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mor-beck-more-problems · 4 years

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Panic! At the Floor || Morgan & Deirdre

@deathduty

TIMING: a couple of nights ago

LOCATION: Death Fam House

CONTAINS: Mentions/discussions of past abuse, detailed panic attack

Morgan rushes home after Deirdre abruptly logs-off on her.

"Where do emotions have their place?" The voice of Deirdre's mother echoed through the valleys of her mind. She could remember this question leveled to a young girl, perhaps ten or twelve, if the years mattered at all. She remembered the girl looked like her, had her name, but had grown so distant that she no longer felt like a piece of her. And these memories, the ones she had, no longer felt like Deirdre's. She blubbered, a quivering grip on her knife. This was the second time she was asked to pick her favorite animal, and then watch as her mother tied the animal down ("Too tight! You're hurting him!" "It. I'm hurting it, and they're only animals." ). And the second time she raised her too-large knife against something, too small to summon a butcher's force but asked to anyway. "Not in a banshee," this girl answered. And then the animal was messily slaughtered. On her third time, she did not cry. Her mother said this was a great victory, she should be proud, she was learning the right lessons. On her fourth, she no longer had any favorite animals to pick, and so she took delight in counting them up and picking at random. The fifth time she learned how to make it quick. And by the sixth, she had grown accustomed to this ritual.

Deirdre now laid curled on the ground, clutching her throbbing chest, pounding with a pain she'd never felt before. It thumped with such force she thought it might rip through bones and flesh. And she heaved, spurred by her thoughts and these strange sensations. She sounded like those animals then, when she'd stuck her knife into their neck but not enough to kill, and their sounds turned from cries to whistled pain and heaved breaths. As if their lungs had forgotten how to take air. And Deirdre too, curled into herself, wheezing and failing to steady. Sometimes she took in too much air, other times she took in too little. Her laptop was shattered against the floor at her feet, a casualty of her scrambling to stop this onslaught of—what was it? Panic? She never knew what emotions were what, inside of her. But panic, at least, she had learned the feeling of a myriad of times since coming to White Crest. She recognized it just enough to know it was wrong, and bad, and she tried with great force to push it away lest Morgan find her in this state. Instead she heaved more, pain rippled worse from her chest and her legs refused to stand. She clawed at the tile, trying to find reprieve somewhere, beyond her, vaguely, she could hear the door creak open. The stairs were the other way, surely Morgan would see her if she crawled there. She tried for the patio, and she might have actually managed to move an inch or two before panic thrashed against her and possessed her body to curl into itself and remain immobile. In one last attempt, she covered her face with her hand, suffocating herself in the name of silence, hoping Morgan might simply pass her by.

Deirdre going offline was never a good sign. Maybe it was the context of their last message or maybe Morgan was beginning to trust her in a way she hadn’t before, but she knew with sharp-edged clarity that this wasn’t an ‘I don’t want you anymore’ kind of silence. She sped home, abandoned her stress purchases in the back, and ran inside the house. “Deirdre?” She called. Not in the foyer. Not in the front room. “Babe?” She called again. Not in the-- Morgan’s foot hovered over shattered glass as she heard it. A painful, whimpering sound, high and desperate. The kind of sound animals made when they’d been bitten, when they were suffering. Morgan edged around the island to follow the whining.

“Deirdre!” She couldn’t keep the worry out of her voice as she knelt to the ground. Her body was tight as a coil, trembling as if begging for collapse. She knew what this was. She had been here enough times herself, alone and begging her body for a mercy that always took a little too long to be granted. She hovered over her, searching for any injuries, any sign she’d hurt herself. “Hey,” she called, her voice soft and firm. “Hey, I’m here now, babe. You’re gonna be okay soon. I’m here.” Morgan reached out a tentative hand for her, squeezing her shoulder, trying to coax her into fighting the muscle spasms just a little harder, just enough to come into her arms. “Hey, can I hold you?” She covered Deridre’s hand with her own and pressed gently, hoping to give her something else to latch onto.

"Well if you're going to cry, don't do it in front of me. No one wants to see that." The disgust on her mother's face was clear. Deirdre opened her eyes, expecting to find the same expression across Morgan's face. For a beat, the confusion of finding concern and the wonder at seeing something so caring, halted the heaving and aching. But in a moment, the pain and panic rushed back with vengeance, coiled with guilt. She could not be quiet enough to hide, and she could not be strong enough to stop herself now. Deirdre tried to will her body to crawl away, but her arms reached for Morgan instead, wrapping herself tightly around her. It was her touch, she surmised, that hand on hers that reminded her that she wanted to hold Morgan—and keep holding her, for longer, as long as she could. At the thought of losing it, she heaved again. Her heart pounded in its cage, as if trying to throw itself against the wall of her bones. "I-I'm—" she croaked, stumbling through her apology. She hadn't expected Morgan to come home so quick, if this happened again, she'd know better—she'd be gone. She was sorry then, for not knowing better, for not doing better. Deirdre trembled against her, trembling more as she tried and failed to summon the power to move away. "—s-s-sorry."

Morgan welcomed Deirdre into her arms, catching her up tight, pressing her as hard and close as she dared with her new strength. She kissed her hair, her temple, anything she could reach without loosening her hold. “It’s okay,” she said, still even, still calm and soft. “You’re having a panic attack, but you’re going to be okay. I’m here with you, and there’s nothing to be sorry for. I’ve got you...” She squeezed her a moment, wishing it were as easy as willing Deirdre’s body to listen to her and be still. “Hey, can you breathe with me? I love it when I can match my lungs to yours at night. Can you do that, babe? Slowly, in for ten, hold for six, out for ten.” She tapped the rhythm on her back, whispering each number as she began. If Deirdre could hear her enough to climb into her arms, enough to apologize, she might be able to pull enough concentration together to breathe. There were other ways, other tricks she knew, but she hoped this one could be a start. “I’ve got you, my love,” she whispered, finishing her exhale. “It’s okay. Just try.” She started again. Tap, tap, tapping; one, two, three, four, five… In, hold, out.

A panic attack. Deirdre had heard those words before, but never imagined them to be used to describe her. We don't have those: seemed like something her family might say. That panic was of no concern to them, shouldn't have been. But she did feel like she was being attacked, so that part was fair at least. And she had no capacity to deny these claims now. Morgan's voice was gentle, urging, Deirdre obliged at first, wanting to give that to her. She drew her breath in time with Morgan—one, two, three, four, five—wasn't this what was done with children? This was how Deirdre learned to steady her breathing enough to pop bottles and rupture lungs. "I hate children," her mother reminded her. Deirdre heaved again, stubbornly trying to find her breathing away from Morgan. Yet, through foreign sensations and boiling panic, was tapping. Deirdre tried to count it; one, two, three, four, five...she could hear Morgan in her ear. Why was she breathing? She didn't need to breathe? Curious, her body met the strange pacing. She took in breath for ten seconds, held for six, expelled for ten again. She expected the tapping to stop, but it continued for another cycle, which—still curious—Deirdre followed again. Like an animal heralded by strange music, she hoped an answer would sit if she followed the rhythm enough. Eventually, she could count by herself, without the tapping. In. Hold. Out. Her thrumming heart dulled its ache, and her lungs remembered how breath was supposed to be taken in and pushed out. She trembled still, clinging to Morgan. But she finally had the sense to speak: "I'm sorry." I'll go, she wanted to add, but she knew her legs would not move. She leaned down, resting her head on Morgan's shoulder. "I'm sorry." She said again, weaker. "I'm sorry." And another time, even softer. "I'm sorry." Again and again until her voice cracked and she could say nothing more. She tried to find the breathing again, her trembling hand reached out to tap the rhythm against the tile. She couldn't remember it. "What is—" she swallowed painfully, finding her throat tight. "What is this?" Deirdre asked broadly, perhaps referring to the panic or the tapping or any number of the things happening to her now that she didn't understand.

“Hey…” Morgan twisted her head around to kiss Deirdre’s, firm and grounding. “Don’t be sorry,” she said. “You don’t have to be sorry, my love. There’s nothing to be sorry for.” Without pulling away, she slid her arm up, high enough on her back to pull her hair away from her shoulders and work her fingers into the nape of her neck, scratching and combing gently. “You don’t have to be sorry.” If anything, Morgan was sorry for not thinking to bring some water down to the floor with them. Her bag was in the car, and even though the refrigerator was right behind them, she didn’t want to let go of Deirdre for anything. Her girlfriend’s grip around her was too frightened and stiff for Morgan to consider it.

“What’s what?” She asked gently. “You mean this?” she adjusted her grip on Deirdre’s back and resumed the rhythm again, steady as the seconds ticking by on the clock. “I learned it in therapy. Sometimes your body loses track of itself, and you have to help it find its way back. You find your way back home, you keep breathing the way you’re meant to, until the worst is over. Do you think you can breathe for longer, babe? A twelve count maybe? Or…” She knew what she wanted, but she had her doubts over Deirdre’s willingness. “Do you think you could tell me about it, at least a little…?”

Didn't she? There was so much Deirdre wanted to say and apologize for—Morgan said she had a hard week, that she wanted to be held, and now she had this, for starters—but the words were stuck in her throat. The first time she felt this level of panic, on Cece's porch, struck by how much she enjoyed Morgan's company, she assumed it would be a one time affair. And then it happened again. And again. And she understood it no better each time. Morgan soothed her, and in doing so, was rewarded with another mumbled apology from Deirdre. And the more she soothed, the more I'm sorry's bubbled quietly from Deirdre's mouth. When her voice couldn't sustain her whispering, her body began to flinch at every touch that was too kind, too gentle. The tapping made her go stiff, in the seconds in-between she feared the next would never come, or it would be the pressure of a fist against her or the stab of a knife instead. Morgan spoke of explanation, and Deirdre's body tensed again in the rejection of that idea. She had parsed it out in her head already: there was nothing that could be said, or done, to make her worries less. But she wanted to give to Morgan, all that she could, even explanations she found pointless. And so she tried. She focused on the tapping, she imagined that it was steady, and the next would come like clockwork. Then she imagined the words in her head: Mike had you killed, I don't like the idea of—"Humans will feel panicked or confused. We are better than them; banshees don't feel." Deirdre's breath hitched, she looked for the tapping again. "Who wants to hear someone talk about their feelings?" The tapping was steady, she listened to Morgan and extended the tens to tweleves in her breathing. "I feel bad," she mumbled, "inside. I feel bad inside. What is that?" She tried to list emotions in her head; guilt, panic, sadness, anger, confusion. Which one was it? She didn't know. She couldn't tell. She never could, she never was able to. But she knew every time Morgan led her through one of these strange episodes, she was plagued with insurmountable guilt. Of which Morgan said she had no need to be sorry. But then where did the guilt go? Stuffed away, like the others. "What else did you learn in therapy?"

“No, my love, shh. It’s really okay. I love you, it’s really okay, sshhh…” For every apology Deirdre insisted on giving, Morgan couldn’t help but answer with an assurance of her own. “You’re safe,” she went on, working into the continual cycle of words, balanced in perfect counterpoint to Deirdre’s. It was the saddest duet they’d ever had, but Morgan couldn’t stop. It seemed too much like giving in to the idea that she ought to be ashamed. She wanted to rub her taut muscles, to lay her out in the comfort of her bed and wrap her up fresh again, skin against skin, the blankets all but over their heads so they could hide from whatever was tormenting her. And she was being tormented, Morgan thought forlornly. Whatever thought, whatever memory, it must be something truly cruel to make her hurt this way. When Morgan kissed Deirdre’s face again, it was only a passing brush of her lips, a kiss of butterfly wings against her temple. Maybe if she was even softer, even quieter, Deirdre could rest easy against her and know every thing she said was true.

“It could be a lot of things,” Morgan replied, still tapping the steady rhythm on her back. “You might be dehydrated for one thing,” she gave this possibility lightly, brightening her voice the way Deirdre did for her so often. “I would cry myself sick a lot. It can hurt all the way down to your stomach sometimes. I’d get you water, but I’d hate nothing more than letting you go. You’ll have to come up with me if we do that.” Another kiss, slow and so careful. This couldn’t be one of the times her love left a mark. If there was anything monstrous inside her like Remmy seemed to think, it would have to stay locked at the bottom of her. She would not be something that hurt Deirdre, not even a little. “You might be tired-sad, if you’ve been down here for awhile. You might be scared, still, of whatever idea is hurting you. I’ve been sick with fear too before, and it’s just the worst. Depending on what’s bothering you, you might be mad, or worried. You might be all of these at once, or something else. I don’t know unless you tell me more.” She kissed her again and combed her fingers through the hair at the back of her neck, hoping to prove she wasn’t angry. She could hold out longer for Deirdre to say, to trust her. “I would like for you to. I want that very much. But even so I do know, my love, that you feel guilty for being this way. And I know my forgiveness counts for so little, because it comes so easy. Because I already know you're not doing anything wrong. So can you forgive yourself for me? Can you say you forgive yourself, Deirdre? I think it would help. You could be surprised by how much less it weighs, if you’d forgive yourself like I already have.”

She let that linger a moment, knowing how much easier it would be said than done. How impossible was it, really, from the darkness of the pit, from the clutches of her mother’s shadow? Morgan could hardly bear to imagine. “I learned other things to do. Like counting things, believe it or not. Five different things you can see, four things you can touch, three you can hear, two you can smell, one you can taste.” It was a little cruel, a little useless now for a zombie, but perhaps she could give it to Deirdre.

All Deirdre could think to do was apologize. Would a different woman know better, love better, be less confused about the simplest of things? Should she apologize for that too? But Morgan was trying to assure her and explain that this display was okay. Yet, it didn’t feel like it was. “They cry because they’re weak.” But Morgan cried, often, and Deirdre had never regarded it as weakness. “No one wants insecure drivel.” And yet, Morgan was asking to hear her thoughts, as if they weren’t too heinous to share. Could it be okay, she wondered, to be like this? She kissed her like the brush of grass against skin, in the gentle morning before the dry heat turned the blades sharp. And for each touch, each gentle kiss, Deirdre’s body could not maintain its stubborn resolve to shield itself. She could remember, even in her state, that it was safe to surrender to Morgan. Deirdre listened to Morgan’s explanation, hoping her answer might be in the words and pauses. I don’t know unless you tell me. Deirdre swallowed, closing her eyes. She wished, with whatever part of her that still believed in a world that answered her wishes, that it was as simple as opening her mouth and letting the right words tumble out. “Only things with purpose have value.” Where was the value in explaining how worried she was, how afraid of losing Morgan, and how not knowing wracked her mind more than she could let on. If she explained her concern, Morgan’s mind would not change, and without a result, there was no purpose to a conversation. And how could she ask Morgan not to go off with Rebecca and rescue a knife? To not venture out to forests with hunters or talk to apathetic vampires? And what good did worrying do but distress Morgan? Her feelings carried no value.

What purpose could there be in explaining this? “I don’t,” she said. “I shouldn’t be---I’m sorry I’m--” Would it be easier with someone else? Would this be better? Would they no longer have to share these terrible moments? She listened again, surely Morgan would have an answer for her somewhere.

“That sounds---” pointless. “....does it work?” She tried it in her head. She opened her eyes: she could see the swirl of gray in their tiles, the fluff of Morgan’s brown hair (which had grown out considerably since her death, and was its own wonder to watch--she could never have imagined knowing someone long enough to notice when their hair grew) in the corner of her eye, the shattered laptop over there, that glass she’d left out thinking she’d pour herself some wine and then forgot, the ticking ornate clock on their wall (was it really that late already?). Then what she could touch: the cool tile she was tapping her finger on, Morgan’s steady tapping on her back. If she reached her hand up, she could feel the fabric of Morgan’s shirt, and so she rolled it under her fingertips. And, of course, the ever present pull to Morgan that coated her skin. She could hear the ticking clock beyond them, the faint humm of the night behind them, and the distinct buzz of the fridge in front of them. She could smell Morgan’s lavender, and the garlic remnants of the pasta she cooked and promptly left on the stove. She licked her lips: she could taste cherry (she had a slice of pie earlier). “I wish I was better,” she confessed, “at something. I’m not much of a banshee anymore, and I can’t manage these feelings. If I could just...do one, instead of so little of either, maybe…” Deirdre trailed off, she closed her eyes as tears streamed down. Perhaps, she imagined, if she was better at explaining her thoughts, Morgan wouldn’t have to do this anymore. “I don’t know what to do anymore, about anything. I don’t think it’s possible for me to---” Know better, be better. “Would you be happier with--” Someone who could? “I don’t---” Like the idea of you spending time with the person who released the ghost who killed you, but I know you won’t listen to me, and I know you shouldn’t. I won’t ask it. And, so, “in what place do my feelings matter?” If they couldn’t be resolved, if they were unpleasant? “Would you be happier if---” these feelings could be hidden better? “Do you remember that it’s Mike’s fault Constance was able to kill you?” Did that matter at all to her, or had Morgan also forgiven Rebecca for something that shouldn’t have been?

Morgan smiled sadly at Deirdre and extracted a hand to wipe away her tears, smoothing out the tight wrinkles of worry on her face as she did. “No one knows how to manage their feelings all the time. And you’ve never even had much of a chance to try,” she said. “I think you’re doing pretty good. You just need to be a little kinder to yourself. Maybe give yourself more time to get the hang of it.” She was better at it than fucking Miriam, that was for sure. “And, while I think you are a very good banshee, I know I--” Am, or was, part of the problem. Human entanglements. Human love. And yet Deirdre had chosen her, kept choosing her, kept insisting that she would stay and be constant for her, and do it happily. Morgan trailed her fingers gently down the side of her face, concentrating intently on being soft, the way she wished the world would be for Deirdre. “I’m happy with you, Deirdre,” she said solemnly. “You’re the one that makes me happy. My whole mortal life, I was never happier than when I was with you. And maybe I haven’t been happy much since then, but you’ve had something to do with it, when I have. Don’t doubt that, Deirdre. I don’t want to do any of this without you.” She touched their heads together briefly and listened to Deirdre’s slowing breaths. She could just remember how it used to tickle her skin, make her squirm into a different position if it fell too close to her neck. She missed that, those traces of Deirdre that she would never fully recover. It was still enough to make her cry with aching.

“I do remember,” Morgan replied, giving Deirdre a firm squeeze before settling back into her gentle rhythms of touch. “Is that what this is about? Because Mike surprised us at the ritual, and he let Constance loose?” It was a fair point. In her place, Morgan would be on edge too. “What if I promised you something? I know, you always say no, but maybe something specific, like, ‘if Mike comes out to ruin everything, I’ll leave him behind,’ or I will do everything in my power to accomplish this task and come back safely to you, and if I reach a point where i think in my heart I have to choose one, I will pick coming home first.’ Something that will help you worry less. Something that will help you know this isn’t over yet. Because the place where your feelings matter is right here, Deirdre. It’s anywhere we’re together. And even when we’re not it’s right here.” She took Deirdre’s hand on her shirt and moved it down to her cold, still heart. “You always matter to me. So let me promise. Let me be with you. Let me see you even when you’re scared.”

What did being kinder to herself look like, Deirdre wondered. She thought to ask, then thought better of it. She was kind enough to herself, she figured. Kind enough to have allowed herself to listen to her feelings in the first place, she didn’t need anymore kindness. “So...it’s fine? It’s okay that I’m---this is okay? It’s not---” She swallowed. Where had her confidence gone away? How could Morgan be okay with seeing her like this, so far from the woman that she was supposed to be. “But would you be happier if---” If it could be someone who maintained their charisma at all hours, who never faltered like this? Who could be just as good---better, even? If that magical person existed, would Morgan be happier with her? She tried to tell her it was okay, that she understood. That all she wanted was to see Morgan happy, no matter if she was in her life or not. “I know that can’t be true, entirely, I know being this--not knowing how to handle my---I hurt you. With all the not talking, and I know it’s---” Bad. Wrong. And it had been months since then, and in that time she was given, she had gotten no better at it. “I know.” And for that, she could not accept forgiveness. If she could no longer be a banshee like she was meant to, and if she could not be faultless for Morgan, then where exactly did she fit? Is that what this is about? Deirdre did not answer. She knew the truth would ask for an explanation she could not provide. She knew less of explaining her emotion than she knew of understanding what they were. She let her hand rest against Morgan’s chest, then she curled her fingers around the fabric of her shirt, bunching it up in her weak grip. Did she still fit there, in her heart? Should she? The words, though she knew them well--about mattering to Morgan--held no meaning in her mind. She mattered to her mother, and her showing of it was so different. “No promise,” Deirdre grumbled, releasing the bunched fabric, trying to smooth out the wrinkles she made--trying to make it better, as if she’d never touched it. “Please don’t. I trust---aren’t those things you’d do anyway? I don’t want a---I don’t want---then all I’d think about are the loops and shortcomings and I couldn’t---please don’t give me that. I trust you more than I do any promise. Do you see why it---there’s nothing that can be done, do you see why it hurts to--” She gulped. And now Morgan knew, and now she would share that burden of helplessness. “I shouldn’t have brought this up. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have---” Her breathing slowly climbed back into something erratic, her heart sped up.

A tear rolled down Morgan’s cheek, unbidden, to hear Deirdre talk like this. It was so painfully familiar, from their past, from the pit inside her, it was so horribly, unfairly familiar. Then another fell. Another. “It’s more than fine,” she said. “It is okay, it’s always going to be okay. Deirdre--” She slid her arms around her tight, binding her against her chest. “All I’ve ever wanted is the real you, as much of you as I’m allowed. I want you when you’re scared, and I want you when you’re sad, and when you’re lost, and anxious, even angry. I want you, Deirdre. I love you and I want you so badly, even the parts you try to hide. I want to have them too. That hasn’t changed, I don’t think it ever will. I promise you I want you like this too. I promise it’s okay to be messy with your feelings. It’s kind of our thing, right? And I don’t want some fake happy all the time anything, I don’t even think if I’d know what to do with something like that, much less want it. I want to be with you however you are, for as long as you want me too.” She was beginning to babble, struggling with the urge to blame herself, or at least to ask why Deirdre wasn’t certain of this already. But she was in the pit, or something like it. She couldn’t see half of what was around her. She didn’t know. And not once in all her reassurances had she ever chided Morgan for wondering. How could she give anything less, however much her dead nerves fluttered with concern? How could she be any less kind, any less gentle with her love?

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have--

“Ssshh, I’m glad you did,” Morgan said. Moving her hand to rest over Deirdre’s heart now. “I want to know. I wouldn’t have been so flippant about it in the first place if I’d known. I don’t want you to hurt needlessly, but I do want to know. And I’ll try harder, I’ll be more careful, I’ll come back to you.” She pressed her palm into her chest. “Breathe again, babe. Hold onto me tight and breathe again.” She began to tap again, fingertips now on her chest, just over the space where her heart was climbing higher with distress. “You don’t want me to promise so I’ll just tell you: I’ll come back to you. I love you and I won’t let anything stop me from coming back. I’ll do whatever I have to, to keep this. I’ll come back. Now breathe…”

"Why are you crying? Why are—Did I—" Deirdre brought her hands up, cupping Morgan's face and wiping tears away with her thumb. Her anguish slipped away easily for concern, and she might have given up her attempts at explaining her feelings to focus on Morgan if her words didn't strike her still. "It's okay?" She asked, awed, then confused. "But that's—I just don't understand why—" She swallowed, vaguely aware then that she couldn't understand why she mattered to Morgan, still. Blind to any value that she had left herself, her imagination struggled to imagine the meaning to Morgan's assertions—but she trusted them, and was sure that could be enough. She opened her mouth to apologize again, but had just enough sense to stop herself. "I don't know why—I don't know what any of that means, for me, really. Like when you say I'm kind, and I don't understand how or why or what that means and I'm sorry because I know it's true, I know you believe it and it's important to you but I just don't understand. And I've never understood it. And I keep trying to and I can't and I—" Wanted to understand things. Wanted to know. And each moment she couldn't, she felt like the same little girl that begged for the world to be explained to her; why the humans cried and why they were so cruel and where she fit. And then she had her answer, and her mother explained it and then—then there was this. And her mother's teachings failed her here and the world was strange again. "My mother said they don't matter and it—if it matters to you then she was—" Wrong. And then what did Deirdre have left to cling to? What had she spent all that time learning? What purpose did her life have? It was too cruel, too selfish, to weigh these questions on Morgan. And so, she did not. Instead, she failed to breathe. Failed to stop her heart from kicking back up into a pace that was unnatural for her. She clasped her hand over Morgan's on her chest, her fingers curled into her palm to let her fingers tap their strange, magical rhythm. She obliged, holding tighter and breathing in time. As soon as her body relaxed enough for words, she tried them. "Don't be. More careful; don't be. I won't ask that. I can't—you can't ruin your life like that, by making it careful. Not like—you had so much of that, and I won't—I don't want you to do it again. I want you to live exactly how you want, as reckless or free or—" she swallowed, turning back to the breathing as her voice cracked too much to be coherent. When it was steady again, she went back. "I know I'm wrong. I know it's pointless to be so—it's just that—I won't know if something—and I can't stand not knowing. I need to know, I need to—" Deirdre heaved, she figured she'd spoken enough and slipped back to focusing on the tapping and the breathing. She tried to remember what she could see and touch and hear, instead of how panic and pain coiled around her.

Morgan’s eyes fluttered shut at Deirdre’s touch. She lifted a hand to press Deirdre’s closer, harder to her cheek. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. I just wish I knew how to tell you better, how I see you. How amazing you are, how much goodness you have in one hand, much less all of you. You know me and my feelings.” She gave a watery smile. “And you don’t really mind me, do you? You don’t think it’s bad, right?” She didn’t. Deirdre would never. But for some reason that gift was too difficult to extend to herself. “You don’t like to see me hurt, but you wouldn’t make me hide them from you. Why would I want you to do it either?” She turned her face inward to kiss Deirdre’s palm. “I could try to explain. If you want? Would you like me to? I could list all the things you’ve ever done that showed me how kind you are, or all the things you’ve said to me that show it, or all the people that would agree with me. I could show you the letters and gifts in my Deirdre box. I can do that, if it will help.” She brought her fingers down to her lips to kiss. “Your mother has been wrong about a lot of things before. And she is wrong, about your feelings. They are so precious to me, Deirdre. Aren’t mine to you? And if you were in your mother’s place, if you had a banshee daughter, you wouldn’t make the same choices, would you?”

Morgan held her as she breathed, making her lungs follow the rhythm, bringing Deirdre into synch with calm. “I am sorry that I can’t give you anything to make it better. I don’t know what it’s like to have that security, to ever be able to know. I just worry for you when you go, and I trust you. I’ve never had the chance of doing it any other way. I wish I could give you something more. Because I would. I love you and I would...” She pulled her close again, still tapping, still breathing, just and only for Deirdre.

"No, no, of course I don't!" Deirdre's response tumbled out instantly, her eyes wide at the idea she could ever have a problem with Morgan. "But that—" she tried to rationalize, swallowing thickly. "—isn't the same. I love you. I don't love—" Herself, though admitting it felt strangely terrible. "You don't—it's not your fault, Morgan. You've done so much for me, and you're great at...everything, really. Just knowing you love me is more than enough; it's strange and wonderful, and I don't understand that either but it makes more sense to me now than it did weeks ago." She relaxed into Morgan's touch, content enough to simply fall asleep. Half-hoping, in some perverse way, that she'd wake up and find this moment just a dream, and the pain of being rendered raw and vulnerable again would stop her from any such display in reality. "You don't have to say anything, Morgan. Prove anything to me; you shouldn't have to. You say it enough, it's just—it's my fault I don't understand it. And I'll figure it out." Deirdre said softly, sighing. She leaned in, ready to kiss Morgan and be done with the conversation. But she paused, hovering her lips just shy of Morgan. "What?" She breathed, then pulled back—eyes wide and brows furrowed in confusion. She leaned further away, betrayal claiming her features. With a short burst of energy, Deirdre pushed away from Morgan, tumbling back a few feet away. The betrayal, the hurt and anguish that played through her, though pointed at Morgan, wasn't for her. Directed inwards, she tried to parse Morgan's words to no avail. "Why would you say that?" Inside her, something was chipped at. If you had a banshee daughter… "That—" The answer sat plainly at the edge of her tongue, though she dared not to bring it into existence. "You shouldn't—it wasn't—she's not wrong. My mother isn't—she's not—" Her goal was to raise a remorseless killer, and she would have succeeded perfectly had her daughter not...gone off. Had her daughter not been sitting on the floor, confused and terrified like some child. Her shortcomings were her fault, not her mother's. But she knew, without doubt, that she could never raise a child the way she had been. To subject anyone to the senseless slaughter of animals, to break their bones and spirit, seemed wrong in a way Deirdre couldn't explain. Her great-great-grandmother tried to teach her with glass bottles, but the process was slow—her mother made mastery quick, with Deirdre spurred to individual study by the pressure she placed. It was vital a banshee learn quick, and more so for Deirdre to control her screams before adulthood. She was not wrong. And yet, "that's not—it's—" And yet, she could not speak to defend her, or refute the claim. So she sat there, tormented by thought.

“It’s not your fault either, Deirdre,” Morgan said, “You’re just learning. It takes time. And maybe even some practice. Isn’t that the way with everything important?” Morgan continued to hold her, smiling, nuzzling her as she relaxed. If Deirdre fell asleep like this, she fell asleep. Morgan would carry her to bed and hope she didn’t knock her legs into the stairwell on the way up. She was beginning to relax herself when Deirdre pulled back, her face no longer content but--betrayed, hurt.

Oh no. No. No, she’d done it again. She scrambled backwards in time to find the spot where she’d gone off course. How had she fucked it? She was telling Deirdre she was a better person than she realized, how had she fucked it? Morgan’s grip slackened and suddenly Deirdre couldn’t get far enough away from her. She was panicking, and she didn’t want-- Morgan’s hands fell to her sides. She watched, slack jawed and stiff with fear and tried to understand. “I--Deirdre--Please, I--”

My mother-- that’s not--it’s--

Oh. Oh.

She’d trapped them both. Deirdre wasn’t ready to understand how badly she’d been mistreated, how completely, unfairly wrong-headed her formative years had been. Morgan had sprung it on her recklessly, without even thinking, because to her it was simply true: Deirdre would never hurt a child the way she’d been hurt. She was too kind and understood too much of love, even now, to go through with something so cruel. If Morgan took her words back, she was siding with all of that hurt. If she pushed--stars, she didn’t even know what, but it didn’t seem good.

“Come back,” she whispered. “We don’t have to do this right now. We can just go to bed, and hold each other, a-and table this for another night. Come back…” Was she being selfish? Was it wrong to suppose that Deirdre couldn’t swallow the truth on her own right now, or that it was even possible to set it aside once it was staring her dead in the face? What if she had opened something they had no choice but to ride out, or break trying? “Talk to me,” she tried again. “Tell me what you need…”

There was only so much time her body would allow being apart from Morgan, especially having to watch fear on her face too. Deirdre moved back to the only place she knew true comfort, eager to work that panic off of Morgan. “Do what?” She asked softly. She could feel something hung in the air---something she could not name or see. Yet, somehow, something Morgan was privy to. Morgan always was wise to things Deirdre could not fathom, and so the banshee reached for her, asking to be taught how to see them too---if she could share in that world too, or simply know it. She searched for Morgan’s hand, groping along the floor blindly to avoid having to tear her eyes away from Morgan. “What is it---what are you saying? Can you tell me---I want to hear what you’re thinking.” And Deirdre was curious to know what conclusions Morgan had pulled that she struggled to see. Like that time in bed, she could feel there was something Morgan wasn’t saying. Deirdre had just enough sense to feel it was held back for her sake, but she could think of nothing she needed to be protected from. And so, she asked--begged--to be told. “What is it? I just---” She deflated, “I just want to understand. I don’t want to ask you to do this, if you can’t say it but I...I need you to explain it, please. I want to know. I think I--I think I have to know.”

Morgan latched her arms around Deirdre as soon as she came close again. She felt guilty for being this relieved, for not knowing if she was pressing Deirdre against her chest for her sake or for her own. She knew the last thing she wanted was for either of them to be alone tonight. And yet as Deirdre spoke, as she asked her so quietly, so desperately for answers, she knew she couldn’t deny her. How could she? She so rarely asked anything of Morgan outright. What else was there to do? Even if she tore herself out of Morgan’s arms again, even if she broke, Deirdre had asked. Morgan went stiff as she searched for some kind of resolve to pull upon. She hugged Deirdre tight, burying her face in her hair and shoulders, pressed hard so she could feel even some of it herself. She pulled back, pressing a parting kiss to Deirdre’s temple, and did her best to meet her eyes. “Okay,” she said softly. “Okay....” She wasn’t good at putting things gently. When she knew the answer to something, she blurted it out. But how did you blurt something out like this? How did she say without being callous, without taking part in that cruelty? “What I was thinking was…” She swallowed thickly. “That you wouldn’t. You would never make the same choices your mother did with you. You would be gentle to a child. You are--you already are gentle with children and they aren’t even yours. If you had a daughter, you would be kind to her, and you would teach her in a way that hurt as little as possible. Because you...you’re a good person. And I think some part of you knows that the things your mother did to you were wrong. And they were. They were so wrong. She shouldn’t have done any of that to you, even to teach you. And knowing that...knowing that even a little must be terrifying. What I wish you knew is that you didn’t ever deserve it, not once. You never deserved to be treated that way. No child deserves to be treated the way you were. Not you, not any of them. I can’t imagine how lonely it must have been. How lonely it must still be. And I...I don’t want you to stay that lonely, I want everything for you…” She swallowed, watching Deirdre carefully. “That’s, um, that’s what I was thinking…”

Deirdre listened, and when Morgan was done explaining, she leaned in and kissed her--plainly, just as she would any other time, as if nothing in particular had been said. In parting, she lingered, shifting her arms to hold Morgan close too. “Thank you,” she said first, and then let silence sit over them. Morgan was right; she wouldn’t. And part of her had come to question the validity of her mother’s teachings, Morgan was right about that too, as she was with so many things. But she needed to hear it clearly, that there was something wrong, before she could start to believe it, and there was no opinion she trusted better than Morgan’s. But there were things irrefutable: she wouldn’t have learned control so quickly without her mother, she wouldn’t have been half the effective killer without her, and she wouldn’t be here, with Morgan, without her. For these simple reasons, Deirdre could not condemn her, knowing Siobhan had done her job just as she was raised to. In the end, she wondered if there was something wrong with the legacy her family upheld. The one woman who might have given her the gift of an honest answer, despite its difficulty, just as Morgan had now, was dead. The question remained with her. “I like hearing your thoughts,” she said softly, choosing to make no explicit comment on if she agreed--she knew the pained smile on her face was proof enough. “Your childhood wasn’t easy either. How did you...get so wise about it?” And why hadn’t she figured it out? Deirdre lifted her hand, brushing back strands of hair away from Morgan’s face, kissing the space she cleared. “I’ve been looking for the answer to that for so long. It was---thank you. It was all I needed to hear. I just wanted to know, for certain.” She pulled back, the pain on her face had given way to affection and gratitude. “I want everything for you too; I love you, Morgan.”

Morgan had braced herself for any number of things after telling Deirdre the truth, but she hadn’t considered that Deirdre would kiss her. She let her, lips parted, too stupefied to give much in return. She brought her hands up to press her close again. Was the earth shattering feeling going to come later? Was Deirdre locking this away or controlling the fallout somehow? Morgan didn’t know, but the thing to do seemed to be to trust Deirdre and follow her lead. “I-I...I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was eighteen. If a licenced professional insists on using the word ‘traumatic’ to describe your childhood, you kind of have to listen.” She swallowed, meeting Deirdre’s pained smile with one of her own. “I could never be totally...I always had to leave things out, but eventually…” she shrugged. Eventually, there was no way around it. The only question she had left, that would always be left, was why. Why do this to her? Of all ways to ‘protect’ against the curse, why this? “And before all that I would visit other kids. And I’d see their moms, and their families. And I’d wonder...why other moms were...different than mine. Someone else’s mom tries to give you a nice dress or an extra snack because they feel sorry for you...wonder about it. You see them look at their kids in a way you don’t get, you wonder about that too. So the question was there, it was in me for a while. But it took time. You need to be kind enough to yourself, to give yourself that.” She looked at Deirdre carefully, daring to lift her hand to her face, to brush her fingers over the soft swell of her cheek, the line of her jaw. She still couldn’t imagine how anyone could touch her with violence or anger. Not when she was so soft, when she made herself so strong in spite of what she’d had to suffer. She met her gaze, searching and solemn. Was she really okay? Was there even such a thing as an ‘okay’ way to take any of this? “And I love you, Deirdre,” she murmured. “So very much. I do…” She pressed a kiss to her cheek and drew her into her arms again. “Is there anything else? Something I can do for you right now? Anything?” Deirdre wasn’t speaking about her mother outright, and Morgan didn’t dare press. She wanted her like this, in her arms, loving her, close to her, where Morgan could at least imagine that she was capable of comforting her. “Whatever you need, or want...”

“I don’t know what other families are like. And banshees are so rare that…I was told they’re all like mine. Or that they should be. My mother says--” Deirdre swallowed and cut herself off. Her mother said a lot of things, that there was only one right way to raise a banshee and this was it, that she didn’t need to bond with other people when she had her family, that all fae should be like them. If there were clues that could have helped a conclusion be made, she wasn’t allowed to find them. It must have been true, in a way, her mother was incapable of lying...or so she said. But this revelation weighed heavily on her, and she leaned easily into Morgan’s touch, tired from it. “No, I--I’m good. I don’t need anything. You have---you have no idea how much this helps me, Morgan.” And there were things she needed to do now, a conversation she was due to give her mother. But for now, all she wanted was to be with Morgan. “I’m sorry about yours, Morgan…” Deirdre’s soft smile turned lopsided, her eyes glinting with amusement as she continued, “though do you often think of me with a daughter or…” She grinned, her best effort to cover what was heavy and hard with something to give Morgan, even if it was the smallest moment of a joke. “I’m kidding,” she leaned in and kissed her quickly, before pushing off the floor and pulling Morgan up to her feet with her. “Bed? You said you wanted to be held, right? I can do that, I’d like to do that. And, well, I’d rather not think about our mothers while we’re there.” Deirdre smiled, holding Morgan’s words in her head. She must have given her a hard time, hadn’t she? With her own stubbornness to avoid being helped or comforted---she could explain with her words that this alone was great help, was more comfort than she’d ever known. And that Morgan helped her more than she could say in words. How hard was it to see how much she’d grown and changed and was led through the aching parts of her life all for the better? She offered her explanation the best way she knew how, a transparent gesture. “Will you carry me there?”

It was so insidious, how Deirdre’s mother insulated her child from anything that might help her. But she was trying. She knew now, and she was trying. She could get out from under it, and if there really was a force that gave a single damn about balance, it would make it so that Deirdre loved herself. Loved herself at least half as much as Morgan loved her. But Stars, how long until then? Another 32 years? Even if it was a blip in a 500 year lifespan, it was hardly fair. If Morgan could simply put her hand on her heart and carry her off to the finish line she would. But looking at her now, tired in her arms, quiet and weighted down as this revelation sank in. Morgan had to remind herself that Deirdre couldn’t lie to her when she said this helped. And so she let the touch of relief enter her. “Okay. Okay…” she said, smiling back. “And, uh, yeah. Me too.”

She went still with embarrassment at Deirdre’s joke, would have blushed even, if there was any fresh blood to rush to her face. She stammered wordlessly. She didn’t not think about it. How could she avoid it with Ariana coming by? Or Blanche? Or even how good she was to their friends? And then with the neighbor kids coming by the yard, seeing a screeching girl in pigtails and a princess costume launch herself at the squidward bounce house, how could she not? But it wasn’t serious. It wasn’t the future. She wasn’t planning a hostile takeover of the family estate in Ireland or counting the pros and cons of banshee siblings or picking out names. She couldn’t even imagine herself being brought along for something like that. She still struggled to imagine being held and kept with this much love more than a year later. (But Deirdre had trusted her, she’d listened to her over the sound of her mother and everything else she’d been taught. And she was so solid and firm in her arms. Could she have really meant it, when she talked about their lives being spent together? Could Morgan really be--?) Morgan beamed, sheepish, as Deirdre kissed her, and let herself be pulled up to her feet.

At the sound of her request, Morgan’s questions melted away and her smile turned bright. She asked, more often that was necessary, to carry Deirdre. The only time her banshee had considered it, she’d been zonked out with sleep already. “Yes. Bed, no more mom-talk for tonight, carrying you, yes!” She crouched low enough to sweep her off her feet in a bridal carry--that, thanks to Morgan’s size, left her a lot closer to the ground than she normally stood. Her legs dangled comically over to one side, all but grazing the island. Morgan tried to hold back her laugh behind her smile and failed. Deirdre was doing this for her, all for her benefit. And maybe she didn’t understand how much she gave already and labored under some awful premise of needing to offer ‘enough’, or maybe it was compulsive, as Morgan’s own affection often was. Whatever the case, Morgan couldn’t bring herself to turn it away. She walked them as far as the stairs, wincing as Deirdre’s shins knocked into the railing. “Um...maybe we should...put your legs around my waist instead,” she offered, easing her grip on her long limbs accordingly. “You know, we could do this more often,” she said, fumbling to adjust herself. “I really don’t get to appreciate your legs for days normally, but right now?” She smiled, running her hand along one of them, “I’m kind of smitten.”

Being carried by Morgan was...an experience, to say the least, though the grin of delight on Deirdre’s face did not falter. Instead it grew as she cackled when her legs grazed walls and tables, and finally when she hit the railing. She couldn’t remember the last time being this fun, but she had been more or less asleep then. “How am I going to do that?” She laughed, offering out a pleased humm as Morgan finally gave her legs the attention they were due. She hadn’t been dangling them over chairs and propping them up on tables to have them be passed over. “Are you? And to think, they’ve been so neglected. They’re almost mad at you about it.” Deirdre adjusted herself, following Morgan’s suggestion. “Now--” she grunted, gripping the railing to hoist herself up as she wrapped her legs around Morgan’s waist---like some strange koala-wrestler hybrid. “So is this what you meant? Because---” She was still taller than Morgan, and choosing--deliberately--to hold on to Morgan from the front, her body covered her face. “How’s your vision? Great view, I bet.” She used her hand on the railing to stop from toppling Morgan over as she pressed herself closer. “No, you’re right, this is much better. Carry me like this.” And, just as deliberately, she refused to let Morgan lean out to look at the stairs, wiggling and twisting to make sure she covered her sight. “Don’t drop me, Morgan, I am but a frail maiden. My bones are glass, my skin paper, my dietary habits...pie-centric. Oh, what pain to be dropped from…” she turned her head to try and calculate her distance from the floor. “...two feet.”

“Aww, well, I’ll be sure to apologize to your legs sometime soon. Don’t want them to think they aren’t as great as the rest of you.” Morgan said. She paused, steadying herself on the rail while she supported Deirdre, fighting back a bigger smile. Deirdre glowed with mischief in a way that made the angle of her eyes stand out and her cheeks flush. It was so fae, so her, Morgan nearly toppled them over with distraction by staring.

“Hey!” protested. “You are like...at least three feet off the ground. Almost four! You might actually bump something on the way down…” She wrinkled her face with mock upset. “Besides, there is one thing you’ve forgotten, besides our incredible physical proximity. It’s that I’ve been up and down these stairs a lot of times. And--” After one wobbly, not that confident step up, and one hand on the rail— She looked at Deirdre, gaping smugly. “Would you look at that?” She took another. “Guess this zombie doesn’t need to see to make do. I’m a one woman undead powerhouse! I bet you I don’t even need—” She made it three more steps before her foot slipped and she stumbled, almost crashing them both into the stairs with a yelp. Morgan straightened them and gave Deirdre a sheepish grimace. “We can write this off as ‘romantic gesture accomplished’ if you just wanna, you know...get to bed faster. As long as you actually let me help you with things later?”

“Mhm, you’re quite the wonder, my love.” Deirdre tightened her grip on the railing as Morgan wobbled, snickering as carrying someone blindly upstairs was as challenging as she imagined it would be. And though Morgan’s body wouldn’t break if she fell (Deirdre never would have dared anything like this otherwise, she didn’t think Morgan would even be capable of carrying her if not for the zombism), she could do without them tumbling down. “Or…” she tried, leaning out of Morgan’s face and curling her body around her side. “Or I make it easier for you. You’ve been up these stairs a lot of times, right?” Deirdre smiled softly, miraculously filled with more affection than she had been---though Morgan could not see her face. “It’s not so bad, letting you carry me.” She hummed, “wouldn’t want to stop now, would we? Seems like it might be a shame.” Her hand remained on the railing, steadying them through the impractical trek up the stairs. “I’ve just gotten so comfortable up here.” She paused, glancing up. It would be awhile before they made it to their bed, at the pace Morgan was going. But they had time, and Deirdre treasured moments like these just as much as she did the gentle ones shared in their bed. “I don’t see why we can’t have both,” she tried to press her lips to Morgan’s face, laughing as she nearly fell out of her arms with the gesture. “But it wouldn’t be so bad if you hurried.”

With actually being able to see where she was going, Morgan was able to do a lot less guesswork and a lot more hauling ass up the stairs. “And why’s that? Because I skip leg day or because this is just so much fun for you?” She teased. She smirked, almost glad she couldn’t flush anymore, and powered up the last bunch, fast as she could (which was not very, almost a slow trot) and spun them around triumphantly when she reached the top. “How’s that for the walking dead?”

It was only a few more strides down the hall before she kicked open their door and launched them with a jogging start into the bed, declaring, “Incoming!” Before they crashed onto the mattress hard enough to send throw pillows flying. Morgan smirked, a quiet laugh bubbling up in her throat, and propped herself up, arms folded, on her girlfriend’s chest, pinning her down. “You know, I think you’re onto something, this is a lot more fun,” she teased. “We should just stay like this all night. I definitely can’t think of anything else we could be doing.” She was getting better at holding a straight face, but one look at Deirdre, her hair splayed all around the sheets, the distress banished from her features, her smile wide, Morgan lost all hold of the pretense and kissed her, gentle and deep. The touch was still just a whisper of touch, half desire, half dream, and perhaps just a touch of everyday magic. But that had always been how they fit together, hadn’t it? Morgan pressed closer, harder, until the sensation clicked into place and her skin felt as though it had found somewhere to belong. She grinned against her girlfriend’s cheek. “Well, maybe I can think of one thing…”

"Walking is generou—Oh!" Deirdre gripped Morgan tighter as she charged, laughing with surprise—only mildly terrifying from the odd angle she'd latched on to Morgan—as they landed on their bed. So, that was what that felt like. Well, now she knew. "You're a dork," she chuckled softly, turning her head to look at Morgan, pleased as a cat, to be propped up on her chest. This was a delight rare and precious, and once thought taken away from her by death—yet, here it was. And it was coming back with shocking regularity. What else was she to want but to share in that happiness? But to see it last, to spread it out under her fingertips and play it out? Deirdre reached her hand up, pulling Morgan's hair out of the way as they kissed, happy enough to leave it there even as they parted. She felt like a fool. She always did, in some small way, in the face of the enormity of their love—but more so now, hearing the lift of Morgan's voice, the slight accent that hung around certain words. The crescendo of its drops and rises, seductive or teasing. To see her face taken with a smile, wide enough to crinkle her eyes, still in that cool shade of blue Deirdre had looked into countless times before. How obvious it was then that love could be like this, and how clear that her mother had been wrong about a hundred things. How could this be something she wasn't allowed to share in? How could Morgan be anything but the beautiful creature that she was? And like a fool she felt, realizing the answer was so obvious. Deirdre smirked, "does it happen to be same thing I'm thinking of?" And then she kissed her, long and deep, and again and again and until it was impossible to keep count and the desire to was replaced with another.

And like that, well into the night and cresting into the next day, she knew there was a lot of work to be done, or undone. But for the first time in her life, she was happy being exactly where she was.

#panic at the floor #wickedswriting #wr deirdre #wr chatzy #wr deirdre chatzy #//oops we did it again #abuse tw

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