TW: descriptions of blood,
power-related self-inflicted wounds.

CHAPTER THREE:
a sort of denouement.

JOSEPHINE WAS NOT A VERY INTERESTING INDIVIDUAL.

She didn't really do all that much.

Every day looked the same. Give or take.

The schedule never varied that much, generally because there wasn't much unique excitement in a two-bedroom apartment and an agoraphobic French immigrant. She rose before the sun to prepare her husband's breakfast, his lunch for work, and set out his clothes. Then she would sit alone, usually for a good couple of hours, reading or writing or knitting or sewing or staring out the window and wondering what it would feel like to be like the thousands of human beings passing underneath her building.

Sometimes she'd play the game of, 'maybe I could try it too'. But she never got very far from her apartment door.

And so, resigned, she would occupy her mind with the hundreds of mundane tasks her mother had taught her. Nothing of great importance. Just good housewife work. And then her husband would wake up late into the morning, and she'd kiss his cheek and serve him porridge like she had been taught years before, asking how well he slept. And she would play him piano, because he always said it reminded him of 'simpler days'.

Some mornings she'd have to clear his wounds, but that wasn't often anymore.

Some afternoons she had company in the form of children, because that was the only job she could hold. Josephine had found that the only way she could be useful and not lose her mind was through babysitting. And so she offered her skills and kept the building's children busy when necessary. It wasn't often she'd have more than one around — and usually she could guess which one she'd be with, that day. Which she was perfectly fine with. She liked little Viola Song the best, anyways.

She'd play the piano and read and cook dinner and serve it to whatever wards were with her. And she'd watch them eat, and ask them questions — usually serious questions, because they were precocious kids, and they liked when people wanted to know their thoughts on adult things. Even if they didn't understand it, really.

And then she would clean the dishes and the kids would swing their legs and read at the kitchen table until their parent was home to pick them up. Sometimes they wouldn't come until one, two, three in the morning. Sometimes they wouldn't make it until the next day. But, usually —

 The sound of keys jangled outside the apartment door. Low curses, grumbly and hoarse as they tried to remember how locks work in their exhausted haze. Calloused, hard-working hands pushed the door open and 'thud' it shut. Solid footsteps against worn wood; gentle, despite their maker's size.

Jo looked up from the small chair she had curled herself up in. Her head lifted groggily from underneath a dingy lamp. "You're home late," she remarked, native language stinging on her lips.

"Désolé."

She hummed. "Work ran late?"

"Oui." 

Simon didn't even take off his coat. She watched as he haphazardly toed his shoes off to a corner of the foyer before sinking to his knees. Slowly, he awkwardly crawled towards her until he reaches the valley formed between her knees.

"Mon ange," Jo cooed, pushing his head down to her lap. He didn't resist, actually keening into her touch, wrapping his arms around her calves. "I am sorry."

He pressed his lips to her knee. She didn't feel the wet press through her thick pants, but the muddled sensation still made her smile.

"We should retire early," Simon said into her legs. "Move somewhere warm."

"Mm. I agree. My body would appreciate more sun."

He nodded. "Oui. New York City is not meant to be either of our homes'."

"But..."

"...but," he said, reluctantly dragging the syllables from his lips, "it is safe. Even if people here have le QI des huitres."

Jo laughed softly. Her rib cage ached, the stress of the day and the brutality of her curse taking a toll. Her bones had still not recovered from the strain of the past days. But, still, she chuckled and brushed her large hands over Simon's head, waiting for the pain in her muscles to die down again.

"Well. One day, maybe we can retire somewhere warm. Escape the crustaceans."

"Oysters are mollusks, love."

"I...do not know what that is, but it sounds quite dirty."

The gentle vibrations of her husband's laugh felt funny as it went up her calves, barely returning back to a healthy state. But it was a comfort to feel his touch nonetheless.

He had often asked her why she waited up to see him. Especially on late nights, when she had been up since before the sun had risen and was barely able to keep her heavy lids up. It wasn't good for her body, so addicted to sunlight and wilting without it. It was not very good for her mind either.

Truthfully, Josephine wasn't always so sure why she did. Maybe it was the fear that kept her up; that her imagination wouldn't allow her to rest, wondering if somewhere on the dangerous streets of New York City her husband was getting slaughtered. Maybe it was just that the bed was too cold for one body, and she had slept next to someone for way too long to be okay with just a comforter to hold her tight.

Either way, she knew he didn't mind.

Simon's breath came soft and steady, barely a breeze on her clothed thigh. Jo almost believed he had fallen asleep on her, until,

"Is our guest gone yet?"

 She stiffened. Her hands paused, pressed against his cheek and his hair. 

"I will take your silence as a no."

"She was exhausted," Jo protested softly. "I could not in good faith send her back out there without more rest and food."

"And I, in good faith, cannot sleep any more next to a murderer."

"We do not know who she is. She said—"

"—she told you who she really was?"

Jo didn't say anything. But she didn't have to, because the silence that lingered in the dull, wispy darkness of their living room spoke enough. Slowly, she felt him unravel from her body, leaving it colder than it had been all night.

"We will wake to her over us ready to slit our throats," Simon argued, voice no longer soft but stern, filled with a bitterness she could only assume was disappointment. He looked up at her. "Or we will not wake at all. Do you not realise this?"

"You say that like she is a monster."

"She is."

"How do you know?" Jo asked, bolder than she would usually dare. Her eyes searched for his, catching the soft gleam of skin in the lamplight. "How do you know she will hurt us?"

"You found her in an alley, dressed in rags, bleeding and speaking in tongues—"

"—we live in New York, c'est incroyable pour—"

"—I don't trust her, Josephine. I will not trust her. I-I — Christ, how is she even asleep? The look in her eyes, they did not seem like they belonged to a lie-down wolf."

She glanced away. "I helped with that," she said vaguely. "She is sleeping sound."

"Until she is not."

"She will not harm us!"

"You do not know that!"

"I have trust!"

Simon scoffed. He heaved to his feet, knees cracking. "You do not know this woman. But you and I both know, even if you choose to be blind, that she is not to be trusted."

"Simon, please, do not—"

"—you are the one who has told me, time and time again that we cannot risk our lives for—"

"—I have never held you back in your desires, can't you let me—"

"—some excuse of a being ruining the fragile life we have like—"

"—want to feel like a good person again—"

"—you made the rules we live by, Josephine! You build our life with an iron fist. Created everything about it so that we could survive. And I let you, because I knew that you were right; that we were not safe anywhere, if we did not fight tooth and nail. We have sacrificed everything, to stay alive — and yet you let that all go to waste for some pretty fucking face you find?"

Jo huffed, turning her face away. "Lower your voice," she said softly. "Please?"

"Putain de merde," Simon swore low. "I — I do not even know how to speak to you my worries." He spoke in English, there, his words rougher than the smoother French vowels. "Would you even hear them?"

"I will always listen to you. You know that."

"The strange devil in our guest bedroom says otherwise."

"Simon! I—"

He waved a hand before letting it drape over his brow, hiding his eyes from hers. He stood slowly. His joints cracked and popped. "I cannot do this tonight. I have to be up early. I need rest."

Fear sparked in Jo's heart. "You cannot wake her up."

He didn't look her way. "I was not planning to," he told her brusquely. "Your work is too strong for me to overcome, and I am too tired for try."

"Oh. Then...?"

"I will keep us safe another way. Lock the creature out."

Simon unbuttoned his shirt slowly. In the lamplight, Josephine couldn't really see the skin, but she had spent enough time healing it to have it pressed into her memory. The green scars that roped around his dark, gleaming flesh were horrifying, not because of the the colour (though at first sight, it was definitely a strange thing too) but because of how many and how deep they were. Almost every inch of her husband's skin was covered in gigantic raised wounds that were interlaced with one another. Sometimes they were darker only because they had been opened and reopened so many times before, that the flesh was only barely knitted back together. He was almost covered in the scars completely. Only his hands, his face and neck had not wept green ink yet.

"Simon, please."

He didn't listen. Slowly, he pressed a hand to his lower torso. Bright green glistened in amber light as he pulled at the flesh, muffled groans of pain into his free hand. 

Jo looked away but she could still hear the obscene sound of him ripping out parts of flesh from his stomach. It was a sound that never escaped her. She bit her lip, begging that it would burst so she could have some other sensation other than disgust.

"You do not have to do this," she mumbled into the darkness. Something moist tickled her eyelashes. "Please, mon ange. Trust me."

"I," she could hear him panting. His breath sounded thick. "I know. I trust you. But...but not the world."

She sniffled. "Are you done?"

"Yes."

Without looking back around, she extended her left arm back towards where he had been standing. "Viens ici."

Firm, burning flesh hit her fingers and she almost sobbed aloud. Blood coated her fingers but she tried to ignore it, pushing deeper into the flesh so she could almost feel the organs, hot and throbbing underneath. She had held them before, too many times to count, but the feeling of her husband's flesh cradled in her hands had never not been horrifying. No one should be able to touch their partner's intestines and be asked to stitch them up again; let alone offer, with the curse that poisoned their heart so many years ago.

But, Jo loved her husband. So she swallowed hard and willed her body's last ounce of strength to flow through her, spreading through her veins to the tips of her fingers, down into her husbands bleeding body.

She ached, even as he reformed. 

After several long moments she felt the flesh knit back over and dropped her hand to her skirt. She wiped her fingers off on the soft fabric and ignored how gruesome the dark red looked over gentle periwinkle.

"Thank you," Simon murmured. He reached down to grab her hand, pulling her up to meet him. It found its way around her waist — not a moment too late, too, as she swayed like a willow branch in wind. "Do you need anything?"

Jo shook her head into the crook of his neck. "Rest. If you will too."

She felt him nod. "I will try my best to."

"You still do not feel safe?"

He sighed, low and rumbling in his chest. "I could create a thousand of the greatest locks and I would still fear for your life, sleeping next to that strange creature. Mais, I have work tomorrow. So I will try to let my troubles sleep too."

Jo wanted to argue with him and defend the stranger's honour. But how? With what? She did not even know the being's name, only that she had a crazed look of fear in her eyes that never went away, and that she was desperate to unravel all of the secrets that she seemed to have hidden for so long. And Simon was right. Her choice was foolish, and it went against every rule she made them keep. 

If she wanted adventure, she had to keep it away from home. Just like her husband did.

So Jo sighed, leaning into Simon's careful hold. Her body was too tired to fight anymore and she did not know what she'd argue to justify her actions.

"Pouvons nous aller au lit?"

"Oui. Viens, ange."

They walked slowly down the hall, both wearily limping and clinging to one another. Josephine paused in the doorway of their shared bedroom, watching as her husband jammed the lock he had created onto the door.

Jo knew that if the woman was an actual killer, like her husband feared, nothing would keep her out. But maybe that was the point — Simon wanted one last 'told you so' before his fears came true and they were slaughtered. Maybe he would be spared if he told her his side of things.

"Do you need anything?"

She shook her head, drawing back into their room. "Je voudrais dormir," she said simply. "Et tu?"

Simon didn't say anything. But Jo felt his lips graze against her temple, a fleeting touch before he gently pushed her into the bed. His arms left her after that; she heard them fiddling with their bedroom door. With the device he had carved from his deformed flesh.

She pushed her body back, slowly slipping under the covers. Her head hit her pillow. It smelled of lavender, like every pillow she had ever owned had. The idea of it was to bring comfort and a sense of security to the head resting against it. But all Jo felt was nausea.

She flipped the pillow over.

"Simon?"

"Un moment."

Her ribs ached. "Okay."

Jo watched the darkness, watching the shadows curve around where she guessed her husband was, stumbling around their shared room with weary familiarity. Clothes rustling, drawers opening and shutting with soft thuds. Belt buckle clicking. She could walk through his night routine with her eyes shut and just her feet to lead the way. After all, she had watched him through it about a thousand times before, since the first day of their new life together.

Normally watching him brought her calm too, easing the anxiety usually bubbling bitter in her gut. But...Jo couldn't help but let her nervous thoughts wander, gnawing at her lip as she wondered where they were going to go from there...and if she knew really anything about herself, let alone if her husband did. They had shared everything together; their traumas and their hopes and dreams, even the filthiest of secrets.

But everything was changing. And all because of some foolish idea of heroism and a pretty fantôme.

"Josephine?"

"Still awake," she murmured, shoving her throbbing body further down the bed. 

She felt the mattress give to another joining her, the bedsprings creaking beneath them. Soft breaths hit her forehead. Her husband, the man she loved and swore to love until the very end. Familiar in most ways but few.

"Allo," Jo said childishly.

She could almost hear the smile in Simon's voice. "Allo, soleil."

"I...you have not called me such, in a long time."

"No." His tone sounded retrospective. "I have not."

Jo wanted to ask why he thought of the petname now, if it bode good or bad for their future. But instead she just kept her mouth shut. She curled into him like she was a child; moulded her flesh against his, blood-stained fingers intertwining with his smaller palms, painting his callouses scarlet. 

"Thank you," she whispered into the shadows forming around her husband's silhouette. "Mon ange."

He adjusted slightly. His limbs curved, legs interlacing around her fragile remains. She could feel his scars rub against her skin.

"I do not know what will come of us now."

"Pourquoi?"

"She knows too much, Josephine. She — she must know that you did something to save her."

In the dark, nothing was visible of her partner but the faintest outline of soft features, sculpted into worry. God, she hated his worried face.

"She..." Jo hesitated, wondering if the truth would be worse than lying. It might feel better — but Simon would probably read right through her misleading, anyways. "I told her what I did. Some of it."

Heavy came his sigh. "So...so she just knows everything?"

"Not everything. Not who you are or where we came from. I-I only told her I had healed her wounds."

"That does not make it better," he hissed to her, so close to her face she could almost taste the syllables. "Why would you do that?!"

"She asked questions. I could not lie."

"You could have!"

"She would know," Jo argued lamely. "And — and I kept most of the truth. I just needed to satisfy her hunger for answers enough."

"Josephine..."

She pulled her husband closer, tightening his hold on her bones. "I would not take it back."

"I know. And...I do not think I could ask you to. But you know what this means for us."

Jo scrunched her eyes tight, so all she could see was obsidian. But the tears still leaked through. "Let's not think about that tonight."

"If we do not talk about it—"

"—we will," she said, firmer than she had been all night. "But not tonight. Let me rest."

She felt, more than heard, his heavy sigh beside her ear. "J'ai peur."

"Me too, Simon."

But, regretfully, Jo wasn't scared for the same reasons she thought her husband was. She did not fear the being in their guest bedroom, even though she had threatened her life and her home and held the fate of their future in her hands. Uncertainty did worry her, but there was an ill-placed sense of security, burning in her chest. That she could trust the woman, strange as she was.

Jo raised her wrist and stared at the pallid skin, barely visible in the dark. She traced her veins and felt where there should be a mark. But there was nothing left, nothing but a vague memory in her half-conscious mind of how recklessly she had acted. How the woman, with no name, had stared at her in bewilderment and amaze, and how her chest had constricted and pulsed with a foolish, childish vibration she had not felt in many years.

"I do not even know her name," she murmured.

"Hm?"

She adjusted her head. "Nothing, mon ange," she reassured the half-asleep Simon. "Sweet dreams."

And as he went back to dozing off, Josephine pressed her fingers into her wrist and felt her pulse, softly beating under the ivory skin holding it in.

Who was the woman, lying in the other room?

And how dare she make her feel like...that, without even a name to her pretty face?

Enter Simon, ~the husband~. He's quite an interesting character, and one I don't think anyone reading this is going to expect, like direction wise where this is going. I'm curious to know what you think of this first impression though.

His powers are something I'm really proud of myself for making up too. Essentially, he can 'pull' parts of his body apart from himself and manipulate it into anything, just as long as its not alive, edible or something he hasn't seen for himself, and it cannot surpass the mass he's got, size wise. He doesn't know why his blood is green, or why the scars are green. He does know though that if he leaves the wound after creation, it will act as a normal wound and take time to rebuild that flesh (it regenerates in a sense, though it takes a while naturally). However, Jo can speed up the process and fix it faster, sealing it neatly with a small green scar. 

Thank you for reading; let me know what you thought.

Top graphic done by the talented bellexaire! And the new end gif by the wonderful soulofstaars.