just to be here again / grady&naomi

[tick 12a / calla]

The Keepers knock on your door early that morning. Beckerson lets them in, scurrying away quickly to put the kettle on, and your father calls everyone to the sitting room. They ask to talk to you privately, but of course, your family is your family. Your mother puts one hand on your shoulder and the other over her heart.

"Whatever he's done," She says, resigned like she's been waiting for the day, "We'd all like to hear it."

You can see Owen kick his feet up on the ottoman and stifle a smirk.

The head Keeper just sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. "Your son's enrolled at Salvatore, yeah? We're conducting a few interviews with their students." He shifts his weight. "New body's turned up."

And you had heard the rumours about Cassius, felt the shockwaves that traveled through the student body and mourned the loss of your little typewriter when he was finally found. When they say Cleo's name you mother gasps but you don't even hear it. Owen's smirk gets wiped from his face and all the walls seem to close in on you.

That can't be right - because Cleo is Cleo. She's a perfectly manicured little cockroach that's impossible to get rid of. She's your girlfriend, your cover story, the queen to your king.

She was.

Your statement to the Keepers is a blur. It's an amalgamation of stressed nerves and a public breakdown and the oncoming symptoms of a migraine. When they finally leave, you practically throw yourself up the stairs and lock yourself in your room. There's a canvas tucked away in your closet that you pull out, one that you never fully finished, all wine-reds and dark purples, and you stare at it for a very, very long time.

There are bruises under your eyes when you leave, and your hair isn't done when you turn the street corner and head closer to the square. Your collar isn't even pressed let alone starched, and it makes you walk faster to the clinic, avoiding eye contact with the receptionist.

You had rehearsed what you were going to say to Naomi - practiced telling her off in the mirror, demanded your reflection to tell you why she was lying. But when you step in the room and see her face, you blanch. The whole hour of prep before this seems to fly out the window. She looks awful and it almost makes you crack.

Because it makes you think of the last time you properly talked to her, when you'd been cornered with Maverick in that music room and you'd said such horrible things to both of them.

You try to look confident when you cross the room and sit in the chair beside her bed, picking at a nail and watching her watch you.

"What is this, then." You bite out, because you remember making sock puppets with her in the garden and how good she was at making up little stories to play out. You remember later being so worried about the stories she'd tell people about you. "Is this another little act?"

"Do you think this is funny?" You ask her, and your voice breaks so badly that you have to focus on a spot over her shoulder instead of her face. You grip the armrests of the chair to stop your hands from shaking.

"I know you don't trust me." You say harshly, "But if this is a prank, just tell me. Because it's a pretty fucking shitty one."

You raise your chin and cross your ankles and clear your throat, trying not to stare at the mess of her mouth, "I won't spill, alright? Just tell me."

[[nyte]]

Looking at Grady always felt more sad than angry. Naomi had every right to hate him. He was mean, all pomp and prowess. He'd made it to the top of the food chain and he'd be damned if he let anyone forget it. Maybe because he was always teetering at its edge, one secret away from losing it all.

It's nothing like being with Maverick, on equal ground and wanting to fix what's unfixable. Naomi and Grady are more similar than not, making careful calculations and willing to commit necessary evils. He knows every terrible thing she's ever done. For her own sake and for other's.

Is it any different now? She wanted to live, she wanted Cleo to die if that's what it took. There was relief mingled within terror when she realized she knew the word and Cleo had no clue. She was a roach, a pest stuck to the bottom of Maverick's shoe.

She's never felt more disgusting than right now, wincing as Grady lets the chair beside her screech across the floor. How he always manages to bring out the worst in her, she'll never know. The way she burrows further into the covers is all bad habits come back, trying to shield as much of herself as she can from his scrutinizing gaze.

Did he really love Cleo? This is accusation, not mourning. "I threaded the needle then?" She snaps, with as much bite as she can manage in her current state. It's poetic that her injuries have made speaking such a chore. All those words she chewed on carefully, certain to only let them loose when it was safe, now burn. More painful than they are precious.

She looks at him with contempt and something softer, trying to meet his eyes and cursing herself every time she wavers. Hopefully he hasn't forgotten all those evenings huddled under comforters, scared of the dark and seeking comfort. Even after all these years, Naomi is a coward.

Every breath aches, it's like she can still hear the rope groaning. "It made us play a game of hangman. Cleo lost." She hasn't told a single soul this, the only reason she trusts Grady is this twisted little web of mutually assured destruction they'd woven over the years. She cared that Mav would be angry and Clara would hate her.

Grady was so far beyond repair that it was almost comforting. She found the strength to fight back tears if only to make sure he wouldn't see her cry. "The word was sewing,"

She remembers the forest and is forced to close her eyes against the strength of the memory. It's a long time before she can pull herself back into the present, though the claustrophobic sensation remains, "Believe me or don't, but I've never lied to you Grady."

He should know that.