Work Text:
April 25th, 2012
Ned hadn't slept in three days- the uncontrollable urge to enter his brother's bedroom every hour of the night to check his pulse, check that he was still there, was overwhelming. The need to see him- in his room, in the garden, everywhere, was eating him alive. Ted had been returned with the other hostages two months prior, the scars of the explosion beginning to whiten around the edges in their fading, the gaunt, sickly look he carried when his siblings saw him again for the first time replaced with a look far more familiar- something softer, warmer, something more human, something that wasn't fear swallowing their brother whole. They watched that life come back to him, slowly, day by day- the paleness of his skin shifted from uncanny to something natural, ribs less visible from starvation, the tremors in his knuckles and the twitching of his ankles slowing to menial flexes rather than obsessive ticks.
He felt like he was watching his brother- his other half- come back to him, slowly, but the urge was still there. The fear was eating at him, the fear that he'd go to check on Ted one day and he'd be gone again, the fear that the only trace left of him would be whatever scattered project he was conducting earlier that morning, the fear that the next time he'd see his brother, they wouldn't be lucky enough to be reunited safely. He knew in the long run there were more dangers waiting for them because of the family they were born into, but he couldn't shake the paralyzing terror that this wouldn't be another problem they could escape, that this would be something that'd kill them.
Slowly, the boy creeped down the hall of his home, past the door of Sinead's bedroom door slightly ajar, past the door to the closet where they kept scrapped projects of tracking devices and SOS monitors Ned and Sinead had compulsively built when Ted came back to them, just in case he vanished again. He stood in front of a closed door, no sounds audible besides the quiet dashing of cars outside and the own franting fluttering of his heartbeat behind his ribs. There was a crack in the door right above the handle, from a time nearly two years ago when Ted and Sinead had an argument over a phonecall with their mother, and Ted slammed his door so hard Ned felt the vibrations behind his eyes. The echo of the sound in the back of Ned's mind made him visibly naseous- that was a different time, a time when they didn't stare at Ted for hours worried that he'll vanish from their sight if they look away, a time where they didn't hug him so tight that his spine creaked out of fear of it being their last time, a time where they didn't understand the fear of never seeing one another again.
He pushed open the door slowly- the creak barely audible, completely quiet, after Ned had personally replaced the creaky hinges after a week of them startling a jumpy, traumatized Ted into a frantic pulse and visible flinching. In the bed, exactly where Ned left him three hours prior, was Ted curled up under a stack of blankets, his window closed and locked tight- nobody getting in, no chance of them silently slipping in and taking him again. His brother's eyes were completely closed, face something between blankness and peace, freckled cheekbones barely visible from his hair laying over the side of his face. He was exactly the same as earlier- the only difference being a slight change in his position, proof he was moving, proof he was alive.
Ted's room had changed some since his time back- less organized, braille books that Ted would've never left just lying on his nightstand a year ago left opened, his headphones he loved to use while listening to audiobooks haphazardly at the foot of his bed, a stack of letters between him and the other hostages left at his desk. Ned had learned quickly that his beloved brother, who was a rather convincing speaker and writer, wouldn't give up his love for penning letters to his friends just due to his blindness. He had spent a week with Sinead modeling his computer keys to have their letters ridged so he could type, setting up a printer so he could type as much as he'd like and print out whatever he needed to seamlessly after. Then, in return, he'd use a program they had developed that'd scan letters on paper and read it aloud to him, so he could read his friends letters. Ned wasn't sure what they were talking about- and Ted was awfully protective over the letters, shooing Ned and Sinead away whenever their curiosity piqued. Particularily, he kept all of the letters he had with Natalie Kabra kept in a locked box. When Sinead gently asked one day why he kept them locked up, he explained that they experienced something together that he isn't willing to share with anyone else- and although it hurt to hear the rejection, Sinead understood.
It hurt, knowing that Ned and Sinead would never be able to fully understand Ted now. They were triplets, bonded from birth, their lives revolved around one another since before they were old enough to walk. Even now, they're close- but they've drifted, just slightly, since then. Small things, Ted eating in his room during meals some days rather than with them, or keeping his letters private, or taking long walks around their neighborhood property on his own- immediately deciding he no longer wanted to go if Ned or Sinead offered to go with him, or even the fact that he'd visit Amy and Dan seperately from them for hours, even though the three had never been particularily close.
The gap made sense- he had gone through something they would never be able to fully understand, something they couldn't explain or experience or anything. It was a situation completely unique to him, something that was for him and the other hostages to share, their experience alone. It wasn't something Ned wanted to force his way into understanding, but he always wished he could mend the gap with his brother, find a way to make him open up- just a little bit, show him a letter, or take him on one of his long walks, or ask him to eat with him, or anything. He knew his brother was still adjusting- but it hurt, so badly.
Now, staring at his sleeping brother, he stepped forward just slightly- painfully attuned to Ted's heightened hearing, and pulled the edge of the blanket up around his shoulders just slightly. Ted stirred, but didn't wake, not as Ned shifted the blanket, and not as his brother slipped out of the room either.
December 25th, 2012
The sound of glasses clinking and chatter drifted outside from the open window, the lingering scent of cranberries and sugar cookies tangling in the air, the night sky gleaming midnight blue, littered with thousands of white sparkling stars. Snow was falling lightly, dusting the backyard of Amy and Dan's manor with a white glow from the ground to the sky, millions of snowflakes dancing in the starry sky, landing on the blanket of white below to join their sisters under the quiet crunch of Ted's boots. Years spent in this backyard- whether it was under the ownership of Amy and Dan, or under the same property that Grace Cahill had owned his entire life and then decades before- he knew this place, this was familiar, this was home.
His jacket was tipped with white at the shoulders, snow landing unceremoniously on him, melting into his flushed skin like water droplets finding home. He felt one prick the tip of his nose, the tinge of cold only there for a fleeting moment, before it was gone- the ephemerality of the moment hauntingly loud in silent volumes. The temperature was low, not freezing, just low- low enough for him to keep his pale, scarred hands tucked into his coat pockets, not low enough to send him back inside into the commotion and chaos of a family reunited, unaware it'd be the last time they'd all be in the same spot again. Four people knew- Sinead, who had organized everything, Ned and Ted, who were living it, and Amy, who Sinead had told they'd be leaving, but didn't give out their new address or where they'd be moving. All Amy was told- Singapore, permanently, to not attempt contact unless it's an absolute emergency- and if it is, to only contact her, not the boys. Sinead told Amy everything- her fear of losing Ted to this family again, the terror of never having them again, the sleepless nights filled with worries no phone call or check-in could soothe. Amy understand- devestatingly, the admission heavy- but she still understood.
The idea of being seperated from his family, his friends- the only people who he could turn to in a world that felt too heavy, too real for him- terrified him. Nobody outside of the family understood, they weren't aware about Vespers that terrorized and kidnapped people, or serums that granted more power than any mortal person could handle, or missions through France, Austria, Russia, Italy, Indonesia, Japan, all over the world, or of a game that destroyed the worlds largest family for five hundred years. He didn't have anyone to turn to in a world that felt like he was seeing everything with a cheat code full of information- full of details, full of names he couldn't trust and places he would have to visit and things he'd have to give up to keep his life. The people he had suffered with, lived with, survived with, were all he had. His family.
The sliding door pushed open quietly, the sound of snow crunching under a pair of heeled boots echoing through his head, the sound both nerve-wracking and painfully familiar. Natalie stood at his side, her head tilted- hair pinned back in a loose bun, tendrils falling down to frame the side of her face and neck, her red dresses hem hanging low enough to keep her warm, but luckily high enough to not be stepped on in the snow. She raised an eyebrow at his silence, at the quiet distance he had put between the family and him when he slipped outside right after dinner as everyone was beginning to use their gifts, chatting, enjoying their night together.
"Theodore," she began, her voice cutting through the quiet like a hot knife- the faintest tremor under it. She noticed it as he did, silently cursing herself for it. As she spent more time with him over the course of the last year- hours spent reading on his bed while he worked at his desk, nights where she curled up on one end of the living room couch with him on the opposite end- where within minutes, her head had moved to find the crook of his shoulder instead- she knew his tells, knew when something was wrong with him. "... Where're you thinking?"
It was a quiet acknowledgement- she wasn't asking him to share what was running through that brilliant head of his, but to let her in just a bit, tell her where his thoughts were bringing him. He blinked, but his head didn't move- eyes fixated unseeingly at the deep sky, stretching on for what looked like, to her, forever. She never fully understood where these thoughts brought him, never could completely understand how he could stare at one thing for hours just lost in his thoughts. She knew his brain was different- the thoughts of a genius like him, a prodigy, someone who saw people like puzzles to solve and problems like equations to weigh carefully rather than to act on impulsively could never be equal to the thoughts of a regular girl. Well, as regular as she liked to call herself- she wasn't too different from him, seeing threats in friends and things to take down in situations that could be solved with quiet logic. He was much more calculated, cautious- each move planned like he was playing a life-long game of chess, much in comparison to her, who was impulsive, sharp, defensive. In a way, she felt leveled around him, more measured. Like a measuring cup, scooping up flour- material and powder still piling up around the rims, waiting for a knife to push the excess off, smoothing it all off to the side. The perfect amount- orderly, finite, but still willfully raw and existent.
"I'm sure the moon is pretty tonight." He replied, his tone wavering between the line of monotone and cracked with some emotion. She blinked, a bit taken aback- it was sudden, even before losing his sight, he had never been one for appearances or what looked nice. She distrinctly remembered as children watching him and his siblings ignore the divine paintings lining the walls of Grace's house, paying no mind to flashy fashion or aesthetically-pleasing order, like it was average. When Grace had mentioned a new painting to Ted as a child, Natalie had watched as he acknowledged it minimally- complimented the skill needed for it, the effort behind it- but said nothing about the appearance. Nothing along the lines of "How beautiful," or "It's nice," it was simply unimportant to him.
"... It is." She planned each word carefully- like how she had seen him do. Bit her tongue inside of her mouth like he had mentioned that he did as a one-off joke once during captivity when she asked why his mouth was bleeding, glanced between his face, the snow covering his shoulders, the stars and the trees and the moon he had mentioned. Mimicking what she noticed him doing when he was lost in thought, mimicking him. "It has a sort of wintery glow to it, as one would expect. Why do you say that?"
There goes "subtle".
He blinked, finally tilting his head over towards hers- his nose and hair tipped with the same white as the ground, cheeks flushed a slight of red with the gentle wind, cloudy green eyes softening impossibly as if he could even see her. The soft expression shifted momentarily distracted, swept up and away as he opened his mouth to speak, before closing it again, a deep breath wracking through his body, before his lips curled up just slightly, a smile playing on the edges.
"It's just nice to think about- seeing it again. It's been years. I've missed seeing what it looks like, especially through the years. I'm sure it's just as beautiful as it's always been, probably much more by now." His tone crossed the line he had danced at earlier, filling with an emotion that was subtle, but evidently existent. Natalie's eyes scanned his side profile- the curve of his nose, the way his eyes didn't reflect the light like they once had due to the cloudiness, the smattering of freckles that looked vividly familiar- ah, the answer was right behind her; freckles that looked like the stars. There was no hint of mockery, no indication he was playing a trick on her- just this raw, vulnerable amazement, like he was intently aware of the beauty right in front of his eyes. A kind of warbled wonder you only get when there's something worth more than anything else you've seen or owned.
Natalie glanced away for a second, his eyes found her again.
"I suppose..." She trailed off, acutely unaware about his lingering shift towards her, unseeing eyes finding her even in the state of blindness. Something Ted had learned was that even in blindness and sight, duress and peace, livelihood and stillness, his body language was imperciably tuned with hers, eyes practically burning a curling path over to her direction like second nature, something he hadn't meant to master but became almost disappointingly familiar with. His eyes finding her felt like coming home, it felt like choosing comfort in a moment of confusion, that cloudy, nasty feeling of being unaware completely destroyed just by feeling the shift of his eyes. Not seeing her, not searching to find what he could no longer see, but lingering, resting, finding their path in a familiar motion he had spent years doing until it was casually second-nature.
... Still, his sudden interest in the moon was beyond her.
With half a breath, Ted suddenly spoke again, "I'm leaving." His tone was quick, choked out- forced, like he had to physically push the words out of his throat. She didn't have much of a reaction, nodding slowly, not fully processing the depth of his tone. It seemed over the top for him just saying he was leaving. "... Alright- well, it's a bit late, do you plan to walk? Ian could drive you home."
A bitter laugh snuck past his lips at the offer, his head shaking in a slow, almost mechanical twist, shaggy hair framing his face when he looked down. "No, Natalie. I'm leaving the country. We're moving to Singapore."
The silence was mortifyingly cold, the words settling over her like a blanket of fresh now, the only sound being the wind whispering around her ears and head, now seeming too noisy, and the distant chatter of the house. She blinked once, twice, before opening her mouth to speak, closing it again, eyes finding the ground to stare, to confirm the floor hadn't actually been pulled out from under her from how her knees felt like giving out. Singapore, across the world, somewhere that she had only been during the clue hunt and hadn't paid much mind to. She wanted to hear him laugh- that dreadfully annoying, sly laugh, one that she thought sounded suspiciously like a foxes giggle, for him to admit he's joking and wanted to see her freeze. She desperately wanted to breathe a breath of relief, raise a hand to slap the side of his face with her knuckles just so that the sound was loud enough to break the tension, but gentle enough to not hurt him. She wanted to hear him break into hearty laughs at her moment of fear, call it endearing how much she cared, grab her hand and bring her back inside where it was warm and not silent and where she could feel the wooden floor, strong and sure, beneath her feet while he apologized for scaring her.
No laugh came, no breathy admission of lying, no apology. Just steely silence, his face set with a new hardness she hadn't seen in ages, the softness she wasn't even aware she was drowning in earlier completely gone. No longer having it there, warm and waiting for her to glance at, was the only thing that made her painfully attuned to how winded she felt without it.
"... What-?" She asked, finally stuttering it out like she wasn't sure what else to say- because she wasn't. What could she say? That she didn't care? She should've said that, should've shrugged and wished him well and turned around and walked inside, should've kept her head from wandering back to the hours of time spent together, the days he spent at her house fixing electrical systems she had paid Dan to carefully mess up so she could have an excuse to have him over, the tens of times their faces had been inches apart and he glanced away the second her eyes found his lips, the heaviness of "when, if not now" weighing on her. Every time she told herself it didn't have to be now, that they had time, that one day he wouldn't move away and one day she'd-
"Sinead decided it." He cut through her thoughts, another interruption, perfectly timed. Like he knew what she was waiting for and knew how to make the thought vanish from her mind or from her grasp just as her fingertips grazed it. She knew it wasn't on purpose, but the way he was right in front of her, inches from her, right at the edge of her grasp, drove her crazy. Not because he ran, but because he made her acutely aware of what she was trying to do, and caused her to second-guess herself. He didn't resist, didn't make her feel like she was pushing too hard- but the fact he was there, so realistic, so deep, so thoughtful, it all intimidated her to freezing fear, to where she pushed him away and told herself "not yet" a thousand times without even questioning if yet would ever come.
Now, faced with this- she wasn't sure it was coming.
Out of her reach again.
"... You don't have to go with her, you have people you could stay with here." A solution, thrown haphazardly out to see if it'd stick, the desperation to keep him close eating at her, the sense of loss already creeping up her spine like it knew what was coming before she could fully process it herself. "Like Amy and Daniel, or Uncle Fiske, or-"
"No."
His tone was flat, decided, leaving no room for an argument that she so desperately wanted to break out. There was noting that indicated he'd listen, nothing that said he'd take an alternative, nothing that promised her that she could try to say anything that'd change his mind and make him stay. So close, once again. Just at the tip of her fingers, too far to grab, close enough to feel like a tease, like a torment. It made her mad with desperation.
"I know it's... from a good place." He started, his words slow and hesitant. "She's doing it because she's worried- terrified, even, of losing us. Of something happening. Of one of us ending up dead. She wants to get us out of this family, bring us to a place where people don't associate us with the name Cahill or our branch or where we were while the Vespers were free. Somewhere that she doesn't feel like she'll lose us."
The silence was back- gnawing, cold, but not wrong. Natalie knew what he meant- she'd seen it in Ian when she came back to him, saw the way that his eyes widened whenever someone said her name in public, the way his hand twitched towards her wrist whenever someone passed them in the street- ready to grab and shield her. He knew the fear, the feeling of constant danger and risk, and Natalie saw it in him every moment they were together, and she was sure it was there even stronger when they were apart. She knew it made sense- that Sinead had her heart in the right place, that her brothers meant the world to her, but the idea of Ted being nothing but a memory, a lingering presence, a scent of citrus and old books that would fade from her life within months, a name that'd be spoken in her house for the last time ever, and then nothing but a ghost from her past from when she thought peace could take the form in another human.
"... I know." She muttered, her voice quiet with frayed edges, "I know she wants to protect you and your brother. But..." she trailed off, her eyes shifting back to him- his own lingering on her for just a second before they were back to the floor again. A push and pull dance they'd mastered but refused to acknowledge. Her eyes were on him and his were on the ground, the second hers were gone, his were back again. "I guess I have nothing else to add."
Silence.
Deafening, painfully attuned to their situation.
She waited for something- an admission, the sound of snow crunching as he walked off, anything.
The distracting feeling of a hand on the back of her head was the only thing that pulled her away from her thoughts for even half a second before there were lips pressed against hers and her eyes were closing, body turning instinctively, practically curling around what felt like the most natural thing in the world-
...
"I knew it."
Jonah's words cut through the tension as he pointed out the bay window to the two figured shadow-cladden in the dark outside, the faces of amused cousins and dramatically gagging Holt sisters peering out like they were watching the climatic ending to an opera. Amy's quiet "ohmygodohmygod" matched with Dan's snickering, paired with Ian's look of pure confusion and Sinead's eyes practically popping out of her head, all created a wild mix of reactions in response to the situation unfolding right in front of them. A hand shoved itself into Sinead's face, Jonah's palm open.
"Put'er here, Sinead. I told you he couldn't stay off her."
His obnoxiously loud laugh broke the amazed silence as Sinead slapped a fifty dollar bill into his hand, the room bursting into lively chatters and what sounded like Amy telling Ian to not interrupt as Ian scrambled for the door, followed only by "... are they done yet?" from a confused and mildly entertained Hamilton eating chocolate ice cream out of a coffee mug with a plastic spoon.
It felt like an eternity before the two finally broke apart, Ted's hand untangling itself from the back of Natalie's head where it had curled around her tendrils, her own cheeks flushed a vivid shade of red oddly reflective of the dress she wore, which now had the slightest bit of snow on the bottom hem from where her foot had shifted. His eyes were gone again- avoiding her, not out of embarrassment, but like he was overwhelmed by the level of intimacy shared. Within moments, the confused excitement was gone again, replaced by a quiet question- "does this change anything?"
The answer was in front of her within seconds as Ted turned on his heel, his body shifting away from hers.
It didn't change a thing.
He'd still be gone tomorrow, and she would replace the gap between her ribs with something fake enough to distract her from what was missing there.
He never came back.
Two years passed, with nothing. No letters, no word, no texts, no calls. He had disappeared into a life of his own and left her with a hole in her heart that no amount of family dinners or blocking out memories could fix. The scent of citrus lingered in her family's garden every spring, and come autumn, the scent of old books from her library was overwhelmingly strong.
Three years went by, and the snow that fell on her windowsill every winter felt like a silent admission of loss rather than the beauty of a million unique snowflakes dancing together midair, landing softly, finding their way home, where they belong, where they were meant to be.
Four years went by, with one letter from Sinead at Amy's doorstep- an invitation for her and Dan to a science fair in Germany where she'd present a device she'd constructed that could create forums that mimicked that of any periodic element using only natural materials. Amy and Dan went, and they came back with nothing to say. Natalie asked Amy if she had seen him, and Amy informed her that Sinead said he had moved out and was living on his own in Singapore still.
Five, six, seven, eight, nine years passed, her finger became heavier with the weight of wedding bells and empty vows she made to a faceless nobody in a suit that Ian said "suited her tastes finely" when introductions happened. He looked at her- at her, not in her direction, not with unseeing wonder, but with a polite acknowledgement that made her naseous.
The moon came up every night, burning a hole into Natalie's head like a living, breathing entity of guilt, and she always wondered if he'd ever see the moon again. Not like it mattered to him if he did or didn't, it was never the moon he wanted to see again anyways.
And she was right, eventually the citrus did go, and she did say his name for the last time- once, to herself, in the middle of December, a quiet acknowledgment, a quiet admission, a quiet promise to herself to never know peace again.