
"Yeah?" Quinn added. "You two have been practically glued together all month."
I rolled my eyes. "I've still got some tricks up my sleeve!"
He glanced up at me, guilt making his face look sad once again. "I didn't get you anything."
I waved him off. "You got me more than enough for my birthday. Now, open it!"
He peeled back the wrapping paper, frustratingly slow, and it took every ounce of my self-control not to grab the box and rip the paper off myself. Eventually, he got to the box and popped the top open, staring down inside it with a surprised smile. "Holy shit."
"Do you like it?"
"Where did you find this?" He asked, pulling the camera out of the box. "And how the hell did you afford it?"
I grinned. "I may have stopped by that old camera shop you took me to and bargained with the crotchety old man for it."
"How did you know this was the one I wanted?"
"You couldn't take your eyes off it last time we were there." I shrugged. "Figured that meant you liked it."
"That was forever ago," he replied, shaking his head. "How did you remember that?"
"I remembered because it's you," I answered, feeling stupid the second the words left my lips. A blush rose to my cheeks. "So you like it?"
Jake smiled, watching me carefully. "I love it. Thanks, princess."
"You're welcome." I lifted myself up and quickly kissed him before clapping my hands. "Okay, what did everyone get me?"
Patrick groaned. "Your birthday was literally two weeks ago, I didn't get you shit!"
I gasped. "Santa didn't get me anything?"
He flipped me off. "Santa brought it to you early for your birthday."
"Santa's a bit of a bitch."
"Oh, so it's fine if your little boyfriend doesn't get you anything, but if Santa doesn't, it's suddenly the end of the world?"
"That's literally Santa's job!"
After a long, entirely too amusing argument with "Santa", we opened up the rest of our presents and watched more home movies while Nana brought piles upon piles of food. Jake took pictures with his camera, grinning ear to ear every time he lifted it up. And as Christmas came to a quiet close, Jake and I said goodbye and headed back to his place with our arms full of food and gifts.
When we'd finished unpacking and feeding Hemingway, we curled up in his bed, happy and full. "So, how was your first Harrow Christmas?"
Jake smiled at me. "Perfect."
I kissed him. "Merry Christmas, Jake."
"Merry Christmas, Lena."
Dumb as it might have been, I knew deep down by the smile on Jake's face that I'd been successful. His heart had grown a size. And I couldn't wait until next year to help it grow two more.
Since you guys tied the vote, I decided to give you neither of them! 😂 Just kidding, here's a little bit of both the options because I'm so nice and amazing or whatever. 😊
Enjoy!
❄
Flopping down on his chest, I curled up on top of him. Jake’s arms eventually wrapped around me. “So, you’re like the Grinch?”
“What?”
“You know, you hate the whos and Christmas, and your hearts three sizes too small?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, I’m notorious for my chronically small heart.”
Pushing myself up to stare down at him, I smiled. “Well, how’s about we fix it then?”
Jake’s hands squeezed my hips as his eyes shamelessly drifted down my chest. “You wanna play Operation?”
I rolled my eyes. “I wanna help you not have such a sucky attitude.”
“Oh, I can think of a few ways you can help me with that.”
“No,” I teased, slapping his hands away as they began drifting up. “Not like that.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“‘Cause I said so.” I stood up and began pulling on my clothes, much to Jake’s dismay. “Get dressed, eat, do whatever shit you gotta now.”
With a sigh, Jake glared at me from the bed. “What are we doing?”
“We are going to make your heart grow three sizes!” I replied, pressing a kiss to his pouty lips. “Now, hurry up.”
*
It was cold and snowing as they stepped out of his apartment and into the insanity that was the week before Christmas in New York. Even though he thought it was stupid, Jake took one look at Lena as she lifted her head to the sky and stuck her tongue out to try to catch a snowflake, at her blinding smile and infectious laugh, and instantly thought it was all worth it.
🎄
“A tree!” I proclaimed, already grabbing my coat and scarf.
“No.”
“Yeah,” I turned and pulled on his arm. “Come on, Grinch! Your heart can’t grow that last size without a Christmas tree!”
He shook his head, stubbornly staring at me. “What if I don’t want a tree?”
“Who doesn’t want a Christmas tree?”
“Me.”
“Why not?” I asked, settling on top of his lap. “Why agree to all this other stuff but get stingy about the tree?”
Jake’s face fell slightly, and I could tell it was taking everything he had not to break apart at whatever truth now hid behind his sass. “Maybe I just think they’re ugly.”
“Maybe,” I replied. “Or maybe there’s something else about them that bugs you?”
He rolled his eyes again, but didn’t look back at me. His head turned, and he stared out at the window. After a minute, maybe longer, Jake finally sighed and said, “My mom and I used to decorate our tree together.”
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