"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
one touch will make you so nervous you might stop breathing one touch will make you so reckless you might start feeling one touch will finally show to me what you can't hide
She sees the blood on her daughter’s chin and knowing that she is already learning the taste of copper, the metallic bite of how your own gifts can turn against you, causes her heart to swell in her chest. She bites back her own grief and reaches down to clean her daughter’s chin. It is instinctual and she doesn’t mind the blood on her tongue although she hates that it is her daughter’s. Hates that she has to learn this so young.
“You will learn to deal with it,” she says softly after she has cleaned up the blood. “Soon you will forget that they are there and you won’t bite your tongue every time you talk.”
She glances up, almost apologetic, to Beth as she says these words.
How he must hate that she has cursed their daughter with such things.
How he must hate that his daughter has to learn how to talk around her fangs.
She blushes underneath his compliment, her lashes sweeping down. She knows that she is not perfect. He certainly knows it more. He has felt the way her rage kindles so quickly that she can barely keep up with it. He has felt how she can cry and grow furious in the same breath. How it so quickly spirals our of her control that she forgets what it means to be logical.
But she doesn’t ask him to retract the words.
Would never ask him to take them away.
Instead she just inhales. “Good. I’m glad.” It feels so weak when she wants to tell him how deeply she has hoped that he would stay, even for a while. How terribly she wants to find the curve of him and press into it. How she wants to relearn the shape of him.
But their daughter snags her attention and her gaze sharpens slightly when she makes out the words being whispered into her. “Gospel,” the word is a warning, a bullet. A quick and fast whip of the tongue as she leans down. “We don’t talk like that,” she warns, but follows it up with a kiss to her neck, hoping that her father didn’t hear what she had to say.
I can get there on my own. you can leave me here alone.
She bares her teeth, clicks them in her mother’s direction as she diligently cleans her chin.
She loves her mother fiercely, but she is protective of the blood.
As if she knows it’s worth something.
As if she doesn’t want anyone else to ever know how it tastes.
She will get used to it, her mother says, but she likes the way the blood drips from her chin. She likes the way it pools in her mouth and slides down the column of her throat. But her mother’s attention is stolen away by him again and she glowers, pouts, a petulant child. She wants her mother to kiss her and touch her and encourage her to eat and to sleep. But he keeps speaking to her, arresting her focus.
She hates him for the way he makes her mother blush. She hates him for having any effect on her mother at all. She had so fiercely hoped that she’d chase him off by sinking her teeth into his shoulder but he remains, steadfast. A pillar in a storm and she hates him for it.
Gospel murmurs her truth into her mother’s skin and is immediately reprimanded for it. She hates that her mother takes his side. She squeals and hisses and shakes her head. Her mother kisses her but it does not feel so sweet. It conjures up a darkness in her chest.
And Beth, he merely watches. As her father, he should perhaps help her in her punishment. They should present a united front, he thinks, but he does not know what the child has said and he knows that it’s not really his place anyway. He is her father in title alone. He does not know the first thing about active parenting. He tries not to think of Adna’s other children, the ones that came before this one.
“I don’t like him,” the child mumbles into her mother’s side, anticipating the sharp sting of her mother’s rebuttal. But she has inherited her father’s penchant for honesty. She cannot choke it down. And were Bethlehem privy to it, he might have been proud of her inability to swallow her truth.
BETHLEHEM
I'm just tryin' to do what's right. oh, a man ain't a man unless he's fought the fight.
one touch will make you so nervous you might stop breathing one touch will make you so reckless you might start feeling one touch will finally show to me what you can't hide
Gospel is bright and strong and Adna does not want to take these things from her. She would never dream of stripping her if her defenses. Would never dream of trying to force her into this world without her scales and her fangs to defend her.
But she is not the only predator in this group
She is not the alpha and Adna will not bend to her child.
Will not raise a child who thinks it is okay to snap at her.
She is patient when she squeals and snaps her jaws. She doesn’t rise to the bait or enter into a snarling match with Gospel. She just watches her steely eyed and fierce, forgetting for a moment that Beth is standing there watching them—watching her.
That he is seeing her like this.
But it doesn’t matter because now, Adna and Gospel are speaking in the language that only they can truly know. Her fangs show slightly as she watches her daughter, feeling a small panic rise in her at the idea of having a daughter that so fiercely dislike what she loves.
“I understand,” she murmurs, gentle again, although her fangs are right there—her venom still barely held in check. “But I do,” she says this quieter and wonders what twist of fate would force her to explain these things to her daughter. To defend her father to him.
“And that needs to matter to you.”
Another breath as she lets her daughter tuck into her side. Another breath as she catches herself and then lets herself pull back to look up again.
“She has her mother’s stubbornness.”
She laughs and rolls her shoulder, uncomfortable and feeling vulnerable.
“But perhaps she could do with a little less of it.”
I can get there on my own. you can leave me here alone.
He thinks Gospel lucky to have her.
He can see the child rail against her and that she does not yield.
The gaze is edged in steel, the jaw set, rimmed with a patience he has never seen in her before.
She is a good mother, he thinks
The child will never have to wonder whether she ever meant anything to her parents.
At least not her mother.
He wonders if he should edge his way back into their space. If he should close up some of the space between them. The child had not seemed afraid of him, only angry. He wonders if there’s some way to desensitize her to his presence or if she will always gnash her teeth in his direction. If she will always turn her cheek in his direction. Is it hate? He wonders. Does his daughter hate him?
She does. Or, at least, she thinks she does. It makes her quiver to think about how close he had gotten, close enough to kiss her mother’s head. Close enough that she could sink her teeth into his shoulder. He’s still bleeding, a river cut down the length of his leg to pool in the snow at his feet.
Her mother’s tone is different now. It is firm without biting and the child grits her teeth and flares her nostrils and stares up at her mother in defiance. She hates him for meaning anything at all to her mother, whoever he is. It does not occur to her that his blood is her blood, at least partially, and that’s why it tasted familiar. It does not occur to her that he loves her, too, even if she hates him.
She does not speak. She has nothing else to say. Her mother continues to take his side over hers and she shrugs away from her mother’s side, tasting the bitterness of betrayal for the first time.
Adna levels her gaze with his face and his smile has gone dark. He merely looks at her now, the faintest question in his eye. “Is everything all right?” he asks. It is lame, certainly, but he doesn’t know how else to ask.
BETHLEHEM
I'm just tryin' to do what's right. oh, a man ain't a man unless he's fought the fight.
one touch will make you so nervous you might stop breathing one touch will make you so reckless you might start feeling one touch will finally show to me what you can't hide
She never thought that she would have to keep so many secrets from him.
She never thought that she would have to swallow her daughter’s hate and just keep it in her belly. She never thought that she would be afraid to have her daughter meet her cousin. Her sister? Her head swims with it all and it takes everything within her to remain upright.
But she can’t yield to it yet.
Not when he’s watching her with questions growing in his eyes. Not when she so desperately wants to hold onto some semblance of normality for just a moment.
She deserves this, she thinks. Even when the secrets blister the back of her throat.
“It’s fine,” she smiles, lies, glancing down with the same melding of steel and love in her gaze. Gospel will always have her heart. Will always be her girl. But she doesn’t know how to bend to a child’s whims or deny herself her wishes. She cannot self sacrifice in such a way.
So she lets the moment simmer down again.
Let’s Beth catch her attention.
Her sage green eyes slide to his shoulder and linger there for a moment. He is bleeding more profusely than she had first thought and her heart clenches at the sight of his blood on the ground below. Without thinking, she leans over and pressed her mouth to his shoulder. Her tongue follows as she cleans the wound, tasting the venom as it buzzes.
She lingers for a second too long, feeling her belly quiver with recognition.
She pulls back slightly.
“Sorry,” she whispers, but she knows that she’s now sorry for touching him.
I can get there on my own. you can leave me here alone.
He does not believe her.
Not that he thinks her dishonest.
But he had seen the edge in her gaze, had heard the barbs on her tongue.
He does not push it, though.
He just takes what she gives him, swallows it down, and allows it to become his truth.
It’s fine, despite the way their daughter seethes and wedges space between herself and her mother. He thinks her fierce, unyielding. He gets this from her mother, certainly. He has always been steadfast, certainly, but never in the same way. He had never set his jaw and flared his nostrils in defiance. He had simply been unmovable.
She reaches for him and their daughter spits and hisses again. He watches her, the child, as she glowers. He had not anticipated the feel of Adna’s tongue, had not expected her to collect the venom in her mouth, and a vicious shiver steals down the ladder of his spine. It hitches his breath and she is gone before he can fully absorb what has happened.
Their relationship has not lacked in intimacy and it shows in the child watching them with narrowed eyes, but it feels like a secret, the way she touches him and then pulls away again so that she can mutter her apology into the space between them.
The corners of his mouth quirk upward in the ghost of a smile and he shakes his head. “Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs, the words thick and clumsy. He does not know if she is apologizing for touching him or for their daughter doing it to him in the first place, but he does not suppose it matters when the apology is not necessary to begin with.
BETHLEHEM
I'm just tryin' to do what's right. oh, a man ain't a man unless he's fought the fight.
one touch will make you so nervous you might stop breathing one touch will make you so reckless you might start feeling one touch will finally show to me what you can't hide
She would have stayed longer if he had let her.
If she had let herself.
She would have gladly cleaned his shoulder and then pressed herself against it. She can feel the phantom warmth of him and how it has always felt to find herself there. How she has dreamt of it. How she has learned the curves of him. The angles.
But it doesn’t feel like the right moment.
For reasons she both knows and ones she cannot name.
But her smile grows soft and quiet. “Okay,” she yields. Even though she feels like she needs to apologize still. Even though it is there on the back of her tongue and clawing at her throat. She is sorry for attacking him. Sorry for catapulting herself into his life when he had simply been there. Sorry for being so angry and so mad and wanting so much from him.
She leans down and kisses her daughter again.
Just a brush and she feels the exhaustion sinking into her bones. “I think she has your smile,” she whispers, before shaking her head and feeling the gentle curls of her mane stick to the scaled curve of her neck. “Except the fangs, of course.”
There is pride there and she is surprised. She hadn’t expected to feel pride in such things.
But there is little about her daughter that does not spark some kind of pride in her chest. Doesn’t feel anything but pride, even when she spits and bites and hisses.
Swallowing her pride, swaying slightly on her feet, she motions toward him.
I can get there on my own. you can leave me here alone.
He knows that she says it only to appease him.
To appeal to some sense of fatherhood in him.
To make him feel like, despite her loathing, the girl belongs to him, too.
The child has not smiled, at least not that he’s seen, and he doesn’t suppose that she could possibly know if there is any piece of him reflected in it. The child balks and recoils when Adna says this, as if she has only just realized why he is here, why he has refused to go.
She is just a baby. She does not know how the world works. She does not know that it takes both a mother and a father to make a child. But when her mother speaks, it occurs to her that he helped make her, too. That he gave her something like his smile and it nearly takes the heart out of her. How she despises it! How she wants to throw herself on the cold, hard ground and wallow. He is nothing! And her mother is everything! How dare she let him touch her!
But Bethlehem, he smiles that same patient smile and he allows himself to believe it, if only for a moment. The child has his smile and she will carry it with her. She will carry him with her. And her with him.
He does not hesitate before he plunges himself back into their orbit again, settles into the space beside her so that she might lean against him. So that he might help hold her up. Because he cannot imagine the effort or the pain or the desperate panic that must go along with bringing a child into the world. He kisses her head, her neck, settles his mouth on her poll as if to encourage her to duck her head into his chest.
And the child stands there, removed. Bites her lip until it bleeds. Stifles the cry that swells in her throat. Hates the tear that snakes down her cheek.
BETHLEHEM
I'm just tryin' to do what's right. oh, a man ain't a man unless he's fought the fight.
one touch will make you so nervous you might stop breathing one touch will make you so reckless you might start feeling one touch will finally show to me what you can't hide
He doesn’t hesitate and her heart swells painfully in her throat.
He doesn’t resist and this, in comparison to their last few encounters, feels so easy. Feels so easy if she lets herself forget about her child who cries into her neck that she wants her father to go. Forgets about her sister and her niece and the twisted web she tangles.
One day she will be forced to face the sins she commits again and again.
One day she will be forced to bear the weight of her guilt.
But not today when he comes to her and she can lean against him. Not when she can so selfishly soak in his warmth and feel his mouth against her like forgiveness. She sighs softly, feels the exhaustion even more acutely, but it doesn’t matter.
She drops her head to his chest and closes her eyes.
She feels the sound of his heartbeat and the thrum of it feels so natural, so perfect, that she aches with it. She angles her cheek so that she can press a kiss to him, so that she can let that linger, and when she opens her eyes to see Gospel she ushers her close.
“My little girl,” she whispers, kissing her cheeks to press the tears away.
“You are so loved,” her voice is just mildly hoarse, just remotely gravelly with the grit and the hoarse bite of her tiredness. “One day, you will know just how much. I promise.”
I can get there on my own. you can leave me here alone.
He is not privy to her thoughts.
But if he were, certainly he would have done everything in his power to chase them away.
Certainly he would have tried to prove her wrong.
She is not the one at fault here.
He is.
But he knows nothing of the web they have weaved for themselves. He knows nothing of the chaos they will become. For the moment, there is only perfect stillness as she ducks her head into the heat of his chest and listens to the strong, steady heartbeat underneath. He presses a series of chaste kisses into the tangles of her forelock and then heaves a steady sigh.
He does not notice there daughter’s blood or her tears until Adna reels her in. He should go to her, take some responsibility, kiss away her tears in the same way that her mother does. But he remains. He watches instead, as if he might somehow learn something from the way they interact.
Gospel hates the tears that she cannot stop. She does not know that they are born from exhaustion just as much as her first bitter betrayal, her mother choosing this stranger over her. She cannot know just how tired she is until her mother kisses her cheek and her eyes fall heavy closed. She has not eaten, swallowed only the blood that pooled in her mouth, but she lets her knees buckle anyway. She settles into the cold space at her mother’s feet and lays her weary head on her own knee, finds some comfort in the heat of her own skin.
She doesn’t know what love is and she doesn’t think that it matters, whatever it is. It is this she thinks about as she falls asleep and dreams about blood and flesh and the bitter taste of anguish.
“I think she hates me even more than you did,” he murmurs, quiet, one corner of his mouth tied up in a smirk despite how viciously the truth smarts.
BETHLEHEM
I'm just tryin' to do what's right. oh, a man ain't a man unless he's fought the fight.
