- alonimi
- Out of Character
- The Repository
- Storytime [Read Only]
This got ridiculously long so I put it behind a spoiler cut for the sake of those scrolling through.
Spoiler:
Logic and deductive reasoning skills had a way of only catching up with Bree after she’d left Jean Cernunnos’ presence.
For instance, a day after she’d left it for the second time in her life, she was laying nude in her bed, waiting for sunset, and running the fine gold ring she’d been unable to part with between two fingers. And it was only then that she realized she’d seen a safe full of cash--ludicrous amounts of cash, obscene amounts of cash. It was unlikely he’d cashed out a few million in the last few years, wasn’t it? It wasn’t like he would have gotten that from selling books, considering he’d traded six decently valuable ones for ten or fifteen very confusing minutes of her thinking.
Had he lied to her, before, when he’d said he didn’t have $50,000 in cash? But why would he do that? For an excuse to unload some of his gems and gold? That seemed stupid. Did he want to give her this finery, for some reason? Maybe he hoped she’d wear it, or it would prompt her to dressing up more. He’d brought her clothing up many a time during her first visit. She couldn’t write off the possibility he’d really just been that offended by how she looked.
This was the sort of thing she wound up thinking on, around in circles, for weeks. She read through the children’s books herself, and indeed wound up keeping the Hobbit for her own. She’d read the book a thousand times, but this was a very nice, illustrated copy. And her last visit wasn’t so tainted in her mind as her first. She could look at the book without getting fits of anxiety or nausea, like had plagued her for years after their fateful encounter during her senior year.
It was probably because she had so many unanswered questions that she showed up to his house again, over three weeks later.
She hadn't even... really intended to? She'd just been walking home from work, rather than taking the bus, as she sometimes did to save money, when the days were long and warm and she didn't have to worry about unfortunate incidents. She took a route through Old Town, even though it was out of the way, because she liked walking through Old Town. No one ever bothered her there.
Instead of taking her normal route of skirting a few blocks around his house, however, she found herself walking right by it. And then stopping, thoughtfully.
He'd said he'd be glad to have her again. A nice sentiment nestled in a horrible phrasing. She often wondered if he did it on purpose.
There is much that I would be willing to give you, if you are willing to let me take.
She still had no idea what the fuck that meant.
She gave herself a brief once-over. She was still dressed from work, a white and black patterned lace skirt that fell just to the top of her knees. Practical white button down with a rounded collar, short sleeves. As luck would have it, she was actually wearing the same damn hat she had been last time, black rim and patterned black and white top. It wasn't her fault; it went with the outfit. And being fashionable with her hats was the only way she got away with wearing them at work. Flat, strappy sandals, comfortable to walk in and comfortable to work in, but still decent enough to be seen in professionally. Not that anyone ever looked at her feet.
She was... fit to be seen. She looked professional. She looked like a librarian, almost certainly. She'd even switched from a backpack to a messenger bag capable of actually holding all her shit and keeping it organized, one in black "snakeskin" patterned leather. (It was actually 'dragon'skin. She had purchased it off a D&D website. No one could ever know. Look it held a lot of things okay)
She was just loitering outside his house at this point.
With a deep breath, she walked up to the door and entered.
He was inside, sitting at the desk near the entrance. One could almost forget how tall he was, when he sat. His suit was a silvery gray, his accessories white, everything trimmed in black like it had been drawn onto him in thick lines. It made him look a bit surreal, to her eye, sitting in the ludicrously luxe parlor surrounded by books. She was also uncomfortably aware that they matched in color schemes.
“Ah, Miss Corey!” he said when he took notice of her. He was glancing up at her over reading glasses she sincerely doubted he needed and was probably wearing just for aesthetics. He snapped his book shut, at which point she noticed the state of his gloves... which was, to note, he was wearing one, white leather on his left hand. His right hand remained bare, nails still as neatly trimmed as before.
She felt a bit of relief when he recognized her. She’d been halfway convinced he wouldn’t. Again.
She shifted a bit, uncomfortably, as she watched his eyes travel up and down, appraising her. She pulled her bag in front of her without really understanding why she was doing it. "And you have dressed yourself so well today," he said... until his eyes reached her hair. "Except... ah. But I should not complain, as I know that you are sensitive in that area. Ignore me. What did you want with me today?"
Right. Yes. What she wanted. Because she’d walked into his shop.
Without... anything even resembling a plan.
“The library was very happy with the books I got from you before,” she settled on quickly. “They’ve all been entered into the restoration program. There’s been a lot of talk about how best to preserve The Pink Fairy Book’s cover.” She paused, shifting. He waited for her to continue. “Before,” she continued on, haltingly, “You said you preferred trades. Does that still hold true?”
"It does. You are here then in a professional capacity?" He sounded a little too pleased, for her tastes.
“Um...” she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Why was she worried about the sort of half-lie it would be to just simply say yes? “Yes,” she finished. Then, unnecessarily, added, “Mostly.” What if he had some kind of special library rate? She didn’t want to find out later she’d been scamming him.
Out of... extra... thoughts, or whatever the fuck...
Look, she was just... she had morals, okay, when books were involved especially. Even if he was an asshole who made her very uncomfortable in many, many ways, she couldn’t just... lie about books. That was wrong.
"I see. Perhaps something caught your eye last time? But I suppose I ought not pry.” She didn’t really understand why not; they were his books. She supposed maybe he didn’t have a private versus public rate, then. “Take your time, and when you have found as much as you are willing to trade for, you may bring them to me."
Oh that was a little off-putting. How was she supposed to know how much they were worth? She could maybe try to use last time as a gauge, but she had paid first and then selected the books, that time. Which was... aheh... probably why they were switching the order out this time. She had grabbed six very nice books.
She felt a little awkward, perusing where he could see her, but perused nonetheless. Several books had, in fact, caught her eye before. She grabbed an old Winnie the Pooh that she’d regretted not being able to nab last time, right off the bat. Then she began to tour the nonfiction section. She absolutely could not find any rhyme or reason to it, so it was slow going. But she gathered up a few books, each one old and worn. "A Popular History of British Seaweeds" would no doubt prove to be absolute fascinating. And also, it had a very pretty design on the spine. "France And The French, Or Manners, Customs, And Historical Narratives Of The French Nation," written in London, would doubtlessly also prove to be illuminating, for multiple reasons.
A book called "The Magic Casement: An Anthology of Fairy Poetry" also wound up getting grabbed, mostly because she couldn't for the life of her tell if it was fiction or nonfiction. And a leather book that could only be described as a "tome" that didn't have a title, but appeared to be a case study about armadillos. Or fairies. Or fairy armadillos. She couldn't tell without delving into it, which was why she was getting it.
Oh, and a... romance title that had... caught her eye. Which she crammed in under the rest as she brought the six to the desk. Six seemed like a good, safe number. She set them down, delicately. She’d sort of been hoping that the romance title being so small and unassuming and also having a normal looking cover meant that it would go somewhat unnoticed in favor of other, weirder titles. Like, why was she buying a book about British seaweed? That was a very good question. One that he should have asked, instead of zeroing in on the most embarrassing book in the whole pile. He looked over all the spines, but the only one he pulled out of the pile? That one. Of course.
She probably stopped breathing altogether as he appraised it. The corner of his mouth quirked upwards, and she considered flinging herself out a window. She should have stuck to histories. But she had needs. Especially lately, for some reason.
He gave the cover a fond little pat. “I think you will like this one,” he said, looking amused.
Did that mean it was good, or that he suspected she had weird fetishes? She would never know, because she sure as fuck wasn’t going to ask.
“So, altogether, that would be, ah, we’ll round to $500. Unless you would prefer a trade?”
Urk. She always did have expensive fucking taste in books. “A trade like the last one?” she asked, voice sounding a little strained.
"Quite similar," he said. "A thought exercise, a little more formal than the last. Unless you can think of something else you would rather surrender?"
Seriously? Rather surrender? Who talked like that. He had to be doing it on purpose. She wouldn’t be surrendering anything to him, thank-you-very-much. "Uh... No. Thought exercise sounds... fine. Upstairs again?" Not that she was especially eager to see his office again. ...Man, that was a lie big enough she couldn’t even think it. His office was gorgeous. Being alone with him in it was kind of terrifying to think about, and once again the prospect of sitting up there, just him, with her eyes closed... set her heart to pounding.
"I think that would be for the best - unless you prefer a more public venue," he was saying.
“No,” she said, voice cracking slightly. She cleared her throat. “No thank you. Private is. Fine.”
This asshole. Ugh.
She followed him up the stairs, all nerves with a side helping of anticipation. His office was as beautiful the second time. He gestured to the window seat again. It was around the same time of afternoon, and the sun was falling onto the seat in glimmering rays. She sat down, and after a brief moment of watching him watch her, slid her eyes shut.
It was easier for her to begin to relax than she might have liked, with the warm sun hitting her hair, the pleasant, oaken sort of scent to the room, old books and wealth, and his voice speaking in a pleasing low tenor, soft but still perfectly easy to hear.
"This time, I want you to picture yourself in a place – it does not have to be real. It only needs to be a place where you would like to be."
A place where she’d like to be... Automatically, his office was forming in her mind, but with key differences. A big fireplace, like had been in her great-grandparent’s living room. It was decked out a bit more like her room... small places for her to crawl under, like her bed. More cramped, therefore more comfortable. Little ramps and steps so she could get up on places when she was six inches tall. Her mini-fridge was here, too, except fancy. Full of rich people snacks, or what she imagined rich person snacks were like. Except not avocado toast, because that was terrible and also would kill her.
But like... toast points instead of crackers. With goat cheese. Apples with peanut butter, all pre-sliced and ready to go, maybe some honey drizzled on. Yeah, fancy crap like that, to please her palate be she large or small. Relaxing music, violin music that she didn't need to think about the source of, would definitely be playing.
"It is a calm and peaceful place, where nothing can harm you. Maybe someone is there who is happy to see you? They are there for you, because this is your place.”
Her mind immediately rebelled from the concept of someone happy to see her, suggesting and then rejecting several candidates. But this was her fantasy, she argued with herself. Someone could be happy to see her if she said so. She was just... struggling to figure out what that would look like. She tentatively settled on her great-grandfather. From when she was young, back when she still hadn’t figured the world out entirely.
This was a version of reality where he was allowed to pat her head and neither of them would get yelled at, she decided.
“You are in control, and only the things you want can happen. Everyone here wants to please you, and everything is exactly the way you like it.”
Exactly the way she liked it, hmm? Well, someone to... feed her grapes, yeah! Grapes were sort of solidified in her mind as both “rich fancy food” and “things she could not eat.” So both at once! Someone to feed her grapes as she lounged by the fire, reading. She didn’t know what grapes tasted like, but she’d had grape-flavored stuff, so she just sort of imagined that.
Oh, it was Jean. Jean was feeding her grapes. Wait, no, yes, that was perfect! Her foot tapped idly as a smile crossed her lips. That rich asshole, pampering her. Wearing white gloves and a tailored suit... like a butler. Yes, he could be her servant.
"You are happy. You are calm. You are safe. Now, I would like you to think back to a time when you were hurt - but, it is a memory. You are in this place. This memory cannot hurt you. The people here will protect you, and nothing bad can happen. You can banish it, and be safe again, because you are in control.”
This threw her, mostly because the first thing that came to mind was Jean, again. There was a momentary, confusing kerfluffle in her head as fantasy-butler-Jean faced off against actual-real-life-drunk-asshole-Jean.
This was going to give her a headache. She needed to switch to something less Jean-related, in general.
Alright, start with the easy part. A time when she was hurt. Something the opposite of her little happy place came to mind... the fenced in backyard where she was sometimes locked at night. It was a last-ditch punishment of her great-grandparents; they didn’t like treating her like a dog, she knew. She didn’t think she’d ever explained to them how much she hated that yard, but she felt like they probably knew. Surely they knew. Couldn’t anyone tell? It was so dark out there at night, the only light the one by the patio door. Long winter nights got cold, even with her bed and blanket. Sometimes it would rain, and they wouldn’t wake up to let her in. She would have to choose between getting soaking wet by the light, or going into the dark underneath the patio to try and temporarily seek shelter from the rain. If it was raining really hard, it would get wet under there too, though, and muddy.
“Remember: this is a good place, and you are good.”
Right. This was her place, where no one would ever hate her so much as to leave her locked outdoors all night. The patio door opened, and she trotted inside to the office-bedroom-living-room amalgamation. Where she could sit by the warm, bright fire. Someone was there, and they pet her. She had very vague ideas about being pet; she wasn’t exactly clear on what it would feel like, but was very certain it would be good.
It wasn’t necessarily Jean petting her. Just some generic guy sent over from casting. Who just happened to have sharp nails that felt very good.
“You are good. You are safe. You can return to this place whenever you need, and it will be waiting for you.”
That was a nice sort of thought. Maybe she could think about it when she was stuck in her room, bored, with nothing to do but read and wait for the dawn. Would american cheese squares taste any better if she pretended it was goat cheese on toast points?
“Breathe. Take a deep, slow breath,” he said, and she did. “Fix this place in your mind, so that you may find it again when the time comes. Relax. And when you are ready, you may open your eyes.”
She kept her eyes closed for a moment longer, then opened them. Confused, a little out of place, but kind of relaxed anyway. She gave her head a little shake, and then her whole body, like she was trying to wake up.
Why the fuck was that worth $500?
What was she missing, here?
There was Jean, looking pleased as punch. He hadn’t moved, once again. “There, you have done wonderfully today! I will be in the hall if you need a moment, and then you can get your books.”
He left her alone in his office. She sat for a moment longer, luxuriating in the sun and the smell and all the knowledge and wealth around her.
What was he getting out of this?
That uneasy thought brought her the rest of the way out of relaxation, and she stood, somewhat reluctantly, to exit the office. He was waiting for her out there, gloved hand leaning on the doorframe. She stared at it for maybe a liiiittle longer than was entirely necessary, then just told herself it was because it was white, and he’d been wearing white gloves in her imagination, too.
He managed to get another comment in on her skirt, and another on her legs, and one last sly one on her hat, before she actually got out the door, though. And she had to see that horrible, horrible catalogue of his. It made her shudder every time. How she longed to sweep through here with a proper system. She would learn so much! She wondered, idly, how much she would have to give him to let him allow her to make that her graduate project.
---------------
She’d pace herself. That’s what she said. Six good books could last a long time, if she paced herself. But she was awake roughly twenty-two hours of the day, sometimes the full twenty-four. She could read very quickly. And they were very good books.
Every time she went to Jean’s he managed to embarrass her. Make her feel ashamed, uncomfortable... a little scared, a lot intimidated, and some other things that she didn’t like thinking about. Every time she left relieved to have gotten out with what little dignity she still possessed by the end. Even his compliments left her confused and reeling. She couldn’t deal with him.
And yet here she was, two and a half weeks later, outside his fucking door again.
She’d dressed down this time, on purpose. He had made one (three) too many comments on her dress. He had to have been making fun of her. What she was wearing was still very professional work attire just... a bit less flashy. A loose beige silk blouse, a fitted brown suit jacket. A looser skirt, fitted high around her waist with a thin belt. Brown-black leggings, simple black mary janes. A very plain brown hat.
It wasn't ugly. It was just very brown, and not very fitted. He would have a much harder time complimenting her legs, to be sure.
Of course, that meant she had to suffer through the trade-off. It seemed whether she dressed up or down, she’d be suffering through a multitude of comments on her appearance. As soon as he saw her--glancing over from where he was casually re-organizing a bookshelf that, to her eye, had never been organized in the first place--he frowned, giving her that same slow, up and down look, but this time with an expression of disappointment, irritation, and mild offense.
Honestly! He acted as though the way she dressed was a personal affront, done just to spite him! Well... it was, in this case, but he didn’t know that! She thought it was very telling of his personality, that he would just assume it was about him. Even if it was. This one time.
“Your tailor has not had time for a fitting?” he fussed as she tried to pick out her books in peace. He was lingering. She would very much prefer he didn’t, because he was wearing just a vest today, rather than a suit, and it was very trim and looked very good on him. “What an awful thing to do to such a pretty girl.” Pfff! Asshole! Pretty girl, yeah, sure... Like it was her clothing’s fault she looked like this. “Would you like me to send you to mine? She is a very quick stitch.”
“Normal people can't afford tailors, Mr. Cernunnos,” she said as politely as she was able--which wasn’t very--as she attempted to browse his shelves with him fluttering nearby.
“But you have managed so well before!” he protested. “The skirt you wore before was much more flattering. A lucky find, if it was not tailored! Then you must have the salesman fired who sold you this skirt. The hem is much too low for such fine legs.”
The legs again, really?!
She leaned closer to peer at a book’s spine, to hide her blush. “I bought this at thrift store,” she said shortly, pulling out a book she had no interest in to have something to hide her face with. “It was seven dollars. Please get your horror out of the way now and then let's move on.”
She could still see his pout over the edge of the book. She disliked it, because it was on his face. His stupid, unnaturally pretty face, that was like a foot too high up, so that she always seemed to be looking up at him no matter how far away she was. And she didn’t even have the advantage of being far away now. He was far too close. Not close enough for it to be called rude; not even close. A totally reasonable distance that still managed to be way too fucking close to her.
“Surely, if it was so inexpensive, you could use that money saved to have it fitted properly. You are sure you do not want my tailor? Your legs are so powerful; they are being wasted like this.”
P... powerful. She pulled the book up higher to more effectively hide the crimson she knew was spreading across her cheeks. She liked that adjective, especially re: her legs. She worked very hard to be as strong as she was. It was hard to find enough time in the day, lately, to stay as fit as she wanted. It was nice to have it noticed, even if it was by Jean Cernunnos. She briefly entertained the concept he might actually appreciate her legs, and then threw it out the window as utterly ridiculous. That was the sort of ludicrous fantasy better reserved for when he was paying her. Genuine appreciation was firmly the realm of fantasy-nice-Jean, who fed her grapes and rubbed her ears.
Never let it be said she didn’t know how to compartmentalize.
She cleared her throat. “My legs and I appreciate your concern but I'm here for books, not... skirts...” she trailed off as something caught her eye on the shelf behind him. She set the book she was perusing directly into his hands--a librarian’s instinct not to reshelf--and sidled by him, sort of ducking under his arm, one hand briefly on his side as she moved him out of her way. It was sheer force of magnetism. She would have shoved the devil himself out of the way, because a matching blue set had caught her eye.
They were below even normal eye level, way below what would be eye level for him. She dropped to her knees immediately to get a better look.
The Modern Eclectic Dictionary of the English Language, each book read in gold on pale blue. A full set of six. She could not have been more excited if the world's most attractive man had dropped trou in front of her and bent over. This was the kind of thing dreams were made of. Gently, her heart racing with wild excitement, she pulled the first one off the shelf.
1904. Oh sweet merciful christ yes.
The first page gave a beautiful and lengthy description of the contents, in that wonderful old rambly style. "Comprising also a compendium of the historical, biographical, geographical, scientific, religious, and sociological names," "complete summary of human achievement in the 19th and 20th centuries," etc etc... Illustrated with colored plates and drawings.
And he had all six volumes, in good condition, right here. She was practically salivating.
"These," she said, not even looking up from the page. "These, all six."
“Oh goodness, would you... like to get it in parts?” Bree briefly tore her eyes away from the page, and was suddenly extremely aware of how things lined up when she knelt. Ordinarily, she might be, say, about abdomen level. But Mr. Cernunnos was very tall. So she was... not. She needed to either get higher or lower, immediately. “It is eight hundred for the full set, you see,” he continued, seemingly unaware of exactly where her head came to.
“Eight hundred for a set of six,” she said, wincing. It wasn’t an unfair price, it was just a lot. Well... the last time had been $500, and that hadn't been particularly bad. "The same sort of trade?" she asked, frowning in consideration. She sat down on the backs of her legs, opting for lowering herself instead of standing. Both so that she could keep looking at the books, and because he was right there, and standing up right next to him felt awkward. Not that sitting on the floor while he was standing right next to her felt much less awkward, all things considered. She kept thinking he was going to set something on her head.
"It might be a little more in-depth, if that does not bother you?"
"That's... disconcertingly vague," she said, frowning deeper. Now would be the time he'd pull a switcheroo on her; she kept waiting for the other shoe to drop and now would be the perfect time. If she were dropping shoes, this would be her moment of truth.
"Always so suspicious!" he said, and she barely kept from rolling her eyes. Yes, who could believe she was suspicious, he was such a trustworthy, upstanding individual, asking for such straightforward things. “It has not been so much these last times, has it?”
True... And even if he had her thinking unpleasant things, it was just thinking, right? As long as he didn’t touch her, it wasn’t like... a thing. “Yeah...” And seriously, in what other world would she get the chance to get $800 worth of glorious books for sitting and thinking? When phrased like that, she couldn’t believe she was even hesitating. “Alright,” she agreed.
She stood, pausing only to carefully remove the other five books from the shelf. It was every bit as awkward as she imagined it would be. She went to put the books on the desk; rather than backing away, Jean simply stood to the side again. She eyed him sourly, but shimmied past, too focused on the books to care that he was being kind of a dick. It was Jean. He was always kind of a dick.
She set them down, then let him lead her back upstairs. Anticipation surged in her chest; she was nervous, but also... she liked his office, a lot. It was the kind of room she’d always wanted but never hoped to see, let alone possess. Frankly, she considered their sessions taking place there a huge bonus, not that she’d ever tell Jean that. She followed him through the door after he’d unlocked it, and went right to her designated seat by the window. Afternoon again, same as always, meaning the sun came right in to warm her.
She still had no idea what he hoped to accomplish here, what he gained. The idea had crossed her mind a few times that he might be a telepath of some kind, exploring her mind as she relaxed and explored her own subconscious. She hadn’t thought too much about it, because the concept was completely fucking horrifying on pretty much every level.
“Good girl,” he practically purred from his designated I Will Stand Here And Not Molest You zone. She pretended not to get a little thrill of embarrassing pleasure from the words. “Now close your eyes for me, and take a deep breath.”
She really wished he didn’t have to phrase everything so disgustingly. But she closed her eyes nonetheless, taking a deep breath in through her nose, soaking in the smell of old oak and older books. Her nose was sensitive even in human form, but compared to how things smelled at night, this was nothing. Shame she couldn’t smell this with a dog’s nose. But obviously, that was impossible on a number of levels.
“Just breathe. Slow, deep breaths. I am going to count down from ten, and when I am done, you will be thinking again of that place from last time, the place where you are happy and safe. Dix. Neuf. Huit. Sept...”
She felt herself sinking in warm water, floating back down to the little office/bedroom/living room hybrid that she was coming to associate with so many nice things. She’d tried going there a few times on her own, mostly when she was alone and bored at night. But inevitably, she couldn’t get the feeling just right. She was never warm enough, it was never quiet enough, she could never allow herself to fantasize that sort of ridiculous, indulgent nonsense without the pretense of being required to do so.
For example, butler-Jean was there again, and while it might be more comfortable to imagine him from the privacy of her own bedroom, she always felt patently ridiculous even trying.
“"You are calm. You are happy. You are safe. You are going to think of a memory again, but you will be safe here. The people here will protect you, and be here for you if you need them.”
She probably made a face, but she wasn’t very surprised. He had said it would be more in-depth. It was hard to imagine Jean, or her great-grandfather, being there for her. She had barely managed them being pleased to see her, last time, because it had seemed so frankly ridiculous. It wasn’t that her great-grandfather hated her, he was just...
Well. She didn’t have to think about that now, because this was supposed to be a place where everyone liked her and respected her and didn’t think she was a mangy little curse.
“The memory is of the first time you realized that you were not like other children.” She tensed. “But it is only a memory, and you are in a safe place, where you may be yourself without fear. It cannot hurt you.” That was easy for him to say. Memories were already coming to bear, hard and fast. She had been kept so isolated; she couldn’t remember any other children, not real ones. But pretty much as soon as she was old enough to consume media like books and television, she began to notice things.
She had begun to put two and two together, thanks in part to her great-grandparents’ over-protective natures. Not letting her play outside except in the backyard, keeping her locked up, away from other people. The endless reminders to keep her head covered at all times, even when it was just the three of them, so that she wouldn’t make a mistake in front of others. The first time she’d met a stray dog, and realized it was a dumb beast, not like her at all. That one was especially vivid, because it had growled at her, and she hadn’t been able to understand why it wouldn’t listen to reason, why it didn’t want to be her friend.
“What you must look at is the difference between how the people here in this safe place think about you, where you are in control, and how you felt at that time.”
She had to retreat from her own memories, for a moment, before she could even consider that. Scurry back into her happy corner by the fire, away from the doors and windows where memories peeked in, reminding her of the harsh reality of her life.
How she felt at the time was like a monster. Like a thing, like a beast, like a freak. Those things were all varying levels of true, mind. She didn’t consider herself a monster or a thing, but it was hard to deny “freak” and she was a beast about half the time. In her memories, her family could barely look at her, it seemed, because they knew what she was, too. Her mother was always the worst. She had scant memories of her as a child; she hadn’t really become even slightly active in Bree’s life until she was much older. And it certainly hadn’t been her mother’s idea for Bree to run away from home and crash in her apartment.
She’d let her, because, Bree could tell, her mother felt some guilt for the way she treated Bree. She always had. She didn’t want to be so disgusted by her, Bree suspected. Felt bad, feeling that way about her own child, but couldn’t stop. She tried to make up for it in other ways. Sometimes.
She could feel tears in the corners of her eyes, which meant it was time to focus on something else. How the people here think about her, he’d said. Well, her great-grandfather here would give her hugs and pats and say encouraging, grandfatherly things. Butler-Jean was basically just a replacement for all the people who hadn’t known how to talk to her, hadn’t wanted to, had refused to touch her. He thought she was amazing, and beautiful, and he and the various other generic men she sometimes pulled in loved pampering her, petting her.
It was a silly fantasy, really, but hey... she was being paid, sort of.
“You may let the memory go. It does not concern you now. You are in your safe place, and now you know how you feel here. You feel happy, and safe, and you can see why.”
Yeah... who wouldn’t? Anyone would like to be adored, to have supportive family, to be warm and safe and loved. She felt stupid doing it, but honestly, wasn’t this what most people wanted?
“Focus on those feelings of safety, and the feelings of those around you. Focus on that happiness. You can relax here. There is nothing for you to fear. You must remember this feeling. This part is important, and so you must focus. You deserve this feeling. You are calm. You are happy. You are safe. You deserve this.”
Her mind rebelled immediately. This was a fantasy. None of it was real, least of all deserved. Life was the opposite of this, a series of hardships to overcome with a handicap that made her ruin the lives of the people around her. She couldn’t deserve love when she’d ruined her mother’s life just by being born. Made her great-grandparents go through so much to raise her when she knew they didn’t want to. And then run away from them. Deserve? Deserve never played into anything.
She tried to wave that away and focus on the rest. The sensation of being happy and loved, at least in a fantasy. Calm, happy, safe. She’d ignore the last bit.
There was a disconnect in her head, between being a dog and being safe. She was never really safe at that size. Too fragile, too easy to break, too slow and too small. But here, she reasoned, she was indoors, in what was sort of becoming an amalgamation of ‘home.’ There were people here who loved her even when she was a dog. Still, she wound up just keeping herself human. She was pretty safe as a human; because she was goddamn strong and fast. She was constantly being scouted for sports groups on campus. She just didn’t have time, couldn’t dedicate herself to something that might require her to be out at night.
"Focus on your breathing. In. Hold. Out. And again. Soothing breaths. This is a safe place. This is a happy place. You have done nothing wrong. There is no shame here."
She breathed along with him. It was a nice sort of thought. She was kind of sure she'd been done something wrong and shameful just by being born, but hell, maybe here, she hadn't been. Not in any way that traumatized her mother. She'd inconvenienced no one by existing. Everything was fine.
"Imagine the safest and warmest place to rest in this place. Imagine yourself there."
By the fire, definitely, her head resting on a soft, warm lap.
“Breathe. Feel yourself relaxing. You cannot help but relax, in a place like this. Feel the muscles of your legs, your arms, your back. Feel them relaxing into this warmth.”
She was sinking into warm water, floating and comfortable. The heat from the sun and the heat from the fire and the softness of pillows and the softness of a lap. A hand rubbing her ear. She might have been rubbing her head on something in real life. That didn’t bear thinking about.
She had no where she had to be. Just here, relaxing by the fire, comfortable and warm, reading an interesting book. The person whose lap her head rested on had nothing they would rather be doing than being here, with her.
“Fix the memory of this in your mind, and know that it will be waiting for you if you need it. When you are ready, you may open your eyes.”
She kept them closed for longer than was probably strictly necessary. When she opened them, it felt like waking up. At some point, she’d pulled her legs up onto the windowseat, and was, in fact, leaning up against the frame. Her hat was still on, but slightly askew. She straightened, both it and herself. Jean was still standing where he always did. She didn’t like seeing him, because it reminded he was real and absolutely nothing like the fellow in her little extended fantasies.
“You have done better than ever!” he said, seeming extremely pleased. She had no idea what she’d done right. “Ah, what a good girl.” ...But she was glad she’d done well. ...Because books, yes, she had books downstairs, waiting for her. “I shall wait in the hall as always.”
She lingered in the office for longer than was necessary, again. She found she didn’t really want to leave. She kind of wanted to curl up right there in the sun and take a nap. Alas, this was no fantasy. This was not her home, and no one here would be happy to see her. With a sigh, she stood, stretching slightly.
She had books waiting for her, the most amazing books. It would almost be a shame to give them to the library when she was done, though she would. They could take better care of them than her, and as the donor she’d surely be able to go there and peruse them whenever she wanted. She could even petition to have a proper scan of the pages done, for posterity, and get a copy for her tablet. It wasn’t quite the same. But it was the right thing to do. She’d enjoy them herself, carefully, and then take them to the library so that others could love them the same way she did.
She was in an excellent mood as she went downstairs. Perhaps Jean really was pleased with her performance, though she still had no idea what she’d done so well, or what he was gaining from it. Because he was absolutely cordial and polite and cheerful as he wrapped her books up in silk--silk!--no side comments about her legs or her physique... Although, she noted, he slipped a business card for a tailor in with the books.
He didn’t even jump down her throat when she talked happily about her plans for the books, though she was almost certainly being annoying or rude somewhere in the conversation. She invariably was. Probably implying he was a miser for not sharing his books with the world, or some shit, without even meaning to. But he let any such slights pass, at least, and she left with a silk scarf of beautiful books, feeling relaxed and happy and very much looking forward to a walk home in the sun.
These books would take her a long time to read. But when she had, she was certain she’d find her way to his doorstep again.
And maybe next time she’d wear a nicer skirt. Since she was going to be receiving commentary either way.
For instance, a day after she’d left it for the second time in her life, she was laying nude in her bed, waiting for sunset, and running the fine gold ring she’d been unable to part with between two fingers. And it was only then that she realized she’d seen a safe full of cash--ludicrous amounts of cash, obscene amounts of cash. It was unlikely he’d cashed out a few million in the last few years, wasn’t it? It wasn’t like he would have gotten that from selling books, considering he’d traded six decently valuable ones for ten or fifteen very confusing minutes of her thinking.
Had he lied to her, before, when he’d said he didn’t have $50,000 in cash? But why would he do that? For an excuse to unload some of his gems and gold? That seemed stupid. Did he want to give her this finery, for some reason? Maybe he hoped she’d wear it, or it would prompt her to dressing up more. He’d brought her clothing up many a time during her first visit. She couldn’t write off the possibility he’d really just been that offended by how she looked.
This was the sort of thing she wound up thinking on, around in circles, for weeks. She read through the children’s books herself, and indeed wound up keeping the Hobbit for her own. She’d read the book a thousand times, but this was a very nice, illustrated copy. And her last visit wasn’t so tainted in her mind as her first. She could look at the book without getting fits of anxiety or nausea, like had plagued her for years after their fateful encounter during her senior year.
It was probably because she had so many unanswered questions that she showed up to his house again, over three weeks later.
She hadn't even... really intended to? She'd just been walking home from work, rather than taking the bus, as she sometimes did to save money, when the days were long and warm and she didn't have to worry about unfortunate incidents. She took a route through Old Town, even though it was out of the way, because she liked walking through Old Town. No one ever bothered her there.
Instead of taking her normal route of skirting a few blocks around his house, however, she found herself walking right by it. And then stopping, thoughtfully.
He'd said he'd be glad to have her again. A nice sentiment nestled in a horrible phrasing. She often wondered if he did it on purpose.
There is much that I would be willing to give you, if you are willing to let me take.
She still had no idea what the fuck that meant.
She gave herself a brief once-over. She was still dressed from work, a white and black patterned lace skirt that fell just to the top of her knees. Practical white button down with a rounded collar, short sleeves. As luck would have it, she was actually wearing the same damn hat she had been last time, black rim and patterned black and white top. It wasn't her fault; it went with the outfit. And being fashionable with her hats was the only way she got away with wearing them at work. Flat, strappy sandals, comfortable to walk in and comfortable to work in, but still decent enough to be seen in professionally. Not that anyone ever looked at her feet.
She was... fit to be seen. She looked professional. She looked like a librarian, almost certainly. She'd even switched from a backpack to a messenger bag capable of actually holding all her shit and keeping it organized, one in black "snakeskin" patterned leather. (It was actually 'dragon'skin. She had purchased it off a D&D website. No one could ever know. Look it held a lot of things okay)
She was just loitering outside his house at this point.
With a deep breath, she walked up to the door and entered.
He was inside, sitting at the desk near the entrance. One could almost forget how tall he was, when he sat. His suit was a silvery gray, his accessories white, everything trimmed in black like it had been drawn onto him in thick lines. It made him look a bit surreal, to her eye, sitting in the ludicrously luxe parlor surrounded by books. She was also uncomfortably aware that they matched in color schemes.
“Ah, Miss Corey!” he said when he took notice of her. He was glancing up at her over reading glasses she sincerely doubted he needed and was probably wearing just for aesthetics. He snapped his book shut, at which point she noticed the state of his gloves... which was, to note, he was wearing one, white leather on his left hand. His right hand remained bare, nails still as neatly trimmed as before.
She felt a bit of relief when he recognized her. She’d been halfway convinced he wouldn’t. Again.
She shifted a bit, uncomfortably, as she watched his eyes travel up and down, appraising her. She pulled her bag in front of her without really understanding why she was doing it. "And you have dressed yourself so well today," he said... until his eyes reached her hair. "Except... ah. But I should not complain, as I know that you are sensitive in that area. Ignore me. What did you want with me today?"
Right. Yes. What she wanted. Because she’d walked into his shop.
Without... anything even resembling a plan.
“The library was very happy with the books I got from you before,” she settled on quickly. “They’ve all been entered into the restoration program. There’s been a lot of talk about how best to preserve The Pink Fairy Book’s cover.” She paused, shifting. He waited for her to continue. “Before,” she continued on, haltingly, “You said you preferred trades. Does that still hold true?”
"It does. You are here then in a professional capacity?" He sounded a little too pleased, for her tastes.
“Um...” she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Why was she worried about the sort of half-lie it would be to just simply say yes? “Yes,” she finished. Then, unnecessarily, added, “Mostly.” What if he had some kind of special library rate? She didn’t want to find out later she’d been scamming him.
Out of... extra... thoughts, or whatever the fuck...
Look, she was just... she had morals, okay, when books were involved especially. Even if he was an asshole who made her very uncomfortable in many, many ways, she couldn’t just... lie about books. That was wrong.
"I see. Perhaps something caught your eye last time? But I suppose I ought not pry.” She didn’t really understand why not; they were his books. She supposed maybe he didn’t have a private versus public rate, then. “Take your time, and when you have found as much as you are willing to trade for, you may bring them to me."
Oh that was a little off-putting. How was she supposed to know how much they were worth? She could maybe try to use last time as a gauge, but she had paid first and then selected the books, that time. Which was... aheh... probably why they were switching the order out this time. She had grabbed six very nice books.
She felt a little awkward, perusing where he could see her, but perused nonetheless. Several books had, in fact, caught her eye before. She grabbed an old Winnie the Pooh that she’d regretted not being able to nab last time, right off the bat. Then she began to tour the nonfiction section. She absolutely could not find any rhyme or reason to it, so it was slow going. But she gathered up a few books, each one old and worn. "A Popular History of British Seaweeds" would no doubt prove to be absolute fascinating. And also, it had a very pretty design on the spine. "France And The French, Or Manners, Customs, And Historical Narratives Of The French Nation," written in London, would doubtlessly also prove to be illuminating, for multiple reasons.
A book called "The Magic Casement: An Anthology of Fairy Poetry" also wound up getting grabbed, mostly because she couldn't for the life of her tell if it was fiction or nonfiction. And a leather book that could only be described as a "tome" that didn't have a title, but appeared to be a case study about armadillos. Or fairies. Or fairy armadillos. She couldn't tell without delving into it, which was why she was getting it.
Oh, and a... romance title that had... caught her eye. Which she crammed in under the rest as she brought the six to the desk. Six seemed like a good, safe number. She set them down, delicately. She’d sort of been hoping that the romance title being so small and unassuming and also having a normal looking cover meant that it would go somewhat unnoticed in favor of other, weirder titles. Like, why was she buying a book about British seaweed? That was a very good question. One that he should have asked, instead of zeroing in on the most embarrassing book in the whole pile. He looked over all the spines, but the only one he pulled out of the pile? That one. Of course.
She probably stopped breathing altogether as he appraised it. The corner of his mouth quirked upwards, and she considered flinging herself out a window. She should have stuck to histories. But she had needs. Especially lately, for some reason.
He gave the cover a fond little pat. “I think you will like this one,” he said, looking amused.
Did that mean it was good, or that he suspected she had weird fetishes? She would never know, because she sure as fuck wasn’t going to ask.
“So, altogether, that would be, ah, we’ll round to $500. Unless you would prefer a trade?”
Urk. She always did have expensive fucking taste in books. “A trade like the last one?” she asked, voice sounding a little strained.
"Quite similar," he said. "A thought exercise, a little more formal than the last. Unless you can think of something else you would rather surrender?"
Seriously? Rather surrender? Who talked like that. He had to be doing it on purpose. She wouldn’t be surrendering anything to him, thank-you-very-much. "Uh... No. Thought exercise sounds... fine. Upstairs again?" Not that she was especially eager to see his office again. ...Man, that was a lie big enough she couldn’t even think it. His office was gorgeous. Being alone with him in it was kind of terrifying to think about, and once again the prospect of sitting up there, just him, with her eyes closed... set her heart to pounding.
"I think that would be for the best - unless you prefer a more public venue," he was saying.
“No,” she said, voice cracking slightly. She cleared her throat. “No thank you. Private is. Fine.”
This asshole. Ugh.
She followed him up the stairs, all nerves with a side helping of anticipation. His office was as beautiful the second time. He gestured to the window seat again. It was around the same time of afternoon, and the sun was falling onto the seat in glimmering rays. She sat down, and after a brief moment of watching him watch her, slid her eyes shut.
It was easier for her to begin to relax than she might have liked, with the warm sun hitting her hair, the pleasant, oaken sort of scent to the room, old books and wealth, and his voice speaking in a pleasing low tenor, soft but still perfectly easy to hear.
"This time, I want you to picture yourself in a place – it does not have to be real. It only needs to be a place where you would like to be."
A place where she’d like to be... Automatically, his office was forming in her mind, but with key differences. A big fireplace, like had been in her great-grandparent’s living room. It was decked out a bit more like her room... small places for her to crawl under, like her bed. More cramped, therefore more comfortable. Little ramps and steps so she could get up on places when she was six inches tall. Her mini-fridge was here, too, except fancy. Full of rich people snacks, or what she imagined rich person snacks were like. Except not avocado toast, because that was terrible and also would kill her.
But like... toast points instead of crackers. With goat cheese. Apples with peanut butter, all pre-sliced and ready to go, maybe some honey drizzled on. Yeah, fancy crap like that, to please her palate be she large or small. Relaxing music, violin music that she didn't need to think about the source of, would definitely be playing.
"It is a calm and peaceful place, where nothing can harm you. Maybe someone is there who is happy to see you? They are there for you, because this is your place.”
Her mind immediately rebelled from the concept of someone happy to see her, suggesting and then rejecting several candidates. But this was her fantasy, she argued with herself. Someone could be happy to see her if she said so. She was just... struggling to figure out what that would look like. She tentatively settled on her great-grandfather. From when she was young, back when she still hadn’t figured the world out entirely.
This was a version of reality where he was allowed to pat her head and neither of them would get yelled at, she decided.
“You are in control, and only the things you want can happen. Everyone here wants to please you, and everything is exactly the way you like it.”
Exactly the way she liked it, hmm? Well, someone to... feed her grapes, yeah! Grapes were sort of solidified in her mind as both “rich fancy food” and “things she could not eat.” So both at once! Someone to feed her grapes as she lounged by the fire, reading. She didn’t know what grapes tasted like, but she’d had grape-flavored stuff, so she just sort of imagined that.
Oh, it was Jean. Jean was feeding her grapes. Wait, no, yes, that was perfect! Her foot tapped idly as a smile crossed her lips. That rich asshole, pampering her. Wearing white gloves and a tailored suit... like a butler. Yes, he could be her servant.
"You are happy. You are calm. You are safe. Now, I would like you to think back to a time when you were hurt - but, it is a memory. You are in this place. This memory cannot hurt you. The people here will protect you, and nothing bad can happen. You can banish it, and be safe again, because you are in control.”
This threw her, mostly because the first thing that came to mind was Jean, again. There was a momentary, confusing kerfluffle in her head as fantasy-butler-Jean faced off against actual-real-life-drunk-asshole-Jean.
This was going to give her a headache. She needed to switch to something less Jean-related, in general.
Alright, start with the easy part. A time when she was hurt. Something the opposite of her little happy place came to mind... the fenced in backyard where she was sometimes locked at night. It was a last-ditch punishment of her great-grandparents; they didn’t like treating her like a dog, she knew. She didn’t think she’d ever explained to them how much she hated that yard, but she felt like they probably knew. Surely they knew. Couldn’t anyone tell? It was so dark out there at night, the only light the one by the patio door. Long winter nights got cold, even with her bed and blanket. Sometimes it would rain, and they wouldn’t wake up to let her in. She would have to choose between getting soaking wet by the light, or going into the dark underneath the patio to try and temporarily seek shelter from the rain. If it was raining really hard, it would get wet under there too, though, and muddy.
“Remember: this is a good place, and you are good.”
Right. This was her place, where no one would ever hate her so much as to leave her locked outdoors all night. The patio door opened, and she trotted inside to the office-bedroom-living-room amalgamation. Where she could sit by the warm, bright fire. Someone was there, and they pet her. She had very vague ideas about being pet; she wasn’t exactly clear on what it would feel like, but was very certain it would be good.
It wasn’t necessarily Jean petting her. Just some generic guy sent over from casting. Who just happened to have sharp nails that felt very good.
“You are good. You are safe. You can return to this place whenever you need, and it will be waiting for you.”
That was a nice sort of thought. Maybe she could think about it when she was stuck in her room, bored, with nothing to do but read and wait for the dawn. Would american cheese squares taste any better if she pretended it was goat cheese on toast points?
“Breathe. Take a deep, slow breath,” he said, and she did. “Fix this place in your mind, so that you may find it again when the time comes. Relax. And when you are ready, you may open your eyes.”
She kept her eyes closed for a moment longer, then opened them. Confused, a little out of place, but kind of relaxed anyway. She gave her head a little shake, and then her whole body, like she was trying to wake up.
Why the fuck was that worth $500?
What was she missing, here?
There was Jean, looking pleased as punch. He hadn’t moved, once again. “There, you have done wonderfully today! I will be in the hall if you need a moment, and then you can get your books.”
He left her alone in his office. She sat for a moment longer, luxuriating in the sun and the smell and all the knowledge and wealth around her.
What was he getting out of this?
That uneasy thought brought her the rest of the way out of relaxation, and she stood, somewhat reluctantly, to exit the office. He was waiting for her out there, gloved hand leaning on the doorframe. She stared at it for maybe a liiiittle longer than was entirely necessary, then just told herself it was because it was white, and he’d been wearing white gloves in her imagination, too.
He managed to get another comment in on her skirt, and another on her legs, and one last sly one on her hat, before she actually got out the door, though. And she had to see that horrible, horrible catalogue of his. It made her shudder every time. How she longed to sweep through here with a proper system. She would learn so much! She wondered, idly, how much she would have to give him to let him allow her to make that her graduate project.
---------------
She’d pace herself. That’s what she said. Six good books could last a long time, if she paced herself. But she was awake roughly twenty-two hours of the day, sometimes the full twenty-four. She could read very quickly. And they were very good books.
Every time she went to Jean’s he managed to embarrass her. Make her feel ashamed, uncomfortable... a little scared, a lot intimidated, and some other things that she didn’t like thinking about. Every time she left relieved to have gotten out with what little dignity she still possessed by the end. Even his compliments left her confused and reeling. She couldn’t deal with him.
And yet here she was, two and a half weeks later, outside his fucking door again.
She’d dressed down this time, on purpose. He had made one (three) too many comments on her dress. He had to have been making fun of her. What she was wearing was still very professional work attire just... a bit less flashy. A loose beige silk blouse, a fitted brown suit jacket. A looser skirt, fitted high around her waist with a thin belt. Brown-black leggings, simple black mary janes. A very plain brown hat.
It wasn't ugly. It was just very brown, and not very fitted. He would have a much harder time complimenting her legs, to be sure.
Of course, that meant she had to suffer through the trade-off. It seemed whether she dressed up or down, she’d be suffering through a multitude of comments on her appearance. As soon as he saw her--glancing over from where he was casually re-organizing a bookshelf that, to her eye, had never been organized in the first place--he frowned, giving her that same slow, up and down look, but this time with an expression of disappointment, irritation, and mild offense.
Honestly! He acted as though the way she dressed was a personal affront, done just to spite him! Well... it was, in this case, but he didn’t know that! She thought it was very telling of his personality, that he would just assume it was about him. Even if it was. This one time.
“Your tailor has not had time for a fitting?” he fussed as she tried to pick out her books in peace. He was lingering. She would very much prefer he didn’t, because he was wearing just a vest today, rather than a suit, and it was very trim and looked very good on him. “What an awful thing to do to such a pretty girl.” Pfff! Asshole! Pretty girl, yeah, sure... Like it was her clothing’s fault she looked like this. “Would you like me to send you to mine? She is a very quick stitch.”
“Normal people can't afford tailors, Mr. Cernunnos,” she said as politely as she was able--which wasn’t very--as she attempted to browse his shelves with him fluttering nearby.
“But you have managed so well before!” he protested. “The skirt you wore before was much more flattering. A lucky find, if it was not tailored! Then you must have the salesman fired who sold you this skirt. The hem is much too low for such fine legs.”
The legs again, really?!
She leaned closer to peer at a book’s spine, to hide her blush. “I bought this at thrift store,” she said shortly, pulling out a book she had no interest in to have something to hide her face with. “It was seven dollars. Please get your horror out of the way now and then let's move on.”
She could still see his pout over the edge of the book. She disliked it, because it was on his face. His stupid, unnaturally pretty face, that was like a foot too high up, so that she always seemed to be looking up at him no matter how far away she was. And she didn’t even have the advantage of being far away now. He was far too close. Not close enough for it to be called rude; not even close. A totally reasonable distance that still managed to be way too fucking close to her.
“Surely, if it was so inexpensive, you could use that money saved to have it fitted properly. You are sure you do not want my tailor? Your legs are so powerful; they are being wasted like this.”
P... powerful. She pulled the book up higher to more effectively hide the crimson she knew was spreading across her cheeks. She liked that adjective, especially re: her legs. She worked very hard to be as strong as she was. It was hard to find enough time in the day, lately, to stay as fit as she wanted. It was nice to have it noticed, even if it was by Jean Cernunnos. She briefly entertained the concept he might actually appreciate her legs, and then threw it out the window as utterly ridiculous. That was the sort of ludicrous fantasy better reserved for when he was paying her. Genuine appreciation was firmly the realm of fantasy-nice-Jean, who fed her grapes and rubbed her ears.
Never let it be said she didn’t know how to compartmentalize.
She cleared her throat. “My legs and I appreciate your concern but I'm here for books, not... skirts...” she trailed off as something caught her eye on the shelf behind him. She set the book she was perusing directly into his hands--a librarian’s instinct not to reshelf--and sidled by him, sort of ducking under his arm, one hand briefly on his side as she moved him out of her way. It was sheer force of magnetism. She would have shoved the devil himself out of the way, because a matching blue set had caught her eye.
They were below even normal eye level, way below what would be eye level for him. She dropped to her knees immediately to get a better look.
The Modern Eclectic Dictionary of the English Language, each book read in gold on pale blue. A full set of six. She could not have been more excited if the world's most attractive man had dropped trou in front of her and bent over. This was the kind of thing dreams were made of. Gently, her heart racing with wild excitement, she pulled the first one off the shelf.
1904. Oh sweet merciful christ yes.
The first page gave a beautiful and lengthy description of the contents, in that wonderful old rambly style. "Comprising also a compendium of the historical, biographical, geographical, scientific, religious, and sociological names," "complete summary of human achievement in the 19th and 20th centuries," etc etc... Illustrated with colored plates and drawings.
And he had all six volumes, in good condition, right here. She was practically salivating.
"These," she said, not even looking up from the page. "These, all six."
“Oh goodness, would you... like to get it in parts?” Bree briefly tore her eyes away from the page, and was suddenly extremely aware of how things lined up when she knelt. Ordinarily, she might be, say, about abdomen level. But Mr. Cernunnos was very tall. So she was... not. She needed to either get higher or lower, immediately. “It is eight hundred for the full set, you see,” he continued, seemingly unaware of exactly where her head came to.
“Eight hundred for a set of six,” she said, wincing. It wasn’t an unfair price, it was just a lot. Well... the last time had been $500, and that hadn't been particularly bad. "The same sort of trade?" she asked, frowning in consideration. She sat down on the backs of her legs, opting for lowering herself instead of standing. Both so that she could keep looking at the books, and because he was right there, and standing up right next to him felt awkward. Not that sitting on the floor while he was standing right next to her felt much less awkward, all things considered. She kept thinking he was going to set something on her head.
"It might be a little more in-depth, if that does not bother you?"
"That's... disconcertingly vague," she said, frowning deeper. Now would be the time he'd pull a switcheroo on her; she kept waiting for the other shoe to drop and now would be the perfect time. If she were dropping shoes, this would be her moment of truth.
"Always so suspicious!" he said, and she barely kept from rolling her eyes. Yes, who could believe she was suspicious, he was such a trustworthy, upstanding individual, asking for such straightforward things. “It has not been so much these last times, has it?”
True... And even if he had her thinking unpleasant things, it was just thinking, right? As long as he didn’t touch her, it wasn’t like... a thing. “Yeah...” And seriously, in what other world would she get the chance to get $800 worth of glorious books for sitting and thinking? When phrased like that, she couldn’t believe she was even hesitating. “Alright,” she agreed.
She stood, pausing only to carefully remove the other five books from the shelf. It was every bit as awkward as she imagined it would be. She went to put the books on the desk; rather than backing away, Jean simply stood to the side again. She eyed him sourly, but shimmied past, too focused on the books to care that he was being kind of a dick. It was Jean. He was always kind of a dick.
She set them down, then let him lead her back upstairs. Anticipation surged in her chest; she was nervous, but also... she liked his office, a lot. It was the kind of room she’d always wanted but never hoped to see, let alone possess. Frankly, she considered their sessions taking place there a huge bonus, not that she’d ever tell Jean that. She followed him through the door after he’d unlocked it, and went right to her designated seat by the window. Afternoon again, same as always, meaning the sun came right in to warm her.
She still had no idea what he hoped to accomplish here, what he gained. The idea had crossed her mind a few times that he might be a telepath of some kind, exploring her mind as she relaxed and explored her own subconscious. She hadn’t thought too much about it, because the concept was completely fucking horrifying on pretty much every level.
“Good girl,” he practically purred from his designated I Will Stand Here And Not Molest You zone. She pretended not to get a little thrill of embarrassing pleasure from the words. “Now close your eyes for me, and take a deep breath.”
She really wished he didn’t have to phrase everything so disgustingly. But she closed her eyes nonetheless, taking a deep breath in through her nose, soaking in the smell of old oak and older books. Her nose was sensitive even in human form, but compared to how things smelled at night, this was nothing. Shame she couldn’t smell this with a dog’s nose. But obviously, that was impossible on a number of levels.
“Just breathe. Slow, deep breaths. I am going to count down from ten, and when I am done, you will be thinking again of that place from last time, the place where you are happy and safe. Dix. Neuf. Huit. Sept...”
She felt herself sinking in warm water, floating back down to the little office/bedroom/living room hybrid that she was coming to associate with so many nice things. She’d tried going there a few times on her own, mostly when she was alone and bored at night. But inevitably, she couldn’t get the feeling just right. She was never warm enough, it was never quiet enough, she could never allow herself to fantasize that sort of ridiculous, indulgent nonsense without the pretense of being required to do so.
For example, butler-Jean was there again, and while it might be more comfortable to imagine him from the privacy of her own bedroom, she always felt patently ridiculous even trying.
“"You are calm. You are happy. You are safe. You are going to think of a memory again, but you will be safe here. The people here will protect you, and be here for you if you need them.”
She probably made a face, but she wasn’t very surprised. He had said it would be more in-depth. It was hard to imagine Jean, or her great-grandfather, being there for her. She had barely managed them being pleased to see her, last time, because it had seemed so frankly ridiculous. It wasn’t that her great-grandfather hated her, he was just...
Well. She didn’t have to think about that now, because this was supposed to be a place where everyone liked her and respected her and didn’t think she was a mangy little curse.
“The memory is of the first time you realized that you were not like other children.” She tensed. “But it is only a memory, and you are in a safe place, where you may be yourself without fear. It cannot hurt you.” That was easy for him to say. Memories were already coming to bear, hard and fast. She had been kept so isolated; she couldn’t remember any other children, not real ones. But pretty much as soon as she was old enough to consume media like books and television, she began to notice things.
She had begun to put two and two together, thanks in part to her great-grandparents’ over-protective natures. Not letting her play outside except in the backyard, keeping her locked up, away from other people. The endless reminders to keep her head covered at all times, even when it was just the three of them, so that she wouldn’t make a mistake in front of others. The first time she’d met a stray dog, and realized it was a dumb beast, not like her at all. That one was especially vivid, because it had growled at her, and she hadn’t been able to understand why it wouldn’t listen to reason, why it didn’t want to be her friend.
“What you must look at is the difference between how the people here in this safe place think about you, where you are in control, and how you felt at that time.”
She had to retreat from her own memories, for a moment, before she could even consider that. Scurry back into her happy corner by the fire, away from the doors and windows where memories peeked in, reminding her of the harsh reality of her life.
How she felt at the time was like a monster. Like a thing, like a beast, like a freak. Those things were all varying levels of true, mind. She didn’t consider herself a monster or a thing, but it was hard to deny “freak” and she was a beast about half the time. In her memories, her family could barely look at her, it seemed, because they knew what she was, too. Her mother was always the worst. She had scant memories of her as a child; she hadn’t really become even slightly active in Bree’s life until she was much older. And it certainly hadn’t been her mother’s idea for Bree to run away from home and crash in her apartment.
She’d let her, because, Bree could tell, her mother felt some guilt for the way she treated Bree. She always had. She didn’t want to be so disgusted by her, Bree suspected. Felt bad, feeling that way about her own child, but couldn’t stop. She tried to make up for it in other ways. Sometimes.
She could feel tears in the corners of her eyes, which meant it was time to focus on something else. How the people here think about her, he’d said. Well, her great-grandfather here would give her hugs and pats and say encouraging, grandfatherly things. Butler-Jean was basically just a replacement for all the people who hadn’t known how to talk to her, hadn’t wanted to, had refused to touch her. He thought she was amazing, and beautiful, and he and the various other generic men she sometimes pulled in loved pampering her, petting her.
It was a silly fantasy, really, but hey... she was being paid, sort of.
“You may let the memory go. It does not concern you now. You are in your safe place, and now you know how you feel here. You feel happy, and safe, and you can see why.”
Yeah... who wouldn’t? Anyone would like to be adored, to have supportive family, to be warm and safe and loved. She felt stupid doing it, but honestly, wasn’t this what most people wanted?
“Focus on those feelings of safety, and the feelings of those around you. Focus on that happiness. You can relax here. There is nothing for you to fear. You must remember this feeling. This part is important, and so you must focus. You deserve this feeling. You are calm. You are happy. You are safe. You deserve this.”
Her mind rebelled immediately. This was a fantasy. None of it was real, least of all deserved. Life was the opposite of this, a series of hardships to overcome with a handicap that made her ruin the lives of the people around her. She couldn’t deserve love when she’d ruined her mother’s life just by being born. Made her great-grandparents go through so much to raise her when she knew they didn’t want to. And then run away from them. Deserve? Deserve never played into anything.
She tried to wave that away and focus on the rest. The sensation of being happy and loved, at least in a fantasy. Calm, happy, safe. She’d ignore the last bit.
There was a disconnect in her head, between being a dog and being safe. She was never really safe at that size. Too fragile, too easy to break, too slow and too small. But here, she reasoned, she was indoors, in what was sort of becoming an amalgamation of ‘home.’ There were people here who loved her even when she was a dog. Still, she wound up just keeping herself human. She was pretty safe as a human; because she was goddamn strong and fast. She was constantly being scouted for sports groups on campus. She just didn’t have time, couldn’t dedicate herself to something that might require her to be out at night.
"Focus on your breathing. In. Hold. Out. And again. Soothing breaths. This is a safe place. This is a happy place. You have done nothing wrong. There is no shame here."
She breathed along with him. It was a nice sort of thought. She was kind of sure she'd been done something wrong and shameful just by being born, but hell, maybe here, she hadn't been. Not in any way that traumatized her mother. She'd inconvenienced no one by existing. Everything was fine.
"Imagine the safest and warmest place to rest in this place. Imagine yourself there."
By the fire, definitely, her head resting on a soft, warm lap.
“Breathe. Feel yourself relaxing. You cannot help but relax, in a place like this. Feel the muscles of your legs, your arms, your back. Feel them relaxing into this warmth.”
She was sinking into warm water, floating and comfortable. The heat from the sun and the heat from the fire and the softness of pillows and the softness of a lap. A hand rubbing her ear. She might have been rubbing her head on something in real life. That didn’t bear thinking about.
She had no where she had to be. Just here, relaxing by the fire, comfortable and warm, reading an interesting book. The person whose lap her head rested on had nothing they would rather be doing than being here, with her.
“Fix the memory of this in your mind, and know that it will be waiting for you if you need it. When you are ready, you may open your eyes.”
She kept them closed for longer than was probably strictly necessary. When she opened them, it felt like waking up. At some point, she’d pulled her legs up onto the windowseat, and was, in fact, leaning up against the frame. Her hat was still on, but slightly askew. She straightened, both it and herself. Jean was still standing where he always did. She didn’t like seeing him, because it reminded he was real and absolutely nothing like the fellow in her little extended fantasies.
“You have done better than ever!” he said, seeming extremely pleased. She had no idea what she’d done right. “Ah, what a good girl.” ...But she was glad she’d done well. ...Because books, yes, she had books downstairs, waiting for her. “I shall wait in the hall as always.”
She lingered in the office for longer than was necessary, again. She found she didn’t really want to leave. She kind of wanted to curl up right there in the sun and take a nap. Alas, this was no fantasy. This was not her home, and no one here would be happy to see her. With a sigh, she stood, stretching slightly.
She had books waiting for her, the most amazing books. It would almost be a shame to give them to the library when she was done, though she would. They could take better care of them than her, and as the donor she’d surely be able to go there and peruse them whenever she wanted. She could even petition to have a proper scan of the pages done, for posterity, and get a copy for her tablet. It wasn’t quite the same. But it was the right thing to do. She’d enjoy them herself, carefully, and then take them to the library so that others could love them the same way she did.
She was in an excellent mood as she went downstairs. Perhaps Jean really was pleased with her performance, though she still had no idea what she’d done so well, or what he was gaining from it. Because he was absolutely cordial and polite and cheerful as he wrapped her books up in silk--silk!--no side comments about her legs or her physique... Although, she noted, he slipped a business card for a tailor in with the books.
He didn’t even jump down her throat when she talked happily about her plans for the books, though she was almost certainly being annoying or rude somewhere in the conversation. She invariably was. Probably implying he was a miser for not sharing his books with the world, or some shit, without even meaning to. But he let any such slights pass, at least, and she left with a silk scarf of beautiful books, feeling relaxed and happy and very much looking forward to a walk home in the sun.
These books would take her a long time to read. But when she had, she was certain she’d find her way to his doorstep again.
And maybe next time she’d wear a nicer skirt. Since she was going to be receiving commentary either way.
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Storytime [Read Only] - by SolitareLee - 03-27-2017, 08:15 AM
RE: Storytime [Read Only] - by SolitareLee - 03-27-2017, 08:25 AM
RE: Storytime [Read Only] - by SolitareLee - 03-27-2017, 08:30 AM
RE: Storytime [Read Only] - by SolitareLee - 03-27-2017, 08:32 AM
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RE: Storytime [Read Only] - by SolitareLee - 10-18-2017, 09:29 PM
RE: Storytime [Read Only] - by SolitareLee - 11-09-2017, 08:03 AM
RE: Storytime [Read Only] - by SolitareLee - 01-06-2019, 09:02 PM
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RE: Storytime [Read Only] - by SolitareLee - 11-11-2019, 08:12 AM
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