tw: this thread will reference the [M] rated thread involving Silas Hunt's death

23 August 1892 — High Street
Elias Grimstone

She had to have gone and get the painting at some point after they were done being questioned by authorities, but ever since that day, Irene couldn't remember how it ended up back in her studio. As much as she had tried to wrack her mind for some sensation of taking the painting, packing up the supplies...she wasn't able to. It had to have something to do with the lack of sleep she'd gotten in the past few days. And who could wonder why? Closing her eyes at night only welcomed back those fresh images of Mr. Hunt's arm, the screams that had filled the park that evening; Irene hadn't been able to walk past Padmore Park anymore without feeling sick to her stomach.

It was with haste this afternoon that she hurried past it on her way to the paint shop. Why she was bothering to buy more paints when she hadn't been able to create anything except brief flashes of that evening was beyond her. Perhaps it was force of habit, to force herself to remember that life had to continue. She had played this very same tune after Colin's obliviation, hadn't she? She'd been able to block out his screams, so she should be able to do the same with what had happened earlier that week. What she hadn't expected was the night terrors that had taken hold.

Every night began the same, curled in her bed and lulling off to sleep reading a book. The dreams all began the same too — cloying and warm, surrounded by figures welcoming and warm, lovely and warm. And then once she was firmly in their embrace, they turned on her, clawing at her skin, sharp and fierce, wanting and demanding, their expressions perfect copies of Mr. Hunt's face as he carved senselessly into his skin. Her screams always fell on deaf ears, and when she awoke, slick with sweat, her sobs would fall on no one's ears.

So it must have been by sheer force of will, to show herself that life was still normal and would continue on, that she pushed open the door to the shop and entered. And yet she still couldn't help herself from hurrying along, fingers flitting amongst the familiar racks of paint, plucking the colors she wanted and putting them into her basket. A dull feeling crept down her spine all of a sudden, and Irene stiffened as she scanned the empty aisle. If it was empty, why did she feel not feel alone?

Feeling her feet hurry her to the counter to pay, Irene barely paid the shopkeeper any mind as she automatically smiled at him, exchanged pleasantries and hurried out the door. She tried to will herself to calm down, but her heart quickened, betraying her, and before she knew it, she was running to the corner. If she rounded it, then she would be able to see the street she normally walked down to get to her home. Yes, then she would be safe. Quickly, quickly, quickly — she wasn't moving fast enough. You must move faster, her mind told her and she immediately obeyed, reaching the corner and darting around it, pressing her back to the cool stone as if that would revive her from the beginning of this nightmare. She shouldn't have closed her eyes, of course, because that was when something grabbed her shoulder.

"No!"  She protested, jerking to the side, letting her basket fall to the ground; surely they would stop to inspect the goods so she would have time to get away. They wouldn't get her like they had Mr. Hunt.

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Bumping into Irene along the High Street was no real surprise – it felt like an old habit, for them – but Elias had never seen her quite like this. She had shrunk back around the corner as if she were in a panic, closed her eyes and leant back against the wall, and when he’d lurched over to see whether she was well, she had thrown off his hand from her shoulder with unusual vehemence.

“Irene, it’s Elias, it’s only me!” he exclaimed, throwing up his hands in hasty apology. He must have frightened her or something – he ignored the dropped basket for now, and looked her over instead. He stepped back a pace and didn’t touch her again, but he was still close by, searching for some sign of what was the matter. There was something, to be sure. His eyebrows knitted in concern. He could almost feel the tension rolling off her, the pace of her heartbeat resounding against the stone, just by looking at her. “What happened, what’s wrong?”

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"Elias!" Irene rasped, the force of the exclamation grating like sandpaper over her vocal chords. Her hand had flown to her heart and she slumped against the brick wall, no longer cowering in fear, but relaxing (slightly) in relief. The relief, however, was soon replaced with embarrassment and she felt a flush flood her cheeks at her dramatic reaction to something she'd clearly made up in her mind.

Well, there was clearly nothing wrong, except how silly she'd been to think Elias, tall as he was, was anything near threatening. But it wasn't as if she would be able to brush this off. No, her voice was too hoarse, her reaction too big by half, and she knew she likely looked a fright. "It's...it's nothing, I'm alright." And yet she stayed there, her back pressed to the wall, leaning slightly to peer around him to make sure there wasn't anything behind him. You're being silly, she thought. Even so, she knew he likely wouldn't accept that as an explanation, for all that she'd nearly thrown him off her just then.

"I just had a fright that's all. I thought you were...something else." Even as she explained to him, her words slowed; quieted. Now that she knew there would be no danger, Irene could feel a wave of exhaustion plucking at her sleeve, as if it was waiting to swallow her in the shadows.

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She wasn’t well, and he half-wanted to suggest escorting her to the hospital to have her examined properly, because she was obviously under immense stress. No wonder, Elias considered: there had been murders in the newspapers, too close to home. She probably shouldn’t be out alone in the streets... but it wasn’t as if she had anyone else.

Gently, tentatively, Elias placed his hand back on her shoulder where she stood, hoping to reassure her rather than alarm her this time, rubbing his thumb in place to say I’m here.

If the look he gave her was knowing, he was hardly going to argue with her in the street about how she was feeling. He could see her glancing over his shoulder like she was still afraid. His expression softened somewhat, and he leant down to retrieve her basket, slinging it onto his own arm. “Come on. Let me walk you home,” he said lightly, offering her his other arm expectantly, less a request than an instruction for which he wouldn’t accept protest. The sooner they got there, the better. It was what any friend would do, if they came across her with such frayed nerves – because, whether she pretended to be alright or not, she shouldn’t be alone.

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This time she didn't flinch from his touch; nearly collapsed into him, but held herself back, swallowing thickly as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. The tenderness, the pressure of his hand on her back acted as a rope for her to tug herself back to reality. She watched him pick up her basket from the ground and nestle it in the crook of his arm instead of handing it to her. When he offered her his arm, she realized he intended to see her back home, and her expression almost crumpled. Elias... The man who had no idea the effect he had on her, who of all people didn't treat her like some demented creature to be pitied after learning of her past. And even after seeing her act like such a thing, he still wanted to see she was alright.

Wiping at her eyes, she nodded mutely, reaching out to take his arm. It was only when she found support in his frame that she realized how much the past few days had drained her. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't take any more from this interaction other than offer him a gentle squeeze on the forearm as a thank you. But this time...this time was different, and Irene allowed herself to lean against him a bit more, wanting to wrap his presence around her like a shield.

"I'm sorry to be such an imposition," She found herself saying, just in case she had interrupted his day, because of course she had. It was an otherwise perfectly fine day without a madwoman like her causing disruption in the little town, throwing her supplies everywhere.

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Elias exhaled in relief: at least she hadn’t decided to argue with him about this. However grateful she seemed – she leant into him, and he let her, surprised if she was even steady on her feet in such a state – she was apologising, though, and he shook his head reproachfully at that, to say I won’t hear of it. 

“Don’t be daft, friends can’t be impositions,” Elias said firmly, hoping his matter-of-fact tone might inject a little lightness into her mood. He squeezed her arm back to prove it; and besides, this wasn’t the first time he’d walked her home. He knew the route to her place in Pennyworth well enough, so he could lead them easily enough without thinking, and still be able to survey Irene sidelong with barely-concealed concern.

“How are you, though?” he asked her confidentially, his tone low and a crease between his brows. “Have you been sleeping?”

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Once they had some distance between them and where he'd found her, Irene could feel the air of the little town twirl around them, enveloping her in a comforting way. It cleared her head somewhat, though only so much to take the edge off of the panic that had been plaguing her for the past few days. She sought comfort in walking home with him. It was a path they'd taken so many times, and yet each time they made it to her flat and he bid her goodbye, it was too soon and Irene wished she could skip back to the beginning just to repeat the walk with him all over again, because that time was theirs. And yet, Elias was not hers, nor would he likely ever be. So Irene wrapped up the memory of these walks in small parcels of gold to carry next to her heart every time she walked the path alone.

But this time, she wasn't alone, and she was grateful. Of course he likely didn't know how grateful she was for him, because well, she was a coward, wasn't she? Any sort of feelings she had for him were quickly trampled by the ghosts of her past, whispering to her that he would just reject her, then pity her, and Irene refused to bear that, because she never wanted to cause him pain.

And yet for all of her wanting to shield him from her pain, here she was, walking home with him supporting her, and his gaze fixated on her in such a way that made her want to reach up and tenderly press the crinkle out of his worried brow. I'm fine, She wanted to say again, but the words wouldn't form; refused to. Instead she heaved a sigh, moving her gaze back to in front of them as she shook her head. "No," She said quietly, praying her voice to keep steady. "I haven't been sleeping. In fact, I've been quite wretched these past few days."

It was hard to sleep when visions of Mr. Hunt's death kept swimming into sight every time she closed her eyes.

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She took her time answering, and he let her – she looked away first and he tried to do the same, so that she wouldn’t feel any pressure from his looking at her. House windows, then, and loose cobblestones on the street, the odd cloud drifting across the sky; his gaze slid off those and the other passers-by while he waited. He’d guessed right, though: she wasn’t herself at all. 

“Because of the –?” Elias said, hushed, not quite knowing how to finish the sentence. The death in the Park; he knew she’d been a witness to it, though he couldn’t fathom what precisely she had seen, and he wasn’t about to ask her to describe it. “That’s understandable, you know,” he added gently, instead: he was sure that whatever was going on in her mind, she was berating herself for it, and badly. “I wouldn’t blame you.” Most anyone, he imagined, would be the same. Seeing something like that had to take a toll.

And if it was affecting her in the daylight, in the street and at night at home, then she really wasn’t getting past it, or taking care of herself.

So – when they reached her flat, nestled between Cobbler’s Corner and Pendle Road, Elias thought better of leaving her alone. Someone probably ought to look after her, at least for a little while. Not knowing how to propose this to her, though, when Elias fell to a halt he let go of her arm but not her basket of paint supplies. With his free hand, he scratched at the back of his neck, trying to sound casual about it and not as though she were suddenly a hopeless invalid. “Can I come in?” he suggested loosely, searching for a likely excuse. He’d ask to see how she was getting on with her work, but if she hadn’t been sleeping he doubted her painting had been going well. He shot her a hopeful expression instead. “I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.”

(Or, rather, he could make her one.)

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He may have wanted to know more (certainly other people who knew she'd born witness to Mr. Hunt's death had wanted to know the details), but she was grateful that he didn't press her for much more information. Her only confirmation that he was on the right path was a small nod, her grip on his arm tightening as they walked the final steps to her flat. Reluctantly she let go of his arm and began to open the gate into the building's small yard. It took her a few steps to realize she was without her basket, and she turned, confused, only to find Elias standing there with an awkward air about him.

Were she in any state of her normal self, Irene would have been quick to make a joke, but nothing sprang to mind, and she glanced at her building once more before turning back to him. And then her heart began thudding in her chest, kick-started by his mere request for a cup of tea. Merlin, she was pathetic. And yet Irene allowed herself this, because he was offering it to her willingly and she could sense his concern for her. An affectionate smile quirked at her lips and she gave a small laugh.

"Of course," She walked back to him, reaching out for his arm again to walk up the steps. "That's awfully kind of you, to offer yourself a cuppa from my cupboards when you don't know what teas I have stashed in there." Her teasing came out forced, but her tone had lightened a bit; if only to prepare him for the sight that waited for them once they walked in the door.

Large blankets of canvas covered most of the small living room, and the furniture was pushed against the wall, protected from the splatters of paint that had been strewn across the canvases. In the center of the room was the piece of art that had been haunting her for the past week. It was the same piece that she'd been working on before tragedy struck. Before, the canvas had been splashed with pastel hues, vibrant and dancing in a clear image of what was obviously Padmore Park. Since then, the canvas had been slashed with violent reds and orange; a face barely peering out from the center with a black gaping hole for a mouth.

Even before she'd stepped through the threshold, Irene's wand was out and quickly drawing patterns through the air. The painting quickly flipped itself over and went to join the other large canvases near the fireplace. The leftover paint tubes picked themselves up and stacked neatly back into her kit, the brushes joining them in a little jar while the easel folded up and went to join the canvases. The couch scooted towards the center while books flew back into their spots on the shelves while the blankets of canvas folded up and dove into an obliging basket that was clearly too small for them, yet seemed to store them perfectly.

Soon the little apartment was set to rights, the only sign of work having been done there was the bowl of fruit on the table that Irene kept and the painting apron that fluttered past them into her room, streaked with the same black and red as the canvas. Once the door closed, a small wreath of dried lavender and citrus slices hung itself by the door; one wreath of many throughout the apartment that she used to ward away the scent of paint. It worked a treat, but there was still a faint scent of the oil paints if one knew what to smell for. For Irene, she barely noticed it anymore. "Please, have a seat." She waved Elias to the small table, now making her way to the kitchenette. "And pray that I have more than old lavender leaves from my wreath."

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   Elias Grimstone

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There was an odd flash of feeling as she walked back over and took his arm again. Some fleeting sense of domesticity, perhaps – an alternate reality – as if they were an old married couple, growing old and settled down together, the sort who sat on porches and took walks on Sunday afternoons and knew each other through and through.

Elias couldn’t say why the notion had struck him, standing outside her house on a day like this, but he shook it off sensibly and laughed at her remark. “Well, I wouldn’t say no to a butterbeer either, but I didn’t want to be presumptuous,” he joked, as if inviting himself in when she was in such a state wasn’t presumptuous enough. But he wanted the excuse to keep an eye on her for a little while longer – the walk had not been long enough to settle her nerves, he was sure of it – so he was relieved when she didn’t make her excuses to keep him out.

And he was prepared for the place to be an artistic mess – he was a little less prepared for how hastily she tried to tidy it all up. You don’t need to clean up on my account – Elias opened his mouth to say, but it was already done, and whatever she’d been in the midst of working on had flown across to the fireplace with the rest.

“Really, don’t worry about the tea,” Elias added as Irene hurried towards the kitchen counter, whether she was joking about the lavender leaves or not. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he pressed instead, peering about the place to try and offer her – any kind of useful service besides being a nuisance in her way. He turned the bowl of fruit about on the table aimlessly, glancing at the apron hanging there with the streaks of black and red in some surprise. “You’ve still been painting, then?”

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   Irene Crawley

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As suspected, she didn't have much in terms of tea selection in her cupboard, which only served to remind Irene that she needed to make another trip to the teashop at some point in the next week or so. Glad that her apartment no longer looked a disaster though, Irene felt a greater sense of calm as she meandered about the small kitchenette. It was as if having Elias there, conversing with her as if it were just another weekend, reminded her of what normal felt like. Or at least what her normal felt like before Mr. Hunt's death. She never thought she would miss the days when the most wretched she felt was the unrequited love that invaded her senses whenever she caught a glimpse of him on High Street. But Mr. Hunt's death proved just the ticket.

It was still another feeling she had to muster the strength to shake off. Elias' quip about butterbeer came back to her and she let out a small "Oohh..." of inspiration as she closed the cupboards. Butterbeer. Nibbling at her lip in contemplation, Irene turned back towards the living room and placed a hand on her hip as she tapped her foot as if that would turn the wheels of memory faster. She'd just gotten butterbeer earlier that weekend, hadn't she? And couldn't have been so distraught as to have consumed it all in one setting. Delicious as it was, it gave her a stomachache when she had too much.

Too deep in lamenting her own forgetfulness, she nearly missed Elias' last question ("Hmm?") before it hit her and she caught glimpse of the apron. Panic spiked back up her spine and her eyes flicked to the canvas against the wall. Painting. "....yes, I have....sort of." Not in the traditional sense at least, or what would be considered normal for her. There hadn't been any inspiration of beautiful landscapes that struck her in the past week; only the disfigured face of Silas Hunt.

Just as she managed to rip her gaze away from the canvas, Irene spotted the crate of butterbeer near the stack of smaller canvases she reserved for portraits. Taking her wand out, she pointed it at the crate which popped open to let two bottles of butterbeer float out. Only she may have done so a little too distractedly; the bottles settled nicely on the table, but the entire crate hurtled towards him.

“Elias!”

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It was easy enough to settle in, himself, when Irene already seemed more at ease here than she had out on the street; here she seemed almost like herself again. The harsh black and red on the apron – and a couple of dashes of it on the living room floor, if he squinted – weren’t her usual colour schemes, he considered (somehow he always expected shades of green...); but perhaps she’d taken a break from her usual landscapes, or chosen a more striking sunset this time.

Still, Elias hadn’t been prepared for the hasty flicker of her gaze towards the canvas, a nervous gesture that only made the worry spike again. It gave him an unsettling urge to go look, but he’d promised himself he wouldn’t pry about anything today. He was only here to make her feel better, not worse –

He’d only been looking at the bottles, so the rest of the crate pummelling into him was a surprise. “Merlin!” Elias grappled with it in shock, almost winded by the collision and the bottles rattling in it. One of the bottles still in it had come uncapped in the hurtling, and was foaming up over his hands and soaking into his shirt. Elias was less interested in this than in being able to catch the crate and set it down before it did any more damage, or knocked him out next time if Irene tried again; as he busied himself with that, he commented with a wry laugh: “If I didn’t know better, Irene, I’d think you were trying to kill m—”

He stopped short, horrified by what had just slipped out. Shit. A joke on any other day, maybe, but had he really said that right now, when he’d been trying so hard to be tactful and sensitive, and she was already so upset? He cringed at himself, glancing over at her in grimaced apology and wishing he had said literally anything else.

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   Irene Crawley

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It was likely credit to his Quidditch and flying skills that he’d caught the crate so easily but that didn’t stop Irene from hurrying forwards. She’d pointed her wand at the dish towel near the oven; likely not the best idea given the results of her previous spell-casting had clearly left much to be desired. The towel zoomed in her hand as she met him, her other hand catching his shoulder to try to steady him.

"I’m so sorry Elias, are you alright?" The question barely escaped without her voice catching, more terrified than she would have normally been at the thought of hurting him. Irene was scanning his person just to be sure when his laugh broke through her panic. Her own laugh automatically joined his because how could she not smile when he did?

She was mid-chuckle when he cut off his joke, suddenly looking as horror-stricken as if she’d just slapped him across the face. Her own smile immediately dropped, and for a split second, she was confused at what had made the light in his expression go out. 'Trying to kill me' is what he meant to say wasn’t it? Her eyes caught the edge of the canvas casting a shadow against the wall, and suddenly the images that had plagued her nights came flooding back, ripping at the pit in her stomach again. She immediately shook her head, shutting her eyes tight. It was impossible to to rid herself of the sight of Mr. Hunt’s arm hanging in her vision, mutilated and pitiful. "It’s alright," She inwardly winced, hearing her voice shake so much as she tried to placate her friend. "No, it’s-it’s alright, I needed a laugh just then."

She tried to smile back at him, because she needed to prove to him - to herself - that everything was alright. But hadn’t she just admitted to him earlier how wretched she had been this past week? Why was she suddenly trying to lie to him? Why was there a sudden weight on her chest that made it impossible to think straight? Had all the air suddenly been sucked out of the room? The thoughts turned over in her mind and spun until they made her vision dizzy, and she shook her head again.

"I’m fine, Elias really it’s —" Her mouth had gone dry with fear and her eyes felt hot. She caught sight of his arm and moved forward with her towel. "I’m so sorry, we should c-clean you up." But even as she reached out to wipe his arm, she couldn’t help but picture how eviscerated Mr. Hunt’s own forearm was, and her hand shook violently as she patted at the wet spots.

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If he hadn’t said anything stupid, they might have made it past that little accident unscathed – but when her voice shook he knew just how dire his mistake had been. So much for distracting her with easy lightness, then. Whatever had happened in the park that day was haunting her still.

Elias shook his head at her stammered answer, trying to be steady enough in turn to calm her down. “Irene,” he said reprovingly, as she fussed about his butterbeer-soaked sleeve, “don’t worry about that.” He tried a small smile, but his tone was firm – and, in case she protested, he covered her hand on his arm with his other, squeezing it in slightest comfort and attempting, simultaneously, to ease the towel out of her grip.

“And you don’t need to pretend to be fine.” She knew she wasn’t, and he knew she wasn’t – she had said as much before – and that was precisely why he was here. “If anyone should be looking after anyone, it should be me looking after you.”

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   Irene Crawley

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look ANOTHER beautiful bee!set <3

If hearing her name in such a way hadn’t been enough to stop her from patting at his shirt, his hand over hers was. As if he’d pressed a button, her fingers released the towel from her grip, and she turned her hand to meet his to squeeze it in return. His grip had always been solid and steady, one that she wanted desperately to keep ahold on like a life raft out at a turbulent sea. It was always with a tightness in her throat that Irene told herself to let go, that she would have to try and swim on her own; dragging him down with her had never been an option she wanted to thrust upon him.

Maybe today was the day was the day that she held on a little longer. He’d given her permission to do as much. So she nodded silently, blinking rapidly before raising her gaze to him. An apologetic smile tugged at her lips before a soft chuckle followed. “Thank you, Elias.” She murmured before giving in, leaning forward and resting her head against his shoulder. She gritted her teeth together, brows furrowing as she tried to quash something: the urge to press a kiss into his shoulder. It should be me looking after you. Irene knew it would be a while before those words faded from her memory.

Before the mishap, he’d smelled faintly of wood and fresh air; now it was mixed with the sweetness from the butterbeer, and she took a bracing breath to steady herself.

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   Elias Grimstone

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Finally she surrendered to him just a little bit, which was all he’d wanted – to actually be of some use to her. It wasn’t as if she had anyone else, not really; and, however independent he knew she was, he still never wanted her to feel alone.

So, ignoring the towel in his grasp and the Butterbeer stains, he folded his arms around her, rested his chin gently upon the crown of her head, as if the tension might seep out of her by osmosis if he held on long enough. “Anytime,” he murmured, and squeezed her a little tighter just to prove it. It was no hardship for him, to have her as a friend – if anything, he ought to have done a great deal more work to earn a friendship like it.

“You remember something you said, once, about me being a charm to ward off disaster?” Elias added absently, out of some vague desire to make easy conversation or make her laugh again until things had properly recovered. Irene had been joking back then, and they’d been teasing each other about disasters – he didn’t really remember all of it, just the gist, but... “Maybe I could be, for once,” he said, with a joking smile she couldn’t see, but the sincerity plain in his tone. “I can stay here for a while, if you like –” he suggested (because she wasn’t sleeping, she wasn’t even managing a trip to the High Street without the fear creeping in, she obviously couldn’t relax; and he thought perhaps she shouldn’t be left alone to her thoughts for a while). “Keep you company?”

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