otherbitches | IC Inbox [ RUBI ]

[ It lances something terribly deep within him, a scalding mixture of pain and want and affection and hurt bubbling up into his throat. He's been crying hasn't he? Cheeks splotchy, like a child deep in a tantrum, or a child horribly lost. He sucks in a whistling gulp of air, gritting his teeth and splitting the inside of his cheek. Iron, iron, love, he's in love, and it's horrible, it's wonderful, it's misery. ]

Jem, fucking— fucking hell. That's why it hurts. You have to know I love you.

[ She knows, she must know, if she doesn't know, she knows now, and it hurts, it hurts because— ] Do you love him?

[She’s trying so hard to keep the sobbing external. Out of her thoughts, out of her inner voice. Some it makes its way, snippets of muffled hiccups and sniffling. She feels utterly wretched. She feels so fucking relieved. ]

I love you so fucking much it drives me crazy. [She has to say it, she can’t stop saying it now. ] I didn’t want to hurt you, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.

[do you love him do you love him do YOU LOVE HIM. ] I’ll tell you everything, I just didn’t want you to hate me or look at me like - like this.

[ It's not so external, it's in his ears, but not his ears— it's in his mind, his head, his heart, her little choking guttural gasps thundering in his chest, echoing his own wretched noises. He doesn't want her to sound like that, not ever, he doesn't want her to feel like this—as bad as he feels, knowing this, not knowing everything else.

She says it again and he's tunnel-visioned, breathing hard through his nose. ]

Jem. [ Her name, just her name; he feels like he's dying. ] I don't know how to do this part. I don't know how to deal with what you do to me, how you make me feel. I— do.

[ She didn't answer his question. She didn't answer his question. ] How much longer? Till you come home?

[It's a longer beat before she responds. It takes a hot second to control the hiccups, to control the sniffling. She still sounds pathetic. ] Probably a few more days after - that. But I need to pick up clothes, so I'll be - I'll be there. In a little while.

[She exhales out, shaking, scrubs her hands over eyes. ] Will you be there? We can talk. I - I want to talk.

[ Yes. He sort of wants to scream it. He sort of wants to just wail. Demand she leave now, childishly wonders if maybe, maybe, maybe he could keep her if he got her. Keep her away from him. ]

You didn't— [ answer the question.

He sucks in a miserable breath. ] Where else would I be?

Weren't you with - [But does it actually matter? Does it really? ]

I'll be an hour. I just need to - I'll be an hour. [She needs time to press cold water to her face and pretend like she hasn't been outside, crying like a pathetic little wet rat. Needs time to get herself marginally together, to mentally prepare for being seen in public, for dodging the fucking chastity police.

She sucks in a breath, says, weakly: ] I love you.

[ She's there and he's here; what else matters? He needs the time too. To splash his own face, banish the red in his cheeks, the puffiness around his eyes, calm the way he's breathing like he's run a mile, like he's just lost a fight. ]

Jem. I— [ Love you. I want to believe you. I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to— ] I need to see you.

I’m coming.

[An hour is a generous estimation for how long it takes her to stop crying and piece herself back together. She banishes the red from her eyes and face, but it’s more of a challenge to wash away the exhaustion she feels. She’s tempted to slip under John and House’s bed, close the door to Danny’s cage and cover her head with the furs and blankets.

She doesn’t, though. She braids her, slips into clean clothes, and makes her way back to town. It’s noon, which makes it harder to avoid the calculating stares of Rubean locals trying to determine whether Jem has been chastity caged, so she slips to the boarding house fast. She goes to her room, half-bracing for Eddie, and finds it empty.

In the quiet, she sits at the edge of their bed and takes one of the pillows to breathe it in deep. Holds it over her nose for a long, long moment before she sets it aside and starts to pack new clothes. She sends, wearily:]

i’m here.

[ Twice, Billy almost cuts it off, almost crashes back into her mind to say, "No. Don't come." Part him can't bear to be away from her another moment, another doesn't know how to handle seeing her, how he can look at her and not feel the way he feels. Pained. Discarded. He thinks she's taken root so fucking deep inside him; it makes him want to puke up those roots thinking about everyone rooted inside her.

He can't fit all that inside him. Doesn't know how.

He's not a pussy, he can wind it down, wind it tight into a ball in his chest. Send the vaguest feeling of affirmation when he leaves his room, goes to hers. He doesn't knock, just presses in.

He means to go to her, prove something, but he's suck in the door, hand on the frame and eyes fraught and mouth a line. She loves him. She loves him and he loves her and she looks so small in her room, looking up with wet sea glass eyes. He did that. Or she did that. Or Petre did that. He doesn't want her to feel like that. ]

[It’s hard to say whether she hears him first or whether she feels him. There’s a tell—tale flinch, a rigidness to her shoulders, like she’s bracing for something more than the silence that follows. She’s got her back to him, and nothing comes, nothing changes, and bit by bit the tension ebbs back out.

When she turns to him, she feels wretched. She takes in the sight of him and doesn’t feel an ounce of relief to know he’s been suffering just as much. She hates herself, maybe, for what she’s done.

Her eyes are watery, hands fidgeting with something woollen before she drops it and goes to him. Barrels into him, really, arms tight around his middle, faces smushed to his chest. She warbles: ] I’m sorry, I’m sorry, [right into it, hands clutching at his back.

She missed him so much. The sheer amount hits her suddenly, overwhelming. ]

[ They must both look like drowned rats, even patched up and attempting to look like they haven't been wrecked on the rocky shores of all this shit. Billy's mouth feels tight, jaw stiff as he bites it together to keep from saying something stupid, something he'll regret.

Then, he's not sure what he's worried about himself saying when she barrels against him, her body a warm press against him, her arms tight around his middle. One of his hands settles on her lower back and holds her tight, the other drags up her back, fingers carding into her hair, blunt nails scraping against the base of her skull.

He's holding her too tightly, but not having her pressed against him feels like a death sentence. ]

Hey, [ he mumbles, voice wet. ] I missed you. [ He did, he really did, and it's only been— not long. Not that fucking long. But it feels like an age, and he has questions, but not any he can ask when his back slopes, closing the height difference, gathering her close and pushing his nose against her neck. ] I'm sorry— [ for some of it. The yelling. The meanness. Anything he said to cut her. ] I just missed you.

[It feels like months, instead of days. Instead of close to a week. It feels like an insurmountable length of time has gone between the last time they were fine and now. Jem isn't sure she can even put the choices she's made into rational words. She's been terribly selfish, is the thing. Hasn't been smart, really. She hasn't even been particularly kind, or nice, or even -

Sometimes, at night, she thinks: what the fuck would Kieren think of you? And the answer is disappointed. Endless disappointment.

How do you explain to someone you love that right and wrong sometimes feel wholly unreal. That good sometimes just feels like making sure the people you love are good, and not much else. She squeezes and squeezes Billy, hiccups into his chest and feels wretched that she's even crying. ] I missed you so much.

[Like a limb. Like the her heart was ripped out of her chest. Like she'd been cleaved in two. She says: ] I don't know - I don't where to start. I'm sorry.

[ She's been gone. Before, sometimes she'd be 'gone,' when they weren't attached at the hip, but she'd always be there too, a little echo of her that flutters in his chest, always a heart beat away. But she's been gone, and it feels so good to have her gathered close to him again, even if he feels like an open wound, even if his eyes are wet and glassy, even if she's squeezing him and pressing her face into his chest and sobbing.

His hands rise automatically, intuitively know how to hold her. How to press one on her lower back and the other at the back of her neck, fingers in dark locks, thumb a steady pressure against her neck. He didn't know he could do that, didn't know he knew how to hold.

But it still feels—this conversation started with Danny and he doesn't understand how she can mean what she means to him, and laugh it up with Ghostface behind wards. It aches. He never wants to think about it again, but it hangs on him like a specter.

He feels stupid when he mutters against the crown of her head: ] ...For what?

[What is she sorry for? She clings to him, the fabric of his shirt fisted between both sets of her fingers, her tears on the front, on his skin. ] I'm sorry I hurt you.

[She did; she knows this. She breathes out a trembling breath.

She wants to bury her face here. Go silent, never speak another word between them. Reluctantly she pulls away, backs up and sits at the end of the bed, her head falling into her hands. She can't stay quiet, though. ] I'm sorry I disappeared on you, too. I needed space to try and clear my head. I always thought things were easy between me and Petre, you know? But he's - so different. I just didn't know what to do with all these feelings, and the more I fell for you and - I got into my own head about losing you before I had even told you how I feel.

[She scrubs her palms over her eyes. ] Seems stupid, now, doesn't it? [Seems juvenile. She wets her lips, looks up at him; her eyes feel very heavy. Deep set, so, so tired.]

I'm sorry that I didn't tell you about him. [Admitting to being naïve, to being incredibly stupid, tastes bitter. Sour. She sucks in a breath and holds on tighter. She knew. She knew. ]

[ They disconnect because they have to, because they won't get anywhere without untangling. She sits and she looks like a doll. Long lank hair, watery eyes. He thinks he could scoop her up and put her somewhere safe, where no one would find her, where no one could take her.

He's listening. It's hard to listen, because he hurts, and he still wants to just grab her, crush him against his chest before hiding her away. He grits his teeth and tries to listen. She's hurting. Has been hurting, over this fucking guy Billy still hasn't gotten eyes on. Is he worth the pain? Is Billy one wrong universal swap away from being him? The thoughts are a jumble, but she...

He breathes. ] It's not stupid. I mean... it's fucking stupid that you—

[ He breathes. ] I get that I'm not— [ He grits his teeth. ] The easiest person to talk to. But why did you...

[ He breathes. ] Go to them? To him?

I didn’t go to Danny.

[She says this first. It somehow feels so important to say this first; that Billy knows this was never about Danny. That Danny came after, that he became important along the way. She reaches for him - lifts her arm, fingers outstretched. ]

I went to John because he’s - older, you know? A little less human than all of us. Like maybe he would get it, or tell me I was being stupid about it. And he did, more or less.

[Tell her she was being stupid; not directly, but she felt it, after. ] It’s nice there. It feels a little impenetrable? But I’m not there because I don’t want to be here with you. I want to be with you all the time.

[She wants her fingers touching his, already misses the feel of him against her. ] And I’m so terrified that you’ll never want to be near me again because I - I care about them. Even him.

[ Like a magnet, like an invisible string, he steps forward as if compelled. His hand is so much bigger than hers. His fingers card through hers, secure.

It's not easy to put into words. There's too much, this month has brought up too many confusing details, danger and hurt. He doesn't know John. He hardly knows House. But he knows Danny. ] It did feel impenetrable, [ it comes out too cold; he bites his lip and looks away. It is impenetrable behind its wards; and he had an invitation but not from her. He used it to stick a knife in Danny Johnson. He stews for a beat, just a beat, and then heaves out a breath. ]

I don't know them. Do they even give a shit about what Johnson did? What am I— fuck! What am I supposed to do when he does it to you? You 'care' about him. What's there to fucking care about, Jem? Because Smith thought he cared about him and look where that got him! [ His voice rises, thinking about Quentin, but also Felipe, and somewhere, three kids from Hawkins being cut under his knife. ]

[She squeezes his hand; covers it with the other and drags it to her mouth to kiss his knuckles; turns it over and kisses his wrist. ] I believe that they care. Is that enough?

[Is that worth anything here? Is it worth anything at all, anymore? ] I'm going to say something that will sound really fucked up or like I'm losing my mind. [She's looking up at him, resigned to this already. Her mouth is back against his knuckles. She squeezes it again, tries to be reassuring - tries to find reassurance. ] I'm asking you not to act like I'm losing my mind or like I'm stupid, even if it sounds like I am.

[ Is it enough? What is he supposed to do when it happens to her? When Danny Johnson slips the chain again and its Jem's body cold and bloodless and dragged off to his den? Billy won't survive it, not intact, not when he tears Danny apart.

He breathes out again, staring at her. He imagines he's not going to like what she has to say. He wonders what he's going to do if it's not enough.

But her skin is warm and her mouth is hot on his hands, and he's felt so cold without her.

He squeezes back. ] ...Shoot.

Okay. [This comes out as a breath, like a relieved wheeze, a small exhale of air that has no steam. She keeps kissing his knuckles, lips moving over each bone like they provide unique comfort. She doesn't know how to say this, she realises, in a way that sounds sane.

So: ] I think - that Danny wouldn't hurt me, or - or kill me - unless I asked him to. [It does not sound even remotely normal, even as she says it, and still she believes it. It feels true. She waits, just a moment, and adds, slowly: ] And I know that John wouldn't let him hurt me, even if that wasn't true. And you promised not to act like I'm losing my mind.

[ She's right, it doesn't sound remotely normal, but Billy promised, or promised without promising, and his mouth seals into a stiff line so he doesn't yell and scream. So he doesn't handle this in a way that screams Billy Hargrove.

Her mouth is warm on his knuckles. His thumb slips to rub against the back of her fingers, a fought-for connection on both ends. ]

Why? [ He finally says, carefully. ] Because you're 'special'? [ That's Fuckboy 101. ]

No. [This comes out immediate, like it’s been on the tip of her tongue, like she’s been waiting exactly for just that. She isn’t special, she’s never special, what Jem is, is broken. There’s a gaping hole where any goodness in her goes to die. It comes out humourless, the no. ]

I think it’s just boring, if it’s like everything - everyone - else. It’s more interesting if I ask. If I ask, it’s - I don’t know. Like winning? [She swallows. ] It was the same with Petre. The same … Thought process. The longer I don’t ask, the more of me there is. The - [her cheeks are wet, again. ] It’s a test. I guess.

[ The comparison to Petre hurts, because she loved Petre, a version of him, and somewhere he's still out there, a person Jem loves and tried to cross the universe for. His jaw tightens, brow furrowing, he says: ] I don't want him to win.

[ He doesn't want him to hold her cooling body, he doesn't want him to fuck her or love her or have power over her, and it's monumentally fucked that he can't ask any of that of her.

Stubbornly, furiously:] You are special. To me.

[ And he's sure she's 'special' to him too. His grip tightens. ]

[Between them:] I don’t want him to win either.

[She’s so scared of dying. Months ago, if she had to, she would have wanted it to be Petre. It would have felt right, it would have felt deserved. Now she’s terrified all over.

Now she’s caught off guard, brows drawn together as she stares up at him, wanting so much to believe him. That she’s special to someone, the way she thought she was months ago.] Am I?

[ It's a small balm, but you win by not playing the game. Not that Billy can help but play the role he was cast in. When it comes to Danny, he almost always bites first, asks questions later, loses ground quickly. It infuriates him that Jem wants to play family. That Eddie doesn't seem to get it. That Billy's biting at their heels.

Now his teeth grit into a thin line before his response comes, sharp, percussive: ] Jesus Christ, yes, Jem!

[ It's not working, his expression crumples a little. She's still sitting on the bed, he's still standing, but he lowers, clumsily to his knees. It puts them at a level. ]

Of course you are. I don't think I— I don't think I could do this. Any of this. If it weren't for you.

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