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plumforpersephone · 2 years

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LADY LAZARUS GOES AGAINST GOD;

a Watch Your Step headcannon, @charnelhouse

I've thought about this for quite some time now. I have ruminated. I have fantasized. I have theorized. What happens next? Where does this story go? I have microscoped. I have dissected. I have made bloody all of its parts. I have analyzed and now, I—humbly—somberly—respectfully—lovingly—politely—present my findings.

DISCLAIMER: This is long. Probably unnecessarily long. I sat on it for a while as though time would shrink it down for me, but somehow it only grew larger. [title based on Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath & Girls Against God by Florence + the Machine]

DISCLAIMER: This is rife with plot holes, inconsistencies, out-of-character behavior, unrealistic dialogue (because how do people actually talk? asking for me), uneven pacing, serious extrapolating, narrative by someone who doesn't understand narrative, one too many Hozier references.

DISCLAIMER: This is not what I think should happen. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that what you've come up with is better and more fitting.

Behold, my thoughts. My Post-Chapter Twelve Headcannon.

THESIS: Faire’s separation from the guys has always been inevitable. The events of Chapter Twelve are the final nail in the coffin their domestic bliss gets buried in. Everything the guys have done, they have done together. If Pope killed her father, then so too did Frankie, Will, and Ben. Pope shows no remorse, telling her bluntly, “your dad died because he had to.” It kills her. Baron reveals that the mob world has been buzzing with rumors that the guys use her as a sex slave, and Pope made no effort to shut them down. And that kills her dead.

It obliterates, pukes on, laughs at, and sets fire to her rose-colored glasses. Without their relative safety, Faire is forced to confront her reality painfully and frightfully sober.

She wants to go home. Home is her house. Her mother’s house? Her father’s?

Amid all his scheming and plotting, Baron takes over responsibility of the house. He brings in professional cleaners to exorcize the ghost of her mother. Every inch of the house sparkles. The floorboards, the windowpanes. The vents and doorstops. He hires a morally scrupulous interior designer.

He brings in electricians, plumbers, and landscapers from a company he forgot he had control of. New wiring, pretty new light fixtures. There is a giant cascading chandelier to greet you in the entryway of the home; it’s been there since before she was born. Under her mother, it dusted and dulled. Now it reflects light and wealth. The rug her mother died on is taken out.

The door handles in the home that were once stuck are now shiny, easy-to-move things. Every light switch in the house works. There are no more dark corners. The rug her mother died on is taken out. The carpets are replaced, the floorboards redone. It still looks like her home, kind of. Or maybe a version of her home in a parallel universe. What her home would look like had her father not been killed.

New water facets are water-stain resistant. The kitchen is redone with stainless steel appliances. The dishware is packed into a cardboard box to make room for shinier cutlery. Is the house opulent? No. It doesn’t scream wealth like the penthouse. It tries to be homier, like a place where a mother loved her daughter.

And maybe it works for Faire. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe she’s not stifled by the presence of her ex-mother; maybe it’s comforting. Maybe she finds herself unable to breathe anyway. Maybe it feels like home, but mostly it just feels like something is missing.

Her mother’s bedroom is made perfect, of course. The pill drawer is emptied. A brand new bedroom set. The bed sheets are new and smell clean. Sunlight pours in through newly washed, spotless windows. If she didn’t know any better, it could have been a guest room. There are signs that a person with history used to live in it—maybe there’s a picture of Sioban and Charles together, cleaned up in a nice frame. Fresh flowers. A closet without secrets.

Baron has the cleaners organize papers, documents, and family valuables into cardboard boxes. There are dozens of them, all filled with ghosts and packed with a past she knew nothing of. This preoccupies her—becomes her new project. A few areas of the home are still in need of fixing up. She buries herself in what she finds. She cries over pictures, stung by the morbid curiosity of her father’s past. How her parents met. The role her father played in building Ashford. Baron slithers like a snake around her neck, giving her the answers she wants but with suggestion. Truth, but with a twist. Truth, but at a cost.

In the wake of her dissolution with the boys, she views herself underneath a brand new microscope, under a more sober lens. She finds the view humiliating. She feels she was weak with the guys—foolish. Childish. She oscillates between hate, dislike, and tolerance for them, loving them all the while. Hating herself for this, but accepting they are still somehow an intrinsic part of her. She wants those men to know she is not some wilted flower of a girl, desperate for their attention. She does not need them, even if she wants them. She wants to prove that to herself, first. Or maybe to the guys first, or maybe Baron and Theo first.

She does not want to become ruthless. She does not want to inherit her father’s blood-soaked beast. She just wants to trim off the gristle and fat of her emotions, her softness. It’s like getting a divorce. It’s more like a soul transplant than it is a makeover. [Theo: “You look lost. It’s endearing, but you’ll need to learn to school your features in this crowd."] [Baron: "You’re soft. I’m not sure what they see in you."]

You’ll need to learn to school your features in this crowd. To do this, she tries to sever her softness like it’s an infected limb. It’s a bit of a hack job, and she’s not quite perfect. She sees the need to be like Will, to be like Frankie or Pope. Present an idea of herself to the world and the people around her; something that if not hard, is strong; if not impenetrable, then vengeful.

The guys see her in flashes—on neutral grounds. She is somewhat unrecognizable up close. She looks cool and neutral. To them, it’s like looking at her through frosted glass. If they squint, they may be able to see the real her. Her emotions no longer play as easily across her face. They are flooded with guilt as they see her try to mold herself into something new. Her father never wanted this life for her, and yet they baptized her in it. It guts them.

She floats in and out of this robotic, closed-off state, warring with her softness. Not that she has unproblematic Mother Theresa holy-like softness or innocence or goodness to her. She’s perfectly capable of being an asshole. She can and has cut people off in traffic, flipping them off when they’ve dared honk at her. She is just conscientious of other people’s feelings, does not want to partake in killing people, finds unnecessary and gleeful violence to be quite primitive, gets sick at the sight of blood, and has a very normal good & bad morality scale.

Baron has a specific role, a purpose, in store for her. Marrying the previous guy-in-charge’s daughter isn’t a totally unwelcomed look for him. Is there a play to be had there, an upper hand in his mob dealings? He wants to groom her for the business. He, too, holds respect for her father; is it idolization? Simple respect as a colleague? What traits did Charles Faire pass on to his daughter? How can Baron manipulate those skills to work for his benefit?

Baron likes to taunt her with the guys. He sees right through her and knows she doesn’t hold a schoolgirl crush. He wants to break it out of her. He wants to kill that part of her. “They did not love you. They did not need you. They did not care for you.” Her pain is Baron’s strongest tool to keep her with him. Does he invent sightings of the guys? Did a mob associate see Benny or Fish buried beneath a pile of women? Does this hurt her?

Yes, but her mind keeps presenting her with a devastating realization. They don’t need her how she needs them. She is replaceable. She was never going to be a permanent fixture in their lives, and damn her for thinking they shared something real. Does this make her grow cold? Does the jealousy enrage her or just hurt her? Is she filled with quiet resignation—she loved them, she still loves them, and they don’t love her?

She accepts that what she feels for them is real—so real her love could be a living creature in its own right, capable of living outside her body. It breathes on its own. It withstands a hostile environment—Baron, in her face and in her head, “they do not love you”; insurmountable distance between itself and its one evolutionary drive in life [to love and be loved by them]—and manages to thrive anyway, living in a world in which she believes they never loved her, never needed her, never wanted her, at all.

Baron tries to manipulate her love for the guys by using it to turn her against them. Maybe he makes up lies about them—things to taint her perception of them. Things truly horrendous, things truly unforgivable. It is the boulder Baron is never able to fully push up the hill. She knows who they are, anyway. She’s seen them. She has felt them. She doesn’t feed off of Baron’s frothing hate for the guys. Maybe—he doesn’t truly, deeply hate them. He may not like them, sure, but he doesn’t want them dead. Does he? He just needs to surgically remove their influence on her.

It is not enough to change how or what she feels for them. If anything, it lights her own insecurities about herself on fire, but that boulder rolls down on Baron with every attempt. Maybe Baron tries to use that love against the guys themselves—to cripple them financially, or to gloat. What were they like? How and where were they soft?

Faire, in return, gifts him nothing. She doesn’t reveal what they were like with her, or what they did together. She refuses to give Baron a fraction of an inch of leverage or foresight to use against the men. He is like a snarling dog trying to rip this out of her, her love a chew toy. “They do not love you. They will never love you. They don’t miss you. They don’t even think about you. They’re glad you’re gone.”

Maybe Baron wants to screw the guys or the Cardinals as a whole over. Maybe he just wants to slightly inconvenience them, and troll on them a bit. Perhaps he wants to eliminate them from existence entirely. Faire fights him on this front, subverting all his attempts to do so. And here, she grows, independent of what people want from her. She moves on her own motivations, her own wants and needs. She learns the business on her terms, in a less bloodthirsty manner. She grows a backbone. She learns to move without the advice of others, on her instinct, without looking to someone for approval. Maybe she’s not successful; maybe she acquires the knowledge and power to take Baron’s place. Baron tells her again and again, “they do not love you, they do not want you,” and it hurts, but she quietly loves them anyway.

The guys, on their end, are miserable. They’re lost and to their disgust, unmoored. Off-course. They are fearful for her in a very real sense—Baron is not the type to value human life. It would be nothing for him to leave her for dead, just for fun. Just because he could. They cut themselves on their regret, nursing it like it’s their child. They should have been better. They should have been nicer. They should have introduced her to this world smarter, not by immediately baptizing her in bloodshed. They all feel they should have been more proactive—Pope, coming to Faire on his own after her first attack to explain his history with her father. Maybe they should have been less indulgent in her drinking. Benny takes particular responsibility for the way that night played out. They’re four different and identical Spidermen pointing at each other for the mess they each played a part in creating.

WILL loses a piece of his soul. He has never felt more understood, more seen, more human with another person. In the absence of Faire, he feels a loss of humanity, a loss of self. He feels colder, less able to step outside of his self-imposed prison. He becomes Ironhead, through and through. He struggles to come out of the basement. Even if he does walk up those stairs, he never truly leaves. He doesn’t touch another woman. Maybe he tries, once. It’s enough to make him never want to again. It is SONG OF ACHILLES, he is more myself than i am, whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same; bewitched mind, body, and soul love; in the crooks of your body, i find my religion. She is communion. Her and her body nourishment, sanctuaries, holy, places of worship. Does he know that what he feels is love? He thinks so, but finds it too childish a word to define what she is to him, what they share. She is a beating organ in his body. Calling that love is like trying to represent all of it in a Hallmark card. It just doesn’t work. It’s not the right medium.

BENNY is going through a bad breakup. He feels he fell in love with her first and knew her best, outside of Will. He gorges on food, more so than usual, even though everything tastes bad after being treated to her cooking. As a person, Benny is naturally easygoing. He naturally finds it easier to adapt. He is always good at enjoying the sunset. He is naturally playful, naturally inclined to laugh, and bounce and refract like sunlight. Maybe he realizes there is a degree of falsehood in his casual deposition. He wraps himself in jokes and grins like humor will protect him. He learns it doesn’t, not completely. Not from this. He has no problem defining Faire by name—love. He loves her. Love songs and poetry suddenly make a lot more sense to him. He cries a bit, openly. He realizes that what he presents to people is dishonest; he is scared. He’s not at all the eager, carefree, surfer-dude of a mobster he wants to be seen as. In Faire’s absence, it takes nothing to overcome that fear and surrender to it. Love. It’s not as bamboozling as he thought it was. It’s quite easy. It moves like water. Maybe he tries to be with other women. Maybe he tries to try Merissa on again to see if it fits him the same, but it doesn’t. Once he overcomes his fear of attachment, realizing it is what keeps him from Faire, he identifies the slew of women as part of that fear, too. He lets go of it all the same, realizing love is not a weakness, it is a strength. Love Is Not Pain. Love Is Goodness.

FRANKIE still doesn’t know what the hell is going on with him. When she leaves, he hasn’t had enough time to understand her. He did not get to know her—to love her—in the same way Will and Benny did. He got her in fragments. As in Sick Girl, “I know you. I know you. I know you because you’re me and that’s all it is.” There is innate and immediate understanding. When he takes care of her, it’s sort of like taking care of himself—he loves her, and if she’s safe, then so is he. He tried taking care of her after killing those men and felt himself too violent. He put distance between them but she bridged it anyway. He learns she is an intrinsic, inevitable part of him. Their almost, kind of, sort of, not really relationship tastes of regret. He regrets not staying with her that night in her bedroom. He regrets the distance. He wishes he were more honest with her from the beginning. He was not soft with her, so she found herself needing to be the same way with him. He found himself being more real with her, however sporadically, the longer she stayed at the penthouse. He showed her in the kitchen, trying to kiss her the way he always meant to. He showed her again, that final night at the club. Did he kiss her to shut her up? Or to reveal that she was right—that nobody can touch him the way she has? He knows that if she came home with them that night, instead of leaving with Baron, it would only be an infinitesimally small amount of time before he handed himself over to her completely. He was so close to her, and then he wasn’t. She tastes like almost and goes down like a ghost. And all that potential— that chance of surrendering to what he no longer fears—kills him. Love doesn’t come to mind in a word, rather it comes through in a filter of color in his life after she entered it. Does he bury himself in women, after she leaves? Maybe. Maybe not. He recalls the hurt it caused her. He tries to address all his thoughtless, consequences-be-damned passion. She is not something you hurt over. She is something you work towards.

POPE is marked by rage and franticness. Like Frankie, he too is haunted by almost. No one feels regret more strongly. The other guys’ bitterness tastes sweet compared to his. Something of an addict in his own right, he needs control to feel complete, to feel settled, to feel at ease. In the absence of control—and by proxy her—he finds chaos and weakness. He feels powerless. He feels the apocalypse imminent, and that it arrived when she left with Baron. Frankie knows him best, but even Santi doesn’t need that outside perspective to know he royally fucked up. He was weak-gripped and careless. Everything spiraled because he couldn’t command it all into straight lines and neatly organized piles. And now, he sees a visible difference in the guys. A lack of light, post-Faire. The air itself feels different, and he is the reason for it. The whole world is his fault. He does what he can to not obsess over it constantly. Instead, he thinks about it when he’s refilling his coffee and conducting mob business over the phone, as though he can multi-task with his regret. He regrets when he ties his shoes. He regrets when he brushes his teeth, in the time it takes to talk from the kitchen to his office to his bedroom and inevitably back to his office again. Now he rarely leaves it. He’s more on edge; being around him is like licking a battery. He just feels uncomfortable and caustic. He has more pain to hold onto than love or familiarity. Does he feel love? Maybe not in the way the other guys do. She is bathed in his anguish. He never got to see her outside of his sadness, save the art museum date. Will and Ben knew her best. Frankie knew her next. Santi knew her in waves. He’d piss her off and she’d ocean foam her way into nothing. He recognizes that she is wholly different from anybody he’s ever met; he has loved and been loved, but only with the guys. Not so much his parents. Not with another woman. He, too, found himself reaching out to her out of instinct. Pretending to give her options even though she didn’t have any. Trying to be more tolerable and eventually nicer. Learning her, he thinks, is like coming to realize he’s been breathing wrong his entire life. How could he have survived this long? How could he have known anything different? How could he ever settle for anything less?

It’s not moth to a flame fascination. It’s more land to someone stranded in the ocean, more like his body reaching out for an innate organ it has needed and missed its entire life. He wanted to do her a kindness and decided the best gift he could offer her was distance. He needed her fear and hate more than he needed her understanding and acceptance. He got all four anyway. Following their art gallery date, he had a brief opportunity to settle into her the way his body craved the entire time. A brief inhalation of oxygen not soured by city pollution. He takes it—land, organ, oxygen—and revels wondrously at it, before getting interrupted. He ghosts her for a bit then after, purposefully or not. At the club, he gives her his rage rather than what he truly feels for her. If things happened differently—that very first night, that very first day, and everything that happened after—he sees maybe. He sees probably. He sees almost. He sees her, and she is absolute. He feels like Icarus, only dumber.

And all the while, there is FAIRE, trying to grow from the rot she was placed in, idolizing what little she knows of her father. He is good, she thinks of him—there is no was. He is no less pure in death. Her father was the first domino that initiated life’s wrongdoings against her. What does life look like, with her father alive? Does she grow up safe, does she grow up loved?

Would her father have allowed her to be left inside a hot, locked vehicle while her mother flittered around town? Would she have feared her mother? Could she have had a life outside of her mother? Would she know how to make and maintain close relationships? What would her future look like? Would she go to college?

We often first learn of femininity through the eyes of our mother. Would Faire be introduced to it by a bone-thin, rib-cage-showing mother? What would her mother look like? What would she look like? Would her mother’s insecurities become her own? Would Faire still feel like a visitor, wherever she goes?

Would she still feel the permanent need to play caretaker? Would responsibility smother her in the way it does now?

She knows the answers to those questions. She could have lived. She could have been happy. She could have grown into something more. Her mother could have lived. Her mother could have been happy. Her mother could have loved her.

And that’s what’s so callous about it. That’s where the rot is. Her dad loved her. She thinks her mother loved her, at least sometimes, at least sort of, in the best way she knew how—but with her father alive, she could have been loved better, been loved kinder, been loved safer. She has never felt unheld by her father. Though numbered, she has strong, good memories of him. Her childhood was an ocean of tragedy and her father was the one thing she could tether herself to. Her father was the one good thing she had. Her father, in a very literal sense, was clean.

She has traced the origin of life’s vendetta against her to the loss of her father. His death was the key that unlocked a door of incalculable misery. It killed the chances of anything good landing on her doorstep. She is haunted by the ghosts of her parents. Her grave was dug after the death of her father. She was kicked into it by her very own mother.

I think of her repeating this: “I wanted to come from something good. I wanted to believe I came from something good. I wanted to believe I was deserving of coming from something good.” If she was born to a mother, an abusive addict, what does that make her? If she was born to a father who died because he was someone who needed to, what does that make her?

I think of her saying this: “Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference. Maybe my mother wouldn’t have been different. But she had a chance. I—we—could have saved her. I could have at least helped. My dad would have at least been something. She could have had a chance.”

On her father: “He loved me. He was nice—he was good—to me.” She hoards the memory of him like a dragon.

Is it logical? Is it childlike naivety? The revelation that Pope, and therefore the others, were responsible for her father’s death, that he is not regretful to a point where he would take it back if given the opportunity—makes her tired. Makes her done. Makes this not some easy-to-fix, momentary squabble. Makes the distance between them a snarling thing with teeth. For the first time, she doesn’t apologize on her behalf. She doesn’t bend over backwards to make their perspective the right one. Grief and rage, when combined, taste like blood.

And she spits it in their faces.

THE SCENE: Faire and Baron are in the backseat of his personal driver’s car, en route to the house she grew up in. Baron still has their hands clasped together. Faire sits frozen. Stunned? Shocked? Scared? Sad? Numb? Enraged?

Pope and Liam still argue in the parking lot. Pope snarls at Liam, too focused on the sight of Faire driving away in his brother’s clutches to do any real damage. How long have you been working for my brother? [-I haven’t, I’m not—] You lying piece of shit. I trusted you with her, you were supposed to look after her— [-And I have. I still am. She just needs time—]

The two fully dissolve into shouting as the car disappears from sight. Santi feels something in his chest physically shift, the apocalypse in his heart. They become a divergent plate boundary. Is this what God felt when Pangea split apart? This distance—it feels finite—

Will, Frankie, and Benjamin exit the nightclub, not in a rush, oblivious to what’s just happened. The exit door opens and they hear Pope and Liam shouting—that the two men are seconds away from throwing hands—

Frankie immediately goes to pull Santi back, Will feels dread, and Benny laughs because the scene looks funny.

The other three aren’t immediately made aware. It’s all Pope calling Liam every name under the sun and Liam arguing back indistinctly. All three clock Faire’s absence. Will assumes the worst but he doesn’t know what the worst is, Frankie’s thoughts go blank, and Ben assumes she’s in their car—

Frankie manages to get enough distance between the two so Pope’s attention isn’t narrowed on trying to kill Liam from the volume of his voice alone.

It’s Will who asks. It’s Pope who answers.

“Ask Liam.”

And then Liam says that it was in Faire’s best interests to get some clarity on the situation—an outside perspective—time—distance—away from what she’s been drowning in.

Frankie goes still. Benny goes quiet. Will gets angry.

Ironhead sees a traitor—a rat—a new victim. Will knows that she’s been struggling in a way he and the others haven’t been able to help her with. They’ve all been watching her from the sidelines of the barricade she put up around herself. And Liam has seen it, too. Maybe he knows something Will doesn’t.

Liam isn’t actually involved with Baron. There was no conspiring, no scheming, no plotting. He’s never made moves to communicate with Baron. He only ever quietly, loudly thought to himself that what she needed the most was distance and time spent away from the guys. He watched her break into smaller and smaller pieces with each new day. He knew she would only get worse. He knew she would shrink until there was nothing left.

And for a guy who doesn’t give up a woman’s secrets, he does so anyway, but in as little detail as he can provide. She’s not okay. She hasn’t been okay. She’s drunk or high or both at any given moment, at any time of day. She’s out of control and this here, where she’s been, just feeds that chaos more. He doesn’t want to mention the sex, he doesn’t. He knows it to be a distraction, just like alcohol. But he needs them to understand, and tells them anyway, She’s distracting herself with things that keep hurting her.

Liam also knows he’s treading life and death very fucking precariously here, so he doesn’t say it outright. What he does do, though, is make direct eye contact with each of them. She’ll die if she goes on like this. And if she stays here, nothing changes.

The men know he’s right, but they’re no less angry. All of them are a heartbeat from breaking his jaw, or worse. Liam knows his time to speak is shrinking faster than the speed of light, so he finishes, Just give her tonight. Give her at least that. Baron won’t kill her. He won’t hurt her.

Some in-love idiot: “How do you know that?”

Liam: “Because I do. And even if he’s trying for a bigger play, he needs longer than tonight for it to happen.”

They fall silent in words but scream in body language.

“Let me talk to him. I know where they’re going. Let me keep an eye on her.”

They accuse him of being a shit rat, and how are they supposed to trust him after he does something like this, and why would you go and not one of us—

“Because she can’t see any of you right now. She doesn’t need that. That wouldn’t be good for her. That wouldn’t help.”

Another in-love idiot: “And you would?”

“She trusts me. I’ve taken care of her, I’ve looked out for her—”

Some in-love idiot: “And we haven’t?”

Liam, ignoring that: “We’re close.”

The same in-love idiot: “So are we.”

—I think Pope accuses him of being in love, of having a crush, of pining after her, of wanting to use her, because he excels in projection—

“I’m not, that’s not it. I’m just worried about her. You asked me to take care of her, and I have. I am. That’s what I’m doing.”

There is something bigger at play here, and Will feels it in his soul. He doesn’t often feel things there. And if they don’t play this exactly right, they’re in serious danger of losing her forever, in more ways than one. What options do they have? Do they drag Faire back, kicking and screaming? She would never forgive them. Do they chase after Baron’s car? She wanted distance. The way she bolted tells him this isn’t a disagreement. This is fear. This is distress.

It’s Will who agrees with Liam. Agree is a strong word, but he relents. Tells Santi quietly, powerfully, “Let him.”

Frankie and Benny argue, incredulous, and Benny moves to tackle Liam. Did he conspire with Baron? Maybe. Does it matter if she’s gone?

Pope and Will look at each other. Something quiet and profound happens. And then Pope gives Liam the go-ahead. A nod. “Call him.”

It gives Will enough time to wrangle Benny in. Frankie turns his arguing to Pope, and Liam calls Baron. The number is saved on his phone for strictly business purposes.

The phone dials. The line rings. There are a few seconds so heavy it hurts Liam’s throat. And then BARON ANSWERS. “Liam. Surprised you aren’t dead yet.”

Faire has been crying and breathing erratically in the backseat, but she has had years of practice doing both silently, so Liam is unable to hear her. Liam puts the phone on speaker, hoping it will show he has nothing to hide.

Baron’s fingers are still threaded tightly through hers, squeezing firmly not to hurt her but to ground her. And it works, kind of, somewhat. It’s at least almost something.

“I’ll meet you at her house,” Liam says. No negotiations.

Baron smiles like a shark. “So you can put a bullet in my head for taking away their toy?”

The four men (not Liam) immediately dissolve into feral, snarling animals, and Baron laughs—

“Okay. That’s fine. No one else, just you. Just me. And her.”

There is mutual trust, here. Liam won’t fuck this up and neither will Baron. Baron is likely already a dozen steps ahead of them in terms of scheming and conniving, but he doesn’t want a war. Maybe there is genuine, human care here. Maybe there isn’t. Maybe it’s just that it’s bad for business. Maybe it’s just that the timing isn’t right, not yet.

Liam hangs up first.

IN THE CAR, Baron tightens his grip on her hand. The way he brushes his thumb over the back of it might almost be human. “It’s okay, dolly. It’s okay. Liam will meet us there.”

Faire is thinking of a thousand things—that this is hands down the worst trip she’s ever had—her dad is dead—her dead dad is dead because Pope killed him—her dead dad is dead because Pope wanted and willed it so—in the same way he has cravings and how he wants his suits pristine and how he sometimes listens to jazz in his office—and her dead dad is dead because Will, Ben, and Frankie helped—

—and Pope did not quell rumors that she is used as a sex slave—and now suddenly pretty, pretty whore of the Cardinals & do they take turns with you? it’s what everyone’s been saying, they keep you locked up for it makes a lot more sense—and the implications of that—who started those rumors and did they originate from their home?—what lackey did Pope order to spread that rumor, that she was used—because if she was a slave she didn’t choose to be—and if she didn’t choose to be with them, then none of this was real—and it was real for her and it wasn’t real for them—and if that rumor was started by Pope, did the other men know and how could they not know—and if Pope didn’t start that rumor, how could he not know that people were talking about it and how could he not tell the others—and why wouldn’t he stop it—why would he not say anything — why would they not say anything—did they touch her knowing that they planted those rumors—

—and she’s going back to the house she hasn’t been in since her mother’s funeral—the house she grew up in—the house her mother lived in—the house her mother died in—

—and she’s going there with a criminal—a mob boss—the head of the Apostles, the mob her father presided over pre-death—the guys’ biggest rival and enemy—and she’s going to that house with him and horror stories—

Total breakdown. Catastrophic failure. Blue screen of death.

She is in full hysterics by the time the car pulls up to THE HOUSE.

Baron, his hand still in hers, tugs her to exit out of the same car door. He tells her to leave, but her ears are no longer capable of deciphering sound. He carefully walks her inside, bringing her body closer to his. No one knows why. To ground her more, maybe. Simple human connection. Maybe that opportunistic side of him is thrilled to touch her and seeks to capitalize on her weakness.

It’s the panic attack to end all other panic attacks. He guides her inside, letting go of her for the first time to punch in the lock code. He flips on all the porch lights. The landscapers recently installed motion-activated lawn lights. He doesn’t call any of his associates over; he hasn’t even had the chance to inform Theo of this latest development. He needs to keep an eye on the driveway to see if anyone pulls up, and with his attention off of her for only a handful of seconds—

It’s enough time for her to disappear on him. He turns to look at her but she’s gone. He curses quietly and shouts her name before lowering his voice, and cursing again. He has enough sense in him to realize it’s not the best idea to shout at a hysterical girl—especially if that hysterical girl is one you’ve been trying to get in your clutches for months now because you’re a scheming bastard and you hate your brother. It’s not nice. It’s just not polite.

And despite being somewhat involved in the ongoing renovations, Baron is not deeply familiar with the layout of the house. He knows he probably shouldn’t let a self-destructive girl high out of her mind walk off, unsupervised. But maybe he should yell at her anyway, because finding her is clearly a time-sensitive mission and it’s imperative that she not do something drastic on him, less World War III break open in the middle of Ashford, and what damage has a little yelling ever caused, anyway?

He shouts for her again, only to hear tires screech on the pavement outside and clock Liam exiting out of his car, alone. Baron opens the front door—

“Where is she?” Liam demands, storming inside, with urgency. For Faire, to make sure she’s okay. To make sure Baron hasn’t done anything to her. The part of his brain foolishly wired with survival instincts needs to make sure he hasn’t just made the most catastrophic mistake of his entire life.

For the moment, a similar interest of theirs has aligned, but that doesn’t mean Liam particularly likes the guy.

“I don’t know, she just took off—”

But Liam’s rushing past him, “Where’s her bedroom?”

“Uh, fuck. Upstairs? First door on the left?” Baron guesses, not actually knowing.

Liam rushes up the curved, cascading staircase leading upstairs, greeted by the sound of frantic breathing and dry heaving. It comes from further down the hall, definitely not where Baron said her room was—

And he bursts into THE BEDROOM. It’s empty, sparsely decorated but clean. Sound alerts him to the adjoining bathroom.

He tries the handle, but it’s locked. And maybe that’s some cosmic intervention, because what animal doesn’t knock before trying to enter a bathroom—

“Faire?” he calls out.

She doesn’t respond, but he still hears her hyperventilating. “Faire. Let me in.” He pauses to listen for movement, but again there is nothing. “Please. There’s no one here. It’s just me.”

It’s not a lie, because Baron walks into her bedroom at that exact moment, concern twisted into his features.

“It’s just me. There’s no one else,” Liam promises again, maintaining eye contact with Baron who still stands in the doorway. Is Baron unsure of what to do? Is he waiting to see how this plays out before stepping in further? Does he keep his distance to not cause Faire more distress?

A few more moments of silence pass, and Liam’s debating whether this particular door is easy or less easy to kick down. And then, there is the quiet click of heels on the floor, the sound of the door unlocking—

He takes it, rushing in before she can change her mind. He CLOSES THE DOOR and LOCKS IT BEHIND HIM.

Faire is a wilted mess, pacing back and forth, eyes squeezed shut, hands clutched over her ears like she’s trying to drown out sound he’s not privy to hearing. Her breathing comes out in quieter rasps than what he heard on the stairs, but in shorter puffs.

“Hey. Hey.” And he moves to hold her still by the shoulders. “Look at me.” But her eyes are still squeezed shut like she’s afraid of seeing a monster only she can see. A change of tactics, then. “Okay, okay.” He guides her to sit on the toilet, the lid of it already flipped down. She follows, stepping back blindly. She sits.

He gently takes off her heels, pushing down on the tops of her feet so they rest flat against the cold floor. He pushes her shoulders back until she sits up straight. Her body is easy to manipulate, as though it lacks a person or brain to control movement.

Liam is familiar with breathing techniques. He knows a couple, vaguely, from a time he was a lot younger than he is now. But he’s practically a doctored psychologist with how he brings her down. 4-7-8 breathing. He grabs a fancy-looking washcloth from the wicker basket on the bathroom vanity, runs it under cold water, and holds it to the back of her neck.

Did he predict a breakdown from her? Did he google breathing techniques, what to look for in mental breakdowns, how to stop a mental breakdown, what is a mental breakdown, how to help anxiety, and how to help someone with depression in anticipation? Yes.

It’s a mental breakdown months in the making, or more probably, years in the making. It confronts her whole life at once. All while she’s coming out of a drug-induced, alcohol-infused haze, no less.

This takes time. She settles her breathing for a few minutes, but thinking is the only thing she’s capable of right now, so she flits in and out of the panic attack. It takes 40 minutes, not that he’s counting. Baron is.

CUT TO BARON pacing outside in the hallway, getting his ear chewed off by Santi, and having none of it. Did Liam make contact yet, is Faire okay, what are you planning to do with her, what sort of play are you trying to make—

And it must be like the conditions nuclear warhead operators worked under during the Cold War, honestly. He’s playing diplomat and peacemaker. Contrary to popular belief, he does not want to cut this girl into a thousand pieces, and cut those pieces into even smaller pieces. He’s just trying to help. Maybe.

Baron really doesn’t want to get into whatever touchy-feely-deep-breath-taking bullshit Liam is doing with Faire. That’s not his thing. If there’s someone else to do all that dirty work, he’s all for stepping back. He’s trying to prevent an all-out war between the two biggest gangs in all of Ashford.

It works, kind of. Yes, Liam made it. Yes, Faire is okay. Why isn’t Liam picking up his phone? Well, she’s having a panic attack right now. He’s a little busy. Why is she having a panic attack? Well you killed her dad, and also because you and your boyfriends thought drugging her and fucking her into complacency was a good idea. Because you’re all idiots. Look, I’ll keep you updated, alright? If she gets worse, if she gets better— [-What the fuck do you mean, if she gets better?] —Okay, okay. When she gets better.

With nuclear war momentarily averted, he texts Theo. You’ll never guess what I just got.

She guesses immediately. Faire, I assume?

Baron feels the peace will hold strong for the time being, or at least strong enough.

He goes downstairs to the living room and makes himself at home on a very lush, expensive couch the movers set up a couple of months ago. The interior designer really built something…homey out of the rundown place. A bit too domestic for his tastes, but maybe it will work for the girl. He plays a word search game on his phone. Santi texts him every thirty seconds, asking about her and threatening hellfire. Baron rolls his eyes.

UPSTAIRS, Liam is still with Faire. He finds clothes for her to change into. He sits on the bed while she showers, and calls Santi. He sits through threats and fucking fucks snarled his way, allowing Santi to get through this, hoping it helps.

It doesn’t. Santi will never have a resting heart rate again, should he survive beyond this night. He’s sure of it. Santi needs confirmation—a picture, Facetime. A way to physically lay eyes on her.

“That’s not good for her right now,” Liam argues. He sees the guys as an environmental stressor, and wants to spare her from them—just for tonight, if nothing else.

She comes out of the bathroom, hair dripping wet, skin cleared of glitter and the club. Her eyes are glazed over, unfocused. He makes a mental note to get some water in her before she passes out. He’s about to stand up to help her walk when she says, “I’ll talk to him. I’ll let him know I’m okay.” There is something empty to her—something gone—and it frightens him.

He shakes his head to disagree, but she pads over to him like she has no life in her, and grabs the phone from his hand. It’s all he can do to stare at her, openly worried. “Pope—Pope. I’m fine. I’m okay. I can’t—” her words keep getting interrupted by Pope’s frantic arguing.

At the penthouse, the guys have been arguing and shouting for the past hour. No one is on anybody’s side. It’s everybody’s fault she ran off. And at the chance to talk to her, Benny fights Santi for the phone, wrestling it away from him.

“Benny?” she squeezes her eyes shut again and pinches the space between her brows. “Calm down—”

“Fuck off, Will—no, Will, seriously—ow” and the voice again changes.

And she was barely on autopilot to begin with for Santi, but for Will? There is nothing left. Her eyes start to well up with tears. Her face crumbles. She can’t let him know, and her brain isn’t processing the soft, clearly concerned words coming out of his mouth, and she pushes for the finish line, desperate to be away from these men. “Please stop, I’m okay. I promise I’m okay. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

And before it can go any further than that, Liam grabs the phone from her. “I’ll watch over her. I won’t let Baron come into this room tonight. We will figure this out in the morning.” It’s 2 AM. He’s unwilling to commit to anything more. Liam knows mornings, for Santi, start anywhere from midnight, to four or five in the morning. He needs more time than Santi’s impatience allows. He needs it for her. The phone call reluctantly ends.

Liam has a permanent frown on his face. He digs in the bathroom drawers, finding a comb for her hair. He brushes through her hair and she stares at the wall. He gently towels off the dripping strands to the best of his abilities.

DOWNSTAIRS, Baron gets a text from Liam. She’s okay. She’s in bed.

Baron texts Santi, She’s okay. She’s in bed. Fuck off.

Santi immediately calls him. Baron thinks about rejecting the call just for fun but decides it may be too late in the night for mob-on-mob violence.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Crosswords.”

“You snake fucking shit—”

“God. Relax. No wonder she was so desperate to get away from you,” Baron laughs.

A blood vessel bursts in Santi’s eye.

“I’m downstairs. I’m laying down on the couch. I’ve got my feet kicked back.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh of comfort. “She’s with Liam.”

“I want you out of that fucking house. Now.”

And then they argue, but Baron stays reclined, the argument not even worth sitting up for.

A deal is made. Baron sees that sometimes retreating is a strategic move. He needs to be calm right now. Tonight, he’s done all he can. Something broke there, outside that club. Shattered by his hand and his brother’s. It was a group effort, really. Baron is pleased with the outcome.

He’s brought her home. He and Santi broke something in her tonight.

Baron will leave. Faire and Liam will stay here. Members of the Cardinals will stand watch outside of her home, without Apostle interference. It’s all trust. It’s all good faith.

What keeps the dogs at bay is that the guys know she’s not okay, not truly. The revelation that they were responsible for her father’s death had been, in a word, overwhelming. Santi could tell that Baron’s final comment shattered something in her. Will argues that a single night away from them isn’t a terrible idea. She ran because she instinctively needed space and Baron was simply a ticket out.

Will knows Faire is a real thing—he’s rife with insecurity, but he’s reasonably confident that she feels something for them. He’s too terrified to name it directly. The five of them share that innate I know you because you’re me connection. It is that alone that makes him feel positive. He cares about her enough to know that coming back to the penthouse tonight hurts her. It can cause damage he’s unable to fix. For tonight, she has Liam, and Liam alone. In a house that will be watched over by them and other Cardinals.

Santi trusts Will—he’s more level-headed right now than any of them combined and it’s enough. Santi trusts Will and it’s enough. Benny and Frankie want Baron’s head on a stick. Tables are turned over inside the home. Glass lay shattered on the floor.

Tom is in another room with Gerald, escorted out for his loud barks in the matter and unsettling gaze trained on Ben, knowing that male buffoonery was afoot and that it had something to do with Faire’s absence.

Baron indulges Santi, agreeing to be escorted back to Apostle territory by Cardinal members. Mob stuff happens and the guys can confirm that Baron is away, at least for the time being.

But maybe there have always been threats to Faire’s safety outside of Baron and the Apostles. And maybe it’s not enough for the house to be surrounded by one criminal organization; maybe Apostle forces are rallied as well. And maybe then things are too tense for their leaders not to be there.

So maybe Baron stays, setting up camp for the night outside. And maybe all of the guys—Santi, Will, Frankie, and Benny—keep watch with their mob underlings, too. Because no one trusts anyone here, outside of Faire trusting Liam.

But however it happens, LIAM and FAIRE SPEND THE NIGHT at her mother’s— father’s—her house. And nothing happens.

Liam gets her to drink some water and walks her downstairs to the kitchen. Maybe he carries her, but like, non-invasively. Maybe she spidermonkeys onto his back. The panic attack made her loose-jointed and bone tired. The kitchen is equipped with food despite no one living there—maybe not perishables, though? Surely Baron isn’t a big fan of waste?

Liam worries about leaving Faire alone longer than a few minutes. She was quick in the shower, but she has no conscious memory of it. She’s scared to make eye contact with anything in the house. Everything looks different and shiny and clean and awful. So maybe, to lessen the stress on her, Liam just makes a quick trip downstairs. He knows she hasn’t eaten in hours. Knows it’s likely she hasn’t eaten anything all day.

But however it happens, Faire’s stomach is only slightly more settled. She wants to stay awake. She wants to sleep and not wake up for a week or maybe a month. She needs to know—she needs to speak—she can’t just lay here, quietly ruminating.

They settle in bed. She, under the covers, under blankets she doesn’t recognize. Staring tiredly at the ceiling. Liam, next to her, on top of the blankets, back against the headboard. Shoes off.

Her brain pulses with every thought. Her father—dead—her mother and how she screamed when those men told her—Benny. Will. Pope. Frankie. Tom. In every order, in all directions. A few errant tears slide down her cheeks. She notices, too tired to wipe them away.

Liam watches her. The only thing going through his mind is worry—for her. Maybe for him, too. His boss is Pope and Ironhead is a close friend of his, as are Frankie and Ben. But it’s mostly all her. He stays awake throughout the night. Maybe he sleeps. Maybe he doesn’t.

“Don’t think,” he orders her softly. He sees her fight to stay awake and to sleep in equal measures. “You’re tired. So is your body. Just give in. It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m here and you’re safe. It’s just us. No one else.”

She wants Will. She wants Benny. She knows them—does she?

Frankie and Santi are something else entirely, but they share something—do they?

She misses her mother. She misses her father. She misses Tom. Will she ever see Pope as Santi again? Wonders and fears what happens next. And she cries a bit more.

Liam, quietly, scared: “Come here.” And she does. Maybe he lays down more on the bed.

He holds her respectfully, as a friend would. Maybe there’s something more here, but maybe there isn’t. It’s a goldilocks grip—not too loose, not too tight. Close enough to feel grounded in the presence of someone who cares for you, worries for you, and tries to keep you safe.

A headache splits her skull right open. Her chest is cut clean in half. Her insides leak somewhere out of her, sinking into the floorboards.

Does she feel safe? Sort of. Not really.

She trusts Liam. She knows Liam. She gives into the exhaustion—grabs its hand, following it like a child. It takes her immediately, and she sleeps—deeply, though she won’t wake up well-rested.

THE SCENE: FAIRE’S BEDROOM. Faire is fast asleep and Liam is awake next to her.

He’s on his phone, wishing he had a charger. He feels relatively confident that nothing will happen between the two organizations. Baron needs her in this house, away from the guys, too much. The guys are scared that one wrong move will push her away forever.

THE TIME: 6 AM. Santi, Will, and Benny keep texting him. Is she awake? How is she? Has she eaten anything? Is anything happening on your end? I will kill you if this goes wrong.

Frankie is too much of an old man to text threats, trusting the others to take care of that for him.

The guys, no matter where they are stationed—at the penthouse, outside of her home, or hovering by her bedroom window like mobster vampires—have not slept. They are worried and in love, even if they have yet to identify it by name.

Baron is calm as can be. Arrogant in that he knows Faire is on the precipice of staying or running. Compliant, indulgent in the guys’ demands, to a point. No, he will not fuck off. No, he will not hurt her. Yes, he will stay out of that house. His people are strictly instructed not to lay a hand on Faire or Liam. He is satisfied with a single text that comes from Liam, She’s still asleep.

Liam doesn’t want to give Baron too much detail. He tries to appease two different and terrifying mob bosses and it sucks, but he does what he can. He wants Faire to sleep. Even if it’s not particularly peaceful, it’s certainly deep, speaking to the exhaustion from the previous night, and maybe all the nights before that.

She comes to at 10 AM, for hours later. She wakes up exhausted. Dread immediately rolls in.

Liam is still next to her. He doesn’t let them know she’s awake.

There is nothing she can do to shut off her brain. She felt it screaming at her, even in sleep. She is poked raw and drained dry, hungover with its goody bag of symptoms. Maybe she stares at the ceiling some more. Maybe she traces patterns into the blankets. Maybe she is able to fall back asleep. Maybe she can’t.

But at some point, she gathers her pieces to say, “So what now?”

Liam: “I don’t know. Pope and Baron aren’t in a good way. Things are settled, but barely.”

Faire: “Will they hurt you?” Maybe she looks at him, fearful, eyes wet. Maybe she stares at the ceiling. Maybe she studies the hair on his arm. Maybe she keeps her eyes closed.

“Don’t worry about me,” he murmurs.

She says resolutely, “I won’t let them hurt you.” For this, she looks him in the eye, solemnly. He knows it’s a promise; knows she’ll do everything she can to keep it. He feels touched. She takes a deep breath. “I’m going to need to speak to them at some point, soon. They’ll kill each other and maybe the whole world if this lasts much longer.”

She’s right, and he doesn’t want to encourage it, opting to stay quiet. She gathers up what is left of her pieces. “I’ll get showered.” I won’t think. “I’ll get dressed.” This is not my house. “Then I’ll talk.” This is not my life. This is not my body.

“Okay,” Liam says simply. He wants to argue with her, wants to tell her that she could sleep longer if she wanted to. But he doesn’t have much of a hand to play, either. He’s at the mercy of war gods as well. “But first, breakfast.” You can’t confront arguing mob bosses—some of whom you’re in love with, two of whom you’re halfway-mostly gone for—on an empty stomach.

He makes them toast. She eats one piece and drinks some water. Light, mechanical small talk is exchanged between them. Faire looks just as gone as she did last night, and he’s still just as worried about it.

She showers and gets dressed. Wears something comfortable. Her wardrobe and dresser are filled with clothes that are somehow all in her size. She does not want to look small in front of them. She knows her eyes are bloodshot and swollen. Her skin has little color to it. If they looked at her, they would see what her night looked like. The thought bothers her.

Perhaps she finds cosmetic toiletries in the bathroom and does something small. Maybe she finds nothing at all and meets them bare-faced and bare-souled. Exhaustion mutes her energy to feel much of anything, and it works in her favor. She’s too tired to tip-toe. To dance. Skirt the line. She faces it all head-on, mostly sober, free of her glasses.

If they are outside, Liam goes to greet them—Santi, Frankie, Benny, and Will; Baron and maybe Theo.

If they aren’t, he texts Santi that she’s awake and ready to talk. He passes the same information to Baron.

CUT TO THE NEXT SCENE: A REMASTERED GREENHOUSE, sitting on the sprawling property of her home. It was doomed under the care of her mother. Baron hired groundskeepers to keep it lush and alive. It’s behind the house, out of sight. This will be their talking place.

It smells of grass and dirt; a rectangular table fitted with outdoor placemats sits in the middle of the large space. Five seats on each side. Liam brings Faire out first. She has a mug of warm tea, something to drink, something to study. Cool enough to swallow if she feels she must make some sort of movement, but warm enough to comfort the throat and stomach. He doesn’t want her to walk into a room full of sharks. That wouldn’t be good for her.

The greenhouse has multiple doors to it. One of the table chairs has a few feet of space in front of an entryway. He guides her to that chair. Two empty chairs sit on either side of her. He will sit the guys opposite to her, without an exit on their side. Liam is quite sure she will not be physically attacked. Baron’s scheming would never allow for it. That would be too devastating a blow.

Liam considers the possibility that the guys will kidnap her, for real. He is worried more about that than Baron. And he’s not sure what he will do if it happens.

Liam escorts them to the greenhouse. He doesn’t ask the guys to be gentle with her; he sort of feels that they know to tread lightly. Theo and Baron walk with them. Liam doesn’t think about how tense the atmosphere is—doesn’t need to get into bed with that anxiety right now. That wouldn’t be good for her. He is scared for her. He sort of strongly hates that he is bringing these people to her.

She is alerted to their arrival by the crunch of gravel. Is she ready? No. Does she know what to do, or what to say? No. How does she feel? Tired. Scared. Hurt. Used. In love. Tossed out. Manipulated. Nervous. Picked dry. Vulnerable. Hungover. But her teeth are clean and her hair is washed. Her clothes fit comfortably. It’s everything outside of her that is fucking her.

She does not look at them when they enter. She can’t. They step into her peripheral line of sight, quiet amongst themselves. Liam is in the front, walking to the chairs opposite of her, gesturing for WILL, BENNY, SANTI, AND FRANKIE to sit. THEY SIT.

THEO AND BARON settle themselves nearby. THEY STAND. They don’t have as tough of a battle to fight.

She feels thirteen sets of eyes on her. It feels like a thousand. She feels the weight of Liam, comforting like vanilla, comforting like a friend. He moves to stand by her, within arms reach; if she pushes back in her chair she would stub his toe. He looks more at the others than her. He squeezes her shoulder once—firmly, gently. I’m here, it says, and she hears it.

She does not look at them. She can’t. Baron and Theo don’t feel as awful, but ideally, preferably, she’d rather be in a different room.

The guys are different. She doesn’t want to be on the same planet as them. She doesn’t want to live in the same universe. She wants to go back with them—it feels enough like a home, or at least it did. She wants someone to hold her hand. She wants to set that penthouse on fire.

Who talks first? Is it Baron, who feels he has the most control of the situation?

Is it POPE?—is it Santi, who knows he needs to reach out to her gently? He can’t react like he did last night. The others shouted at him over it. His need for control falls over her, too. He is desperate and frantic to have her come home with them. Not just because he thinks the worst of Baron, that Baron cannot and will not protect her, but because that penthouse is fundamentally wrong without her in it.

Is it BENNY? He is awake to and cognizant of his feelings. He knows that he does not just want her, he needs her. He knows it’s the same for the others. Their situation is fucked, but it’s theirs nonetheless. It can be fixed, smoothed over, nurtured. Does he know this is love? Maybe. Maybe not. Out of all the guys, he may be the least afraid to reach out to her, the least afraid of his feelings.

Is it WILL? He is driven frantic at the sight of her distress. He sees it on her, plain as day. She is hurt and she is nervous. He wants to reach for her, grab her. Does he sit there quietly and hope his presence is enough? He can’t sit there humanly—openly—can he? Around Baron, around anybody but her? He hopes she sees him as she always has.

Is it FRANKIE? Maybe the situation has unmoored him enough that for once, he can’t sit still and absorb his emotions silently, coming alive only to act on anger. Maybe he sits there quietly.

Is it LIAM? Maybe he waits for someone else to speak. Maybe he can’t bear to be the one to invite this conversation to her.

But maybe it’s HER. Does anger rush to the forefront and give her a false sense of strength? Her, then. Is she zero fucks given? Does she care loudly in front of them? If nothing else, she speaks first to get this over with, no matter how it may end. With something dry, something sarcastic. Spoken into the cup of her tea. “Long night?”

Maybe Benny lets out a startled half-laugh, an echo of the first time he met her. But maybe not an ounce of this is at all unserious to him. Maybe Faire looks to Baron and Theo and quietly asks to give them the room.

Theo looks to Baron, blissfully cool and neutral. Baron stares right back at Faire—like he knows everything about her. He probably does. He knows what she’s thinking. He can map her future out like the weather. He relents, nodding once. BARON leaves; THEO follows. Both are out of earshot. It is not dignity he gives Faire. It’s falsehood. He knows that the group is fractured right down the middle; a degree of nuance is needed to get her in his clutches.

Faire visibly deflates after they exit, resting her elbows on the table, burying her face into her hands. She is not deeply concerned with showing at least some emotion to the guys. It’s inevitable, how these men know her.

The guys panic at her exhaustion, all instinctively reaching out to her across the table. Maybe Benny pushes his chair back, intent on walking over to her? He does not get there, though. Faire frantically shakes her head at him, and he reluctantly listens—but listens all the same. Maybe Liam takes a step forward to intercept, without thought.

[—I don’t know all the details. It starts going, though, with something like this—]

—Faire meets Santi’s eyes. She looks directly into his soul. Her eyes glisten like quartz. “How did you do it.”

He knows what she means. He shifts. “It was necessary—”

She tastes blood. Enraged, but quietly still: “I didn’t ask why. I asked how.”

Does it matter why, if he died all the same? Her mother still raised her. Is Pope one to toy with his victims? Does he kill quickly? Was her father handed off to Will?

[—I think Pope shot him. I think it happened somewhere else, not on the property they’re currently on. He shot Charles Faire once, maybe. In the head. Maybe a couple into the chest, fired in quick succession. Charles did not suffer, but he had ample time to know he was going to die.

Whatever Charles did to warrant Pope’s wrath, it had to be catastrophic. Unforgivable. Something that could only be made right by his own death. It had to cut deep. It had to have been personal.

Will, Benny, and Frankie had to be involved. They wouldn’t have let Santi do it alone. They would have at least taken part in the orchestration of it, somehow. Maybe they helped subdue Charles, grabbing him and bringing him to an empty warehouse, tying him up to a chair. Maybe they gave Santi space. Maybe they stayed in the same room. Maybe they stood right next to him.—]

However Pope answers, it breaks more of her pieces. It kills her all the same. Her father who loved her. Her father who was nice to her. She squeezes her eyes shut, grits her teeth. Tears roll down her face. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, hands balled into fists. Her leg bounces up and down.

It is alarming—it is wrong to see her like this. The guys know this is bad—

Faire [maybe]: “So he knew. He knew what was going to happen.” [it sits in silence for a while]

Faire, still trembling in grief?—rage?—both are the same thing, whispers: “He must have been really scared.”

For her father to have known what was going to happen—for him to have perhaps felt some of it—for him to have faced death, alone—for him to have bled out while the men across from her watched—her father who loved her—her father who adored her—

Faire shakes her head. Frantic. Desperate. Teeth gritted. Blood. Death. Rage. She needs Pope—she needs Santi—for all of them to know. “I remember that night. Men showing up at our door. My mother screaming.” Whatever the justification, Faire and her mother were made victims. Casualties. Widowed and Fatherless. They hurt her. They hurt her mother.

She feels disgust. At them. At herself. “And I…fucked the men who took him from us.” She buries her face in her hands and laughs. It comes from somewhere deep, like a nightmare, tasting of battery acid.

Liam is still there, still behind her. Arms crossed, staring down at her in open worry. Looks to the ground when she becomes too hard to look at.

The men, across from her—ashamed, devastated. This hurt came from them. They concocted it, saw it through, and hand-delivered it to her on a gravestone. Do they say anything? Do they stare at her? Do they avert their eyes? Maybe not. Maybe looking at her head-on is their punishment.

She laughs and laughs some more and tears fall readily from her eyes. She sniffles and laughs and wipes angrily at her cheeks.

The men, across from her—are they silent? What can they possibly say to her? How can they possibly help? Do they even apologize? What is an apology if you do not wish to take back your actions? What is it worth? Do they see now—the logic to her no longer living with them?

There is death here, active and happening right in front of them, all around them—

She is not ready for the other part. She does not want to know, knows she will hate this answer, hopes to never know it, and says: “Why.” BLOOD and DEATH and MISERY.

Rooted in his spot, Santi answers her. What control does he have over his emotions—these ghosts that still rattle him? He scrubs his hand over his face, tired. What does he say? Do the guys chime in? Frankie is seated to the right of him at this table for a reason. Are they all cowed?

It doesn’t matter what he says, not really. It’s still awful. It’s still sad. He gifts her rotting death and in return, she hands over a small apology. It comes from a soft, large, compassionate, weak, in-love part of her that feels sorry. Whatever her father did had to have hurt him, had to have been more than just business.

It sets fire to her idolized, quietly protected and loved father—it burns father and daughter down to a crisp. She cries more. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that happened.” What is an apology when you mean it just as much as you don’t?

And Santi shakes his head, guilty, at fault, responsible, mournful—it is the last thing she should be feeling—

Faire, small: “I wanted to come from something good. I thought…I thought I could come from something good.” Not from a father who did whatever he did to deserve death. Not from a vacant and abusive addict of a mother. Santi and the guys, in a very literal sense, kill this too.

It is the first time they must truly comfort Faire. They don’t get to kiss her. They don’t get to fuck her, or distract her. They don’t even get to touch her. What do they do? Do they scramble for her? Are they cautious and apologetic? Are they boys who got caught doing something they shouldn’t have been doing? Are they firm, direct? Don’t cry, please. You’re good, you’re perfect. Honey. Sweetheart. Babe. Baby.

Faire, eyes squeezed shut: “I’m sorry for what happened. I am. I didn’t—I didn’t know.” [a shuddering breath] “I’m not trying to be childish. You tried talking to me about it, once. And I…freaked out, and I didn’t want to know what happened. I knew there was something.” [dropping to a whisper] “I just didn’t want to know what.”

Does she feel responsible? No, but she still feels guilty.

Santi: “You had nothing to do with it. It was before you, away from you.” [he doesn’t know he just said something monumentally fucking stupid]

She thinks: Nothing to do with it? My father, who belonged to me—I had nothing to do with it?

—These men and how they grab her and how they swallow her life for her—She rises and swells with rage, a rogue wave—

Faire, deadly quiet: “Nothing to do with it? I had everything to do with it.” [she wars with looking outside of herself to fix this for their convenience, to appease their discomfort] “I don’t—” [SHE LAUGHS DEATH] [SHE IS GOING TO BURN DOWN A VILLAGE JUST TO FEEL ITS WARMTH] “Fuck it. Fuck it. You know what? I don’t care. He was mine.” [tears mixed with blood] “He belonged to me, he was good to me.” [Pope does not realize the depravity of the alternative parent he left her with]

FAIRE BECOMES THE APOCALYPSE: “We needed him—maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference. Maybe my mother wouldn’t have turned out any different. But she had a chance. I—we—could have saved her. I could have at least helped. My dad would have at least been something for her. She might have had a fucking chance.”

—And they don’t get it, because when they killed her father, they killed a mother and daughter, they killed her, at the same time—

FAIRE BECOMES DEATH: “He loved me. He was nice, he was good to me, and he loved me—”

—And when he died, she was left with her mother, and they don’t fucking get it—

FAIRE BECOMES LADY LAZARUS: “—and you took him from me, and you touched me knowing—”

[—I don’t know how it happens, exactly. I see every wall coming down, a fortress collapsing in on itself. I see Faire Wandavision-ing her rage and grief to scorch the earth around her. She does so because she can, a want and need in one. Because she’s never had the time, the outlet, the spine-hardened resolve to bite the hand that feeds her. In her case, bite that hand poisons her, also. The hand that's made her come more times than she can count and is responsible for the death of her father.

There is no apology to balm this over. There is no reasoning forceful enough. She doesn’t go home with them, I don’t think. She needs to grow and they need to learn. Maybe it becomes something of a role reversal? They sit inside the house and brood over their actions. She goes outside and fights the world itself.—]

—An in-love idiot, to make her feel stupid, to bring her focus away from the death of her father, which for her is the most important situation at hand: “Look, we fucked up. We need to make it right, and we know that. But Baron isn’t the answer here. If you need it, we can put you somewhere else, we can take you to another house, where you don’t even have to see us—”

Faire shakes her head no. No—If it is a house that is theirs, they will always be in it—

Another in-love idiot, to make her feel stupid, to bring her focus away from the death of her father: “Do you trust him?”

FAIRE, immediately, fearlessly, venomously, DEATH TO HER VOICE: “Do I trust you?” [unflinching eye contact, dropped when what she sees aches] “Sure. Yeah.” [flatly] “You do what you can. Things happen anyway, and it’s nobody’s fault.” [it’s theirs and hers] “It’s just life and how it happens.”

Another in-love idiot, lowly, dangerous—to get her to come home: “What exactly do you think happens if you go with him?”

She twists her mouth up. Shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t think he’ll kill me. I don’t think he’ll torture me.”

In-love idiot: “Oh, great. You don’t think he’ll kill you. What a stand-up guy. Okay. But he will hurt you.” [HE WILL DIP YOU IN BLOOD JUST TO SEE HOW YOU WEAR IT.]

Another in-love idiot: “You don’t know him, Faire. You don’t know what he’s like, what he’s capable of—”

And FAIRE, LAUGHING ROT—what the fuck have they done here?: “I’ve never been more scared in my life, these last few months. I’ve never had more near-death experiences, I’ve never seen so much blood—”

One idiot gets a look on his face that stops her cold in her tracks. Will. Maybe, probably. She rushes: “That’s not—that’s not on any of you. That’s just the life you live. You can’t control the world, do what you do, and expect something good to come out of it.” [so why the fuck do they want her in it?]

Benny?: “Just because it didn’t work out for Tony Soprano, doesn’t mean—”

“What happens, when I go home with you, Benny?” Because fuck them. Confront this. Own this. Give me this. “Do I stay inside the penthouse forever? Cook for you, play housewife? Do you fuck me when it’s convenient, on your time? Whenever you can fit me in your schedule?” [poor Liam. is he still there? maybe he shouldn’t be. maybe faire asked him to leave with Baron & Theo; maybe she asks him to leave shortly into this conversation.]

Benny, pleading: “It’s not like that. That’s not what you are to us.”

“You know what, maybe I get lucky! Maybe, at some point, work slows down for you. Maybe I get to go outside, even if I’m escorted by a dozen guys with assault rifles—”

Santi, patience running thin: “It’s more than just Mateo out there, Faire. This city is fucked, and I know I haven’t always been able to keep you safe—” [acknowledging a mistake like this? like prodding at his internal organs.]

“That’s not it. This fucking life is the common denominator here, Pope. Not you, not him. This world.”

An in-love idiot: “I don’t get it.” [shaking his head] “I don’t know what he did to get inside your head.”

“You know, I’m not some easily manipulated thing, guys. I’m an adult, I have a brain, I use logic, I’m capable of reason—”

Male: “You don’t understand this. You don’t understand the fucking gravity of what’s happening here.” [spoken as though she’s a child trying to beat the height requirement for an amusement park ride]

FAIRE, SNARLING: “Then I will learn.”

Male: “It’s a different fucking landscape, Faire. Us, grabbing you, instead of him? Instead of dying that night? Us, getting to you the night they broke in before they could kidnap you? That was just luck. You go with him, you have no protection—”

Male: “You’re not ready for what he has in store for you.” [YOU DON’T KNOW WHO YOU ARE. I DO. YOUR FUTURE IS IN MY HANDS BECAUSE YOURS ARE TOO SMALL TO HOLD IT. YOUR HEART IS IN MY FIST BECAUSE IT’S A BETTER PLACE TO BEAT THAN IN YOUR OWN BODY.]

—The guys and Baron are two sides of the same bloody coin. What is worse than sleeping with the men who murdered your father? Continuing to sleep with them after learning that fact—

FAIRE, LADY LAZARUS: “Stop treating me like I’m a child.”

Male: “You might as fucking well be with how irrational you’re being.”

“I’ve survived you, haven’t I? I’ve adapted here. I molded myself to fit all of you. I’m not stupid.”

Male: “No, no, you’re not—”

Frankie: “But you’re not exactly in the right headspace, either. Faire…you’re not…” [it feels rude to say it out loud] “You’re not sober half the time. I’m sorry. We’re sorry. We can help, we can fix this. We’ll get a doctor. We’ll remove the alcohol from the house—get you clean.”

Faire, to make them feel stupid, to bring their focus somewhere else: “I want to know what Baron meant.” [no she doesn’t] “Last night, what he said about that gossip. That you, um…that you use me? That I’m…” [she starts to cry again]

She sees heartbreak and devastation on their faces. It hurts her, too. And it’s not something she wants, it’s not something she needs. She felt safe or protected in her anger for a while; she now feels weak in her anguish.

FAIRE, GRITTED TEETH, BLOOD: “Talk.”

And maybe—maybe Santi started it. Maybe the idea originated from one of the guys. Maybe between Baron ordering his men to take her, a failed attempt, the guys slaughtering them, Frankie at the Wharf, the broadcasted messages, the symbolic implications—the words were planted long before she fucked any of them.

But what matters most here is where it came from.

Santi, maybe?: “The thought was…if you were seen as ours, maybe it kept you safe. Maybe it gave you an added layer of protection. Maybe it kept people away from you.”

And maybe the guys had nothing to do with the invention of that rumor. Maybe when it came to light they thought it couldn’t hurt to add that to the list of things that warded people away from her. But it hits the deepest, bloodiest insecurity of hers—that this, while real to her, is not real to them—

FAIRE, BLOOD, TEETH: “Weird coincidence, then.” [odd? some? strange?] Angry that these men keep saying, THIS IS FOR YOUR OWN GOOD. WE KNOW YOU. WE KNOW YOU. YOU DON'T. Like she’s some girl puppet and tugging on her strings is a game to them.

In-love idiot: “It’s not true. You know us.”

Faire: “Do I?” [heavy silence] “I thought this was real, I thought this was something.”

In-love idiot: “You do. This is real. This is real for us and we need you. We need to take you home.”

A wound in her has split open and she can’t stop picking at it. “Why did I—I don’t know, I don’t know. Why did I think this could work? Why did I think—” [she cries and laughs and cries into her hands]

Frankie, whispering: “Stop it. Honey, please. Stop. You’re okay. We are going to be okay. Please, come home. Please, let us show you. Let us prove it to you.”

“I really don’t need you to say that. I don’t need you to lie to me.”

Frankie: “I’m saying it to you because it’s real, because it’s the truth.”

“I don’t know what to say. I want to believe you. I do, I just … why do you want me to stay?” [SOMETHING IN HER NO LONGER ABLE TO AVOID THIS ELEPHANT. SHE’LL TALK ABOUT HER DRINKING IF THEY GIVE HER THIS.]

—WHY DO THEY?

It is Mozart’s Lacrimosa; It is Kate Bush, come on angel, come on, come on, darlin’. let’s change the experience; It is Bjork I’m a fountain of blood in the shape of a girl; It is Florence + The Machine, [GIRLS AGAINST GOD] and in my darkest fantasies, i am the picture of passivity, waiting for you side of stage, suppressing all my private rage + oh, it's good to be alive / crying into cereal at midnight / and if they ever let me out, i'm gonna really let it out + when i decided to wage holy war, it looked very much like staring at my bedroom floor ↣ [KING] but a woman is a changeling, always shifting shape. just when you think you have it figured out, something new begins to take. what strange claws are these scratching at my skin? i never knew my killer would be coming from within. i am no mother, i am no bride, i am king. ↣ [DREAM GIRL]; It is AURORA [A DANGEROUS THING] i don’t think i know myself without your help; It is Winter Aid, let me sleep, i am tired of my grief / and i would like you to love me, to love me, to love me; It is Hozier [DINNER & DIATRIBES] i’d suffer hell if you’d tell me, what you’d do to me tonight. + that’s the kind of love i’ve been dreaming of ↣ [AS IT WAS] ↣ [SHRIKE] love shown through sacrifice and devotion; It is Gia Ford [SLEEPING IN YOUR GARDEN] unhinged, manic, surreal, horror; It is Virginia Woolf, yes, yes, yes, i do like you. i am afraid to write the stronger word; It is Mitski, i am a forest fire / and i am the fire and i am the forest / and i am a witness watching it.

—WHAT DO THE GUYS SAY NEXT?—WHAT DOES SHE SAY IN RETURN?—

CUT TO THE NEXT SCENE: THE PENTHOUSE?

CUT TO THE NEXT SCENE: BARON’S BACK POCKET?

FAIRE exits, PURSUED BY [...]

The expanding distance between Faire & the guys at the end of Chapter Twelve is no accident. It does not feel fleeting. The word finite came to mind when I first read it. Things cannot continue as they were; Faire cannot cook, drink, get high, and fuck her feelings silent. Baron successfully slithered his way into her psyche with his comments; he is no longer something she can think of every now and then. Faire can no longer lean into her feelings for the guys—the want, the lust, the desire, the tentative hope—without analyzing them thoroughly. My feeling is that she is truly gone at the end of Chapter Twelve.

How long does she stay gone? Is it a week? A month? A year? Surely something substantial, something meaningful. How will she ever go back? Something needs to happen to make that distance close in on itself. What motivates her to go back?

I have a little equation I’ve been working on, it goes a little something like this:

First guy to think of his feelings as love + First guy to verbalize his feelings as love = Most Emotionally Cognizant Guy

Most Emotionally Cognizant Guy > Post-12 Obstacles Between Faire & Guys = Probability of (Faire Finally Coming Home)

I thought how funny would it be if I literally formatted my theory into an equation, but the joke is literally on me because I have no understanding of what the fuck math even is. And if someone sees this and understands math, do not laugh. Let me explain.

~Most Emotionally Cognizant Guy~ is the crown jewel, it is the title of honor. It is something to bestow upon Will, Ben, Frankie, or Santi. It belongs, at least for a certain amount of time being, to one guy alone. To win this title, they first must think of their feelings as love, AND be the first to verbalize their feelings as love. No half-measures here, folks. No innuendos, no suggestions, no metaphors.

The ~Most Emotionally Cognizant Guy~ is the guys’ greatest tool/weapon/strategy, for bringing Faire home. ~Most Emotionally Cognizant Guy~ is greater than, or stronger than, the obstacles that divide Faire & the Guys. ~Most Emotionally Cognizant Guy~, therefore, greatly determines the likelihood of Faire Finally Coming Home. Home, of course, is the penthouse.

~Most Emotionally Cognizant Guy~ is the easiest guy for Faire to talk to, Post-12. He is the first she gradually begins to trust, Post-12. He is the bridge and the solid land on the other side of it. He likely plays diplomat between her & the other guys. He does not leave his motivations open to interpretation; he lays himself out explicitly. He has overcome his deepest internal fears (fear of commitment, attachment, love, etc.) It is because of this that he is able to approach her so directly, openly, honestly, boldly, bravely, and relentlessly. It is this approach that gives Faire the courage & strength to trust him, and in time, the rest of the guys.

Faire must grow, no matter how much it scares her. She cannot stay in the same place. She cannot live with the same mindset. This distance gives her the soil to do so. She becomes her own person. She makes her own decisions. She was forced to live in their home. That was not her decision. Men decided that for her. If she is to ever go back to the guys, it must be on her terms. It must be her choice. Only then can her relationship with the guys ever truly become real—become what we see in Sick Girl and Knots, and all the other drabbles of their future together.

This distance is needed. This distance is necessary.

What happens at the penthouse, with Faire gone? How exactly do the men find themselves unraveling? The distance is just as necessary and needed for them, too. In her absence, they must specifically identify their mistakes with her. These mistakes prevented them from treating Faire like an autonomous person. Do they want her back? If so, they must treat her as she is—real. Complex, breathing, smart; not some doll. Not a pet to check in on every now and then. A person, a partner, to communicate with, to grow with, to live with, to love and be loved in return. I see a role reversal; they are now the ones left waiting, left pining alone. Faire goes off to war.

What happens with Liam, if Faire stays gone? Faire would be enraged if the guys exacted revenge or punishment on Liam. She would never forgive them. She would never speak to them kindly, again. They know they cannot hurt him without hurting her; so do they? Part of their growth demands that they see the reason why Liam urged her to leave with Baron. They cannot simply come to terms with it, they must agree to it. To cut them a little bit of slack, they don’t have to agree that she leave with Baron; she could have gone somewhere else. They could have had more grown-up, adult conversations with her. Faire was a nuclear disaster waiting to happen and they made the conditions perfect for meltdown. Can they trust Liam again? Do they? If so, how long before they are able to?

LIAM is still Faire’s bodyguard. The guys & Faire have their sad little conversation/shouting match in the greenhouse; Faire stays and they leave. A contingency is put in place—Liam is still her bodyguard. Faire is free to learn of Baron to whatever extent she wants, but Liam stays with her. He doesn’t switch sides. He’s still loyal to Pope, to the Cardinals. He doesn’t rat on Faire. He reports to Santi every so often, though not as frequently and not as explicitly. He will only tell Santi explicitly what goes on, should her life be in danger; should Baron pose a legitimate threat to her safety. But is Liam safe with Baron—with the Apostles? Is he even safe with the Cardinals? For my heart, for my sake, yes.

If Charles Faire proposed an alliance between the Cardinals and Apostles, his daughter carries his legacy. Only in the name of peace is Liam allowed to stay with Faire. It is insurance, it is for protection, for the safety, of all parties involved.

TOM belongs to Faire. The thought of what happens with or to Tom is something that weighs heavily on her mind, immediately after leaving with Baron. Was he ever truly hers? She worries that she is about to lose Tom. It guts her. When she decides to stay at her home—whether that means just living at her house, hanging out with Baron for a bit, who knows—and Liam decides to stay with her, however that comes about, the guys bring Tom to Faire. Maybe they visit later that day to drop him off. The guys love her; therefore, they cannot hurt her. Not purposefully, not intentionally. They do not know how. They are incapable of doing so.

The guys see her around town. Each time they come across her, she looks less and less like the girl they once knew. Her smile looks like a snarl. It is Out of the red ash / I rise with my red hair / And I eat men like air. [lady lazarus, sylvia plath]; This is the house that built me / and I’m gonna burn it down. / This is the river I crawled from / and I refuse to drown here. [courtney love prays to oregon, clementine von radics]; The moral of the story is, / I will gut you if i need to. / I will carve my way out with only my teeth. [little red riding hood addresses the next wolf, renna twhoy]; CHORUS LEADER: You would become the wretchedest of women. MEDEA: Then let it be. [medea, euripides]; My rage is a kind of domestic rage. / I learned it from my mother / who learned it from her mother before her / and so on. [enough, suzanne buffam]; Transgress your body’s borders, shed your skin, embrace your monstrous flesh. Freed of the shackles of the vulnerable female body, I will be reborn as a woman who devours. [embrace your monstrous flesh: on women’s bodies in horror, rebecca harkins-cross]; I love you so much / I will knock over buildings / I will eat you alive [monster movie, nicola may goldberg]. But there is deep sadness and longing in that self-inflicted hack job of a transformation. She doesn’t want them to see it, but they are able to anyway.

And the men, alone, stupid, pathetic, and in love. Santi is [SUNLIGHT] by Hozier. Will is what happens when a body loses its soul. Benny listens to Taylor Swift and Mitski and cries. Frankie? Who knows. He sure doesn’t. All four of them are [SHRIKE] by Hozier; I couldn’t utter my love when it counted / Ah, but I’m singing like a bird ‘bout it now / I couldn’t whisper when you needed it shouted / Ah, but I’m singing like a bird ‘bout it now; their love is shown through sacrifice and devotion; Love is not pain. Love is goodness. [the secret life of prince charming, deb caletti]; All that matters is that you want to hurt me. / All that matters is that you want me. / Say the word and I’ll burn for ten days. + You can have my heart if you have the stomach to take it. [bloodsport, yves olade]; Sálvame, mi dios, / Trágame, mi tierra. Salva, traga, Break me, {Save me, my god, / Swallow me, my land, save, swallow,} / I am bread. I will be the water for your thirst. [to the desert, benjamin alire sáenz]

For Faire and the Guys, it is this: Love is so embarrassing. I bled in your bed. I’m sorry. I have built you a shore with all my best words & still, the waves. [bound, claire schwartz]; I love you. I want us both to eat well. [our beautiful life when it’s filled with shrieks, christopher citro]; your name is another word I use for love; I will wash your hair at night / and dry it off with care / I will see your body bare / and still I will leave here [i will, mitski]; PYLADES: I’ll take care of you. ORESTES: It’s rotten work. PYLADES: Not to me. Not if it’s you. [orestes, eurpides, transl. anne carson]; A saying, “it’s beautiful” and B replying, while looking at A, “yes, it is”.

Maybe she plays protégé for Baron, and she sits in on meetings. Maybe he forces her to. Wouldn’t that be fun? Behold—your four kind of, sort of, almost, not really ex-boyfriends. Maybe none of them can make eye contact. Perhaps all of them stare when they think the other is not looking, dumbly, longingly.

And that is about as far as I can fill in the blanks. Faire does not go back to the penthouse, not at first, not for a while. She learns more about her father’s history. She sees how Baron presents it and learns her own lesson from it, independent of his biases. She sees beyond it. She grows. She becomes a bit of a badass—she knows how to fight and how to handle a gun. She kills someone for the first time. Maybe she hooks up with Baron. Maybe she hooks up with Leo. She stands up for herself. She is best friends with Liam. Tom is her best guy.

She is cutthroat and fearless when it comes to defending Liam and Tom, and also Will, Frankie, Ben, and Santi. I think she eventually ends up saving the guys’ lives. I think she kills some people for them, to save them, in some kind of death or death situation the guys are unable to fight their way out of. She earns her colors, she gets her stripes, or what have you, and things happen, and she eventually goes back to live in the penthouse with the guys.

But then what? How are things different from what life was like before? What does Faire do? She still cooks, because she enjoys doing so. It’s therapeutic but it’s not something she did as mindlessly and frantically as before. Are the guys more open about mob business? Does she give input? How involved is she? How often do they tell each other, explicitly, I love you? How comfortable are they seeing her with their fellow guys? How comfortable is she? I see a lot of it as the guys proving themselves to her.

What does each individual relationship look like, when it’s just Said Guy & Faire alone? Do the guys awkwardly avert their eyes and tip-toe around each other? What fucking kinks do they share with each other? I mean, um…how is Faire given more agency in the penthouse? At what fucking point does Faire get to study Pope & Frankie’s tattoos, up close? Er, uh…does Liam ever get reassigned from being her bodyguard? Which of the guys are more open to being with her, like…BEING with her, with another guy? Who is the most okay with threesomes? Er, uh, what happens with Baron after she goes back to the penthouse? Are any of the guys, uh…like, you know, open to guy stuff with their fellow guy? I mean, um, do you think Tom ever gets a dog sibling?

This story and what you've done here. It has been an absolute pleasure to dig through these chapters like a feral raccoon. I have loved thinking about it. I will continue to do so. I am grateful for what you've shared here. I am grateful that my silly little comments haven't been too bothersome. Thank you for putting up with me. Thank you for allowing me to respectfully, somberly, and humbly present my broken little thoughts. I tried to make them grammatically correct this time around. I pushed way, way harder for coherency than I usually do.

Again, my love and heart to you. Wherever you take this story, wherever it goes, thank you for sharing it here. ♡ ♡ ♡

#watch your step #wys #charnelhouse #my issue is that i'm a hopeless slutty romantic and i love female rage far too much for them to be compatible #[mine].

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