Headcanoned with and beta-ed by graceonce

She felt hopeless. Useless. She wanted to stay, defeated in the dirt, and never pick herself up.

She'd tripped over a toy truck and fallen knees first, the jolt clashing her teeth together, and she'd taken a moment to cry out as she rested in the soft earth, rain falling harder and harder around her as she let the ringing in her ears dissipate. Her knees were wet with mud and scratched in places now, her pants most likely ruined, her hands dirtied. She wanted to stand but she was too busy trying to fix her mascara as she continued to whimper.

She cried with the rain, ugly sobs drowned out by thunder and wind, and she wiped at her tears with the back of her hand, streaking her face with black mud as she fought to keep her chest from heaving, fought to regain some type of control over herself.

After a long moment she finally stood, legs trembling beneath her from the shock and the sheer idea of falling from a height again, and she began to walk. In the dark she approached the cottage, its hazy lights mere twinkles in the fog that the water lifted from the earth. Huddled in on herself, she looked like a skeleton, her cheeks were drawn and her hackles were raised, her bones sharp.

She couldn't quite remember where she'd left her car, if it was at the end of the dirt road or still in the city, or if she even had a car. The flats of her feet were sore enough to suggest she'd walked to the driveway she was on, black eyes peeled on the ground now so that she would not trip on a toy again. But her vision was blurry from both her tears and the rain pelting down from above, big drops as cold as ice that soaked her soul from the inside out.

Her fist seemed tiny when she reached up to knock on the wooden door, and she retracted it quickly to hide back beneath her jacket as she thought she'd freeze to death, her gaze still on the floor, ashamed to look up. It was taking so long and she was gripped with a panic.

She shouldn't have come.

She turned abruptly on herself and began to walk away, movements mechanic, but noise made her pause. Creaking wood, scraping chairs. The door's lock clicked and she glanced back, hope warming the tips of her fingers. She pressed them tighter against her own ribs as the door opened.

The accent was familiar and it sent her heartbeat into another frenzy, roaring in her ears at a tune too fast for her to count. Familiar were the concerned eyes, the small frown beneath a mess of tousled chestnut hair. The man's gaze narrowed as he looked out into the dark, discerning the harrowed figure from the weathered shadows.

"Lana? Is that you?"

She began to cry harder, doubled over, and she thought she would vomit on the man's doorstep, her breathing crowed out through the scratchy nebulae that was her throat, hoarse from waking up screaming night after night for weeks on end. He came out into the rain, ignoring that his hair was being flattened against his forehead, and he bent down to her level, worry growing in his bones as he tried to right her, hands firm but gentle around her forearms.

"Lana, what's wrong? What are you doin' out here in this storm?" He shifted his hold on her, as if she were too fragile to lean against, and he began to lead her inside. "You'll catch your death."

Her grip on his hand was tight as she crossed into his house, sopping wet and dripping water onto his floorboards. She was leaving a trail, like if all her hopes and dreams were a rag beneath her.

He let her fall into an armchair, her head between her knees as she shook violently with cold and shame. She listened as he ran for a towel and brought it back, noise lessening then deafening her as she shut her eyes tight. He was awkward at placing it around her shoulders but she accepted it greedily, tying a half knot at her throat so that it wouldn't fall. He'd grabbed a smaller towel for her hair and she let him gingerly dry her ends.

He was too afraid to touch her.

She wouldn't have let him.

He let her dry the rest of her head herself, her movements a little frantic as she contemplated her soaked top. She'd need a brush but she hardly thought he had one inside his house, he lived alone.

No, he didn't.

She looked up, suddenly stricken, her hand against her mouth and her thumb trembling on her upper lip. "I'm so sorry, your kids, they're probably sleeping and-"

He waved her off. "Don't worry 'bout that, I can't get those buggers in bed before midnight on a good night anyway. You want some coffee?"

"I-What?"

"Coffee, Lana, you want some?" he asked. "I can make us a pot."

She nodded lightly and she watched him cross to his open kitchen, mouth open. She shut it tight when she noticed the children watching her from the door, hiding behind it as they peeked into the living room.

She waved half-heartedly, action slow and dumb, and they waved back in unison. It hurt her in her chest, a physical hurt that had her looking away, as she realized that she was a perfect stranger. A perfect stranger melting in their home. They were so big already and she'd never met them, these children who'd been born from one of the only friends she had left, if she could call him that. If she dared put a label on her forehead for them. She hadn't been very friendly.

She gazed up suddenly, his fingers against hers as he placed a scalding mug in her grip. He dragged a chair to her side and sat down in it, their knees bumping into each other. He turned around momentarily to shoo his children away. They scampered out of sight but she had the feeling they were watching, still. As kids do.

He cleared his throat as he placed his own cup on the table. "You gonna explain to me what you were doin' in that storm, Winters?"

"I'm sorry about this," she murmured. The coffee was loosening her ribs, unknotting them from each other. "About barging in."

"That's no issue, Lana." He paused. "No matter what words we exchanged the last time we saw each other, you're always welcome here." He bent down to look into her evading eyes. His voice was softer this time. "What's wrong, Lana?"

The answer took a long time to come as she picked at the skin around her forefinger, the skin there cracking and bleeding.

"I don't know," she finally confessed. "I came to you, I have no one else. And I'm so sorry for that." She laughed bitterly. "You'd think I'd have friends, wouldn't you? That I'd have found someone else to unburden on beside an old cell mate?"

"Lana."

"I can't breathe most of the time, I can't think. I feel like I'm drowning and I can't swim either." She wiped at a tear falling, but more followed. "I haven't slept in a week and I don't know if I've eaten. I don't know what I-" she let her breath rattle in her lungs. "I don't know if this is real, or if this is-" she became stuck and she stammered for her words, the syllables not following each other. She began to cry again.

He reached for her hand. "A dream?" he finished for her.

She nodded avidly, gratefully, as she gulped for air. She continued, slowly, in between sobs. "I don't know if I'm safe. I can't tell anymore," she murmured. "I can't tell if this is some sick joke or if I'm okay." She looked up, pupils dilated. "I see him everywhere. Bloody Face. Thredson. I can't, I can't not see him. I turn a corner and he's there buying a newspaper and when I go to bed I turn around and he's lying with me, his glasses on the bedside table. And I'm okay with it," she added. "I let it happen. I can't even scream because, what, what if it's true? What if he's there, right now, at my house? In my room, waiting for me to come home?"

She looked down at her shoes, browned with mud. "I'll wake up tomorrow and I'll be in that basement again." She pawed at her forehead. "My, uh, my therapist told me I was having issues? Obviously, I mean, but, about, about not being able to tell real from fake? There's a name for it but I can't remember it right now. What a shit reporter I make. I can't find my words."

"I'm very real."

"Wouldn't you say that?"

"Sure," he offered. "But would I sit here, with this shit eating grin, and tell ya I love filin' my taxes?"

She gave him a smile, a genuine one, and he fell into his own grin, softening.

He sobered. "Thredson's dead, Lana. Bloody Face is gone. He ain't waitin' for you nowhere. You got him." He placed his hand on her knee, squeezing. "And I know that what I'm saying isn't fixin' nothin'. I get that. But I want you to hear it anyway. I'll repeat it until you believe it, because it's the truth." He looked into her eyes, hazels deep. "You're safe."

She nodded, throat dry.

He sighed. "You're exhausted, I shouldn't be givin' you coffee or lettin' you stay up any longer. You're stayin' here and before you object, don't. You're not goin' home in this shitshow." He stood and went to the table, opening it to pluck out a pillow and a series of blankets. "The couch is yours for tonight."

"What about-"

"I can get you one of my shirts to sleep in, if you want? I don't have any woman's pajamas."

She let her shoulders drop. "That'll be fine."

He came back, sporting a long sleeved sweater in his arms. She took it gingerly, hugging it to her chest.

She reached for his hand as he began to walk away and he turned to watch her.

"Kit," she rasped. "Thank you."

He shook his head, fighting the blush running up his neck. "Nah, don't mention it. Try to sleep, okay? I'll wake ya if you got any of those night terrors or somethin'." He looked away.

She nodded and let his fingers go after a tortuous moment. He gave her a lopsided smile before turning off the lamp at her side and padding out of the living room, retreating to his bed.

She thought of hers and gagged lightly. In her sheets were imprinted her sweat and her fears.

The gale had brought her here, it'd been so familiar. Once she had run away with one, years prior.

Now she was running back.

OOOoooOOO

She slept well the first night, away from her apartment and her thoughts, rain driving on the roof above her head. She slept well when she slept, but three a.m. had her staring up at the ceiling, arm behind her back and free hand splayed on her belly, blankets thrown to the other side of the couch.

Not that she was thinking of much. She played Chinese shadows with the lights from outside, the thunder clapping overhead and throwing sparks across the living room. She thought she heard little feet clambering to Kit's room but made nothing of it.

She didn't rise the next morning, only turned into the couch when the house awoke, her face pushed into the pillows. Kit went about his business, as did his kids, their voices raised but not loud enough to disturb her, though she was awake. It warmed her lightly that they would be careful around her, but it annoyed her that they tiptoed as if she were fragile. She wanted to turn and tell them to do what they usually did, but she found she didn't even have the strength to breathe any deeper.

Kit left for work, Thomas and Julia went to school. He left lunch for her in the oven, ready to be warmed if she only went to the kitchen and turned it on, but it was much too far for her. She stared at it, hoping it'd turn on with just her willpower, but nothing happened, and so she tugged the covers up over her shoulders. She wasn't hungry anyway.

How strong she was.

She thinks she was asleep when they came home, and that she missed dinner too. Unlike the nuns and orderlies at Briarcliff, Kit wasn't pushing her to what she didn't want to. Wasn't dragging her to the table and force feeding her, instead placing plate upon plate at her side and hoping she'd turn around at one point.

It was the pot roast that Sunday night that had her twisting in her sheets, hair greasy and unkempt, but he smiled at her anyway, beaming at the effort she was giving. She didn't acknowledge him.

But he didn't come to her side to place the plate, instead leaving it on the counter, across from him. She wanted to stay on the couch, wanted to sit in her own filth and disappear in a cloud of dust and ash she was sure to become if she only stayed a few more hours. But her stomach was growling and he was a god when it came to the kitchen.

She dragged herself off her pillow, passing a hand through her hair as she did and tugging her shirt down her bare thighs, and she padded to the chair. Kit grinned, ignoring that she was basically growling at him, her and her stomach. But she ate. And she accepted the bowl of mashed potatoes Thomas passed her gingerly, little arms trembling and tongue peeking out of his mouth in concentration as he hovered it above the table.

She took a shower that night, water running cold after an hour spent underneath a scalding spray. The towels were fluffier than she'd expected them to be.

And when she retreated back to her couch Kit grabbed onto her arm and led her away to the guest bedroom with Julia who was proudly smiling up at her; she'd made the bed herself.

He gave her a small smile and she intertwined her fingers with his, mouthing a 'thank you' as she fought to keep her tears in once more. She failed and she turned away as she blew her nose and beelined for the bathroom, mascara running again.

She wanted to lock the door behind her but found no key.

She wiped at her cheeks with toilet paper, throwing the little wads into the trash can, but she paused when she heard Kit let out a grunt as he caught his children against him, the two attaching to his legs. She cracked the door open to watch, biting her lower lip.

The brown-haired boy picked up his son as Julie tugged on his sweater sleeve.

"Is she going to stay with us after all, daddy?" the girl asked, looking up with big, brown, eyes. "Like you said this morning?"

"Yeah, she is. She needs some time alone, away from the city. She needs our help and we'll give it, right?"

Thomas looked him over. "Like with Judey?"

"Yeah, kiddo. Like with Judey."

OOOoooOOO

It wasn't until the fourth night that the novelty of a new bed wore off and she had a nightmare, Oliver looming over her and telling her to be quiet as he reached for her hip, the tie of her pajama bottoms.

Kit'd done what he said he would, had woken her when she'd begun to moan and grunt and scream, thrashing in her blankets so far that she tangled herself and only fought harder to get out. He'd placed his hands around her arms and had lifted her up to a sitting position, calling to her until her black eyes had snapped open, and he'd held her as she cried and cried, apologies mixing with her saliva on his shirt.

He'd wanted to hear none of it.

Breakfast was sordid.

She hadn't seen Thomas nor Julia, they'd gone out to play already, and she had the inkling of a thought that they were staying far away from her, her imagination. She shook her head. They were nature's kids, like Kit was.

She needed a cigarette.

She played with her mug's handle, too tired to eat the toast and eggs he'd placed before her, but she knew he wouldn't mind eating them for her. Not after a well-meant glare, anyway. She scratched at her wrist errantly.

"I, uh." He cleared his throat. "I was thinkin' I could take you out into Boston, go to your house to pick up your things? Get some of your sheets, something to decorate your room with. It ain't really your style here, grandma knits and stuff."

"Kit."

"And," he continued, "If you don't feel comfortable goin' in, just tell me where it all is and I'll get it for you. Your apartment isn't that big, is it?"

"You wouldn't think so," she answered. "But I went a little overboard, I think." He looked up at her, chewing his omelette, and she shrugged. "My New York Times spread was fabulous."

He laughed again, but this time there was less joy in the action, and she knew he was thinking of their last conversation, months before.

You've changed.

Her apartment had stayed in the exact same way she'd left it, cupboards empty and clothes strewn on furniture. She almost wanted to say an animal had gotten in but Kit knew her and none of the windows had been left open, anyway. So she accepted the mess and he did too, boots crunching on broken glass. A picture frame with no picture.

He stayed in the kitchen, milling about lost, searching for something that could possibly make her more comfortable, a favorite mug or pillow, but everything was cut square and in black and white and nothing looked inviting and so he stared dejectedly.

Lana headed to her room and if she hadn't made the been the one to throw her closet's contents around she'd have sworn a bear had ravaged a path through it. She reached for her wallet left on her nightstand from when she'd left, the pictures inside the only things still in place. She threw her old, ratty, red, sweater vest over her shoulder. A token from years before.

She turned and went for her bedsheets, piling them into shapeless balls and throwing them to the bottom of her door to pick up when she went, but the simple task of half-heartedly folding them made her angry, and she stared at her pillow case hard, at the spots of blood from when she'd screamed her throat raw.

She ripped it apart, little feathers flying to and fro and settling on her floor. Her letter opener helped her reach her bed springs, chunks of yellow mattress piling up around her feet. She didn't know she was crying but Kit came running in, yelling over her screams and he grabbed her around her middle, lifting her up and away. His grip around her wrist loosened her hold on the knife and it clattered to the floor.

She fell to her knees in front of him, grasping at his thighs as she gasped in air and sobbed it out. "I wasn't-I wouldn't-Kit-"

"How the hell am I supposed to know that?" he spit back, but there was no anger in his gaze, only grief. He bent over and held her, her ear to his chest, fingers splayed on her spine.

"He was here," she sobbed. "He was here and he's still here, he wouldn't let me, he wouldn't let me-"

"Wouldn't let you what?"

"Die. I couldn't die. I wouldn't die." She palmed her face, trying to dry her tears. She gazed at the letter opener, bile rising in the back of her throat. "I wasn't going to do a-anything, Kit-"

He sighed heavily, pushing her hair behind her ear. "Let's go home, alright? You get to the truck and I'll grab your stuff." He raised her head and placed his forehead against hers. "He's gone, Lana, he ain't here no more." She nodded weakly and he sighed again, softer this time. He stood her up and she trembled in his grip, hand digging into his shoulder.

"I can do this, Kit," she stammered, gaze hard.

"It was a bad idea. I'm takin' you home."

She finally relented but she pushed him away, making him understand she'd walk to her front door herself. She'd left her keys in the lock.

"Lana."

She turned, arms around her waist.

He held up the vest and she glanced, surprised, at her shoulder. "You want this?" he asked softly. But he didn't wait for her to answer to pack it.

OOOoooOOO

She'd gone to Macy's the next weekend and bought entirely new beddings, sets in cobalt blues and crimson reds, and Thomas had been the one to help her with her pillowcases, struggling with his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth as he fluffed her pillows for her. Julia had picked out her new mug herself, a black one with cat ears, the handle shaped like a tail. Lana wasn't much for felines, but she loved the cup and made sure to use it in the morning.

The kids watched her over their breakfasts, eyes wide when she refilled her coffee. She wasn't quite sure if they were gazing into her soul or merely checking she was using their present.

She was drinking from it when Kit stood and placed his plate in the sink, both of his children watching as they chewed on their respective pancakes, one with chocolate chips and the other without. He folded his newspaper beneath his arm and fiddled lightly with the corner, watching her.

"So, uh, I'm gonna go and take the kids out to their grandma's," Kit finally tried. "You gonna be alright here on your own?"

Lana stared back, lips to her mug still, and she swallowed heavily before setting it down. "What?"

His shoulders fell slightly but he smiled anyway. "I have to go out of town for my job, remember? We talked about this the other night. Three days." He jutted his chin out at the kids. "I'm gettin' the monsters out of your way before I head out."

"But daddy, can't she just watch us? We'll be good!"

"We swear!"

He shook his head. "She's not here to take care of you two, you know that. She's here to get better, and that means you can't be in her hair all the time. You're goin' to mawmaw's house."

"But she can't cook," Julia grouched.

"Neither can I," Lana said softly.

Thomas bounced on his chair. "We can order pizza!"

They began to plead as Lana watched, their gazes suppliant as they brought their hands together as if to pray, little fists swinging in the air as if the intensity of their movements would change their father's mind faster.

The brunette scraped her chair back, settling her elbows on the table's surface. "I can take care of them."

Kit turned to her, sighing heavily. "Lana-"

"I'm the one intruding, let them sleep in their own beds." He looked her over, his frown small and his gaze questioning. "I can do this, Kit," she added.

He nodded sharply. "Fine." He turned to the two clambering out of their chair to hug him. "But you two be good, I don't wanna hear anythin' bad about you when I get back. Punishments work even when I'm gone."

Julia and Thomas finished breakfast noisily, Lana's eyebrows up when they shot out of the kitchen and to their rooms, hollering after each other. She easily ignored Kit's attempts at starting conversation as he slowly got ready, picked up his keys, his sunglasses, his work jacket.

She stood at the door when he left, placing kisses to both the kids' cheeks before straightening and sighing at her.

"If, for some reason, you do wanna cook, groceries are all done. And the emergency numbers are on the fridge. It's only three days, so try not to stuff 'em with sugar or set the house on fire or somethin'." He paused, wrinkling his nose. "You ever babysat, Winters?"

"A dog, once?"

He laughed heartily as he shook his head before hugging her tightly. "Lord help us all." He pulled back, his hands on her shoulders. "You gonna be okay?" She nodded quickly and he tsked before hugging her again. "Pizza is Friday nights only, don't let them tell you otherwise." He glanced down at Julia. "Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

The three of them waved as he left, his own hand out his window and motioning back and forth as he drove away, dust rising off the property's dirt road. It didn't take long for Julia and Thomas to upheave a box of toys on the living room's rug and Lana retreated to her room after a moment, feeling more than unwanted.

So she took the morning for herself, a book resting on her chest and her back to the wall, though her eyes blurred and she reread the same lines over and over again for a good hour, ears perked to the house around her instead. She could have napped but by God she hated the thought of sleeping. She rose, fixed her shirt, and padded back out to the front of the house. Kit's kids hadn't budged an inch but constructed a fort out of blocks, and apparently they'd been learning about the new world in school. Thomas held onto a doll he vehemently called George. Julia wasn't having any of it.

"Hey guys, what are you up to?"

They turned as one, their eyes the same color, and she shifted awkwardly.

That's a dumb question.

"Just playing," the little boy answered.

"Do you want to join us?"

"Julia."

"She can, can't you?" the girl asked. She narrowed her eyes, looking for whatever Lana may have been doing. "Are you busy?"

"No," Lana replied softly. "No, I'm not."

Thomas sat up straighter and thrust out a doll at her. "Well, I'm not going to be Sacajawea, so you can be her."

"I couldn't say that name until I was ten," Lana offered. She sat down in between them and took the Barbie. She was blonde and blue-eyed and pasty white, but she didn't object. "And even then I stuttered."

Thomas beamed. "Daddy says I'm very good at pronunciation. I can say parallelogram."

"I can do long division!"

Lana's eyebrows raised and she smiled at Julia, a tentative grin. "And I suck at math."

"What are you good at?"

Julia groaned out. "Thomas."

"Writing," the brunette replied. "Remembering things." She frowned. "Though sometimes it feels like I haven't been able to do much of that lately."

"Do you remember dates?"

Lana looked up.

Thomas smiled and handed her another doll. "Like, history dates?"

OOOoooOOO

"One hundred! Ninety-nine! Ninety-eight-!"

Thomas giggled as he wriggled out of Lana's grip and ran out of the living room, the brunette trailing after him as Julia counted in the corner of the kitchen, palms to her eyes. The little boy took the first closet he found and when Lana tried to follow him in, he pushed her out.

"Come on, Lana, find your own place!" he laughed. She rubbed at his nose teasingly before leaving his hiding spot and tiptoeing our into the hallway, Julia counting down into the sixties. Kit's room was off-limits, that had been made a rule, but hers wasn't and she made her way into it. She could have undone her bed and hid beneath the covers as a pile on the floor but Julia herself had made up the mattress and she didn't want to have the girl crying bloody murder.

She walked back to the front of the house, the girl dangerously close to thirty, and dove behind the couch, in between the wall and the back of the sofa, and she waited as Julia's voice took a high pitch the closer she came to zero.

"Marco!"

Lana let out a soft "Polo!", trying to throw her voice, and she smiled when Julia walked out of the room. Thomas cried out when he was found, little feet stomping on the ground, but he easily gave into his sister asking for help in finding her. She wedged deeper against the wall.

Her head snapped to the right when the front door unlatched and the doorknob turned, and Kit stepped through, eyebrows drawn up. He dropped his bag on the ground and peered around.

"Lana? Thomas?"

She shushed him and he turned abruptly, eyes wide as he looked her over, sprawled behind the back of the couch. "What are you doing?"

She placed her pointer finger to her lips. "Don't give me away, Kit!"

He stared back, a little lost as he stepped farther into his home.

"There you are!"

Lana blew air out forcefully when Julia landed in her arms, giggling. "She wins again," the brunette pouted. "Kit!"

The man's shoulders pulled up and he smiled sheepishly. "Sorry."

"Daddy, you're home!"

Thomas jumped into Kit's arms and he hugged his son, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He threatened to fall when Julia tackled his legs and Lana crawled out into open air, stretching lightly.

"Hey, kiddos! Everythin' go okay? You miss me?"

The question was meant for his children but his dark eyes were set on Lana, and the woman nodded softly as his kids clamored out positively.

"She let us have popcorn for movie night, dad, it was great."

"That was supposed to be our secret," Lana chastised. Kit laughed lightly before letting Thomas's feet touch the floor again. "Come on, go wash your hands and we'll have dinner." The two thundered out to the bathroom and their father bent down to pick up his bag.

"How did it go?"

"Your kids are literal angels."

The man grinned as he shook his head. "That's very kind of you, but I can't believe they didn't act like little monsters at last once. That wouldn't be fair of them. I meant with you. How did it go with you."

She swallowed smoothly. "I feel fine. Great, really. They're, Julia and Thomas, they're good at what they do. Whatever they do. And I said they were angels, not perfect," she added teasingly. "Even angels aren't perfect." He nodded a moment later, biting the inside of his cheek. "How was the trip?"

"Just fine, I wasn't even bored this time." He shrugged when she turned a questioning eye on him. "Allison came with me."

"Allison?"

"Our secretary." He scuffed his boot on the floor. "I kinda like her, Lana." He blushed to the tips of his ears when the brunette let out a low whistle, her eyebrow raising as she walked to the kitchen. "Oh, Lana, don't be like that. Come on."

"I didn't say anything!"

"You thought it."

She turned, hiding a smile. "Kit, you're a wonderful man."

Kit's shoulders raised and fell as his gaze lingered on the rug.

"I just think it's cute."

"Lay off, Winters."

"Walker, dinner is in a few minutes, go wash your hands."

OOOoooOOO

"I was thinking about getting a dog."

"Oh, daddy, we want a dog!"

"Jesus, Lana."

The brunette laughed from the couch as Kit let his head fall back on the armchair, Julia twisting in his lap to look at him.

"A big dog," the little girl added. "A big, big, dog. Huge."

"Daddy's said no, already, Julia," Thomas said from the floor. He waved his hand vaguely at her, blocks in hand. "You know he hates begging."

"Not a big dog," Lana continued, black eyes on the ceiling. "But a small one. So I can cuddle with it."

"You can cuddle a big dog," Julia protested.

"I can't pick up a big dog. Imagine walking around with a husky in your arms."

"Go to the gym, get some muscles," Kit deadpanned.

The little girl sat up and her father groaned, her knees digging into his thighs. "Okay, but what if you had, let's say-"

"Hypothetically?" Thomas offered.

"Let's say, a really light, big dog. Light as a feather. Would you get one then?"

Lana wriggled her nose. "Is this in a world where all big dogs are light as a feather? Otherwise I'd just look weird."

"Bizarre," Thomas murmured.

"Peculiar," Lana countered. The boy smiled up at her.

"They're all light."

The brunette shrugged. "Then why not?"

"Julia, you're not getting a dog," Kit said. "And it's bedtime."

"Oh, daddy! Let Lana tell us a story."

Thomas looked up. "It was your turn yesterday, let her do it tonight."

Kit glanced his kids over. "She tells stories?"

"She had to while you were gone. She's good," Julia informed him. Their father shrugged and, after kissing both their cheeks, let them run to Lana's room. She followed closely and laughed when she found them waiting, standing, at her bedside. She crawled onto the mattress and pressed her back to the wall, opening her arms for them to dive in beside her.

Thomas prodded her side and she cleared her throat, her chin on Julia's curls.

"There was once," she hummed. "There was once a beautiful girl with black hair and chocolate eyes. And she wasn't very tall, and she liked wearing plaid a lot. And she was a teacher. The loveliest teacher in all the land."

Julia looked up, her nose scrunched teasingly. "A teacher? Not a princess?"

"She was a princess too," Lana replied. "She could be both. She fought to be both, and her father, the king, let her be. Because he loved her and cared for her heart, it was his greatest treasure. The country's greatest treasure, her royal bloodline inside a heart pendant that she wore around her neck. She used it to care for people, as her father cared for her. She used it with the kids who loved her to make sure they were happy, that was her greatest wish, for everyone to be happy." The woman sighed lightly. "And it just couldn't be."

"Did she have a curse?"

"Oh, sure." Lana shook her head. "Fear. The curse of fear put into her by a mean, old, witch that, really, just wanted her heart."

"Gross."

"Not physically, Thomas," the woman chided. "Metaphorically. This witch wanted to love like the princess did, but she just couldn't. She'd been too hurt in her own past to let herself do as the princess did. And so she wrote a pact with the girl, her heart for the deliverance of fear and the happiness of all her little children in the kingdom, which meant so much to her."

"Did she sign it?" Julia asked softly. "To save her children?"

"She couldn't part with her heart," Lana replied. "Who would she have been without it? But she gave it away, no matter that she screamed at herself not to." She looked away, squeezing their hands in hers. "And she succumbed to the fear of her heart being used wrongly, succumbed to it until she fell sick, her heart withering away in the darkness until it broke into a million pieces at the end of its string. She lost it anyway. She lost her heart and her children."

Julia watched her incredulously, mouth down in a twisted grimace. "There must be a good ending, Lana. A prince or a duke? A baron?"

"What was her name?" Thomas looked up, big doe eyes watching Lana curiously.

Lana tucked one of his curls behind his ears, his hair getting entirely too long. "Princess Wendy. Miss Wendy."

"You're not very imaginative."

Lana froze, her black eyes snapping shut as her spine became so rigid she forgot to breathe. Her fingers clawed at the children at her sides but they weren't there, her nails digging into throw pillows, and when she opened her eyes it was dark, and Dr. Thredson watched her from his chair across her bedroom, mask tight in his grip.

"But it's always about you, isn't it?" he continued softly. He looked up, fingers in the mask's eyes and playing with the material, tugging at it until it stretched. "This neverending story of yours? Was there a moral for your children? The ones that aren't yours, the one you didn't keep? Perhaps it was that the world is a cold, dark, place, and that no one will ever love Lana Winters. Perhaps it's that whoever meets you, in the end, dies."

"Oliver," she breathed.

"Oliver," he echoed. "That's right. That's my name. Bloody Face. Your son, your lover, your father. Wendy's king." He cocked his head and his glasses reflected her gaze, fear in the blackness there. "You seem to have forgotten that."

"I haven't forgotten."

Oliver shook his head softly, a smile tugging at his lips. "It seems you have. You don't cry my name out anymore, I've missed it crowed out of your lips."

She shifted on her bed, tugging her feet beneath her. "Silence can attest to anything. For anything."

"Don't be poetic with me," he snapped. She retreated back into her pillows and he sighed. "Oh, Lana, what have I told you about being scared of me?"

"Fuck you," she spit.

He smiled and she knew that smile and she tore her gaze away, cold sweat collecting along her spine, her blood running cold as she bit her tongue to pieces.

He sobered suddenly, his features twisting with rage. His voice was hard.

"Come here." She didn't move, throat restricting her breathing, her movement, and he moved for her, repeating his command. His hand twisted around her wrist and she cried out when he tugged her forward and upwards, her chest smacking into his. "What have I told you about not listening? About not doing what you're told?" he murmured in her ear. "Do I have to break you again?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she whimpered.

He snarled. "You're about to be."

His hand was on her hip and she was kicking wildly as she squealed and as he fought his way past her pajama's elastic waistband. He palmed at her center forcefully and her knee smashed into his nose and when she sat up after him, he was gone, her ankle locked inside her covers.

Her chest heaved as she fought to breathe and cried out in short pants in the darkness, the moon throwing shadows across her room. Her empty room. She threw her blankets off, her pillow to the floor, and she backed into the bed's metal bars, staring at playing forms as her heartbeat deafened her, nails raking long, red, lines into her thighs repeatedly. She shook and she shook, cries turning into whimpers as her tears streamed down her cheeks and landed on her knees.

And when she finally stood, the room suffocating her, and walked out into the hallway, her hand traced the wall as she fought to stay upright and as she tried to breathe, her free fingers at her hip protectively. She reached Kit's room and she peered inside. The young man was already sitting up, already getting out of bed as he rubbed sleep out of his eyes.

He looked up, finding her silhouette in his doorway, and he shifted to stand. "Lana, are you alright? I heard you cryin' out-"

"Yeah," she breathed back. "Yeah, I'm, I'm fine. I woke up. I'll just go out front, for a moment, okay? I'll lock the door when I come back in."

He watched her, less than unsure, but finally nodded. She grabbed the pack of cigarettes when she passed the kitchen and she sat in the swing when she reached the porch, closing the front door behind her. The cigarette's end burned bright red in the inky night, her fingers trembling around it. It wasn't good for her, but then what was.

She let her head fall into her hands, her palms rubbing at her temples and her hands threading through her hair as she whimpered softly.

She would have left Wendy. She would have left her princess. She'd known it.
She took a long drag from her cigarette, smoke shakily leaving her lungs.

So had Wendy.

But they had loved each other and when you loved someone, you stayed. Until it all broke apart around you. She'd wanted to move to New York, to Los Angeles, her sights on her future. Wendy had wanted to stay in rural Boston, for her children and for her past. And Lana had acquiesced, heart beating against her ribs.

Their home had been a reflection of the schoolteacher, bright colors and little patterns that Lana had agreed to, though she'd always been more minimalistic and into dark wooden libraries. Seeing Wendy shop had had her jowls salivating with love and she could never had said no when the younger woman had turned, a bright smile to her face and the gingham curtains in her hands.

She'd wanted to buy the entire store that day, just to keep Wendy smiling.

She wondered where she'd gone wrong, or what she had said, to have been betrayed the way she had been. Wendy had always been weaker, that she knew, but as weak as water? As weak as a trickle to her torrentous waterfall? As weak as a puddle to Sister Jude's streaming rivers?

Still, she missed the raven haired woman, her touches and her kind words and her unfathomable optimism. The way she held her hand when she called the office with a demand that this time she wouldn't be turned down. The way she slept, curtains open so that the sun could filter in as early as possible.

Looking now, there was no feminine touch inside Kit's home, only toys. She thought she'd heard rumors, whispers, of Kit leaving the asylum with Grace and their son, but the woman was nowhere to be found now.

Perhaps she had left.

Lana wasn't about to ask.

But she missed the girl's smile. It'd been wicked at first, little smirks that had made the brunette's skin crawl. But when aspiration had left her and when insanity had settled in, Grace had melted into her décor and she couldn't help the conversations she'd held with her. It'd started out innocently, 'hello's and 'pass me a cigarette's, but the soap boxes she'd stood on as the redhead had watched her, talking of Aliens and God and Normativity, had become routine.

How many times Grace had settled into Lana's side in her tight fit armchair, playing with the woman's fingers as Lana rattled on about the civil rights movement and the president, choice words for him.

She'd had a dead look in her eyes though, the spark behind her blue eyes gone. Long gone.

Not like another's.

The blonde had been young, and a nun. And Satan incarnate. Something that now, looking back, had Lana laughing lightly as she thought of what she'd been thrown into at Briarcliff, the sheer insanity of the place and its girls. Though she grimaced when the reality of the girl's death came rushing back, her grin wiping away. She hadn't been there to see the blonde's body splattered over the white floor, black stains beneath her running rivers. But it was like she could see it in her mind's eye. She'd rifled through the police reports though she'd been advised not to.

A pang of affection hit her heart as she heard the blue eyed songbird's laughter in her ear even now, years later. It'd been so pretty. Even possessed, it'd been pretty, though deep and harrowed. An eagle's cry.

In another life, they would have been friends. If they'd met at a store and she'd been merely shopping, the girl passing her fingers over dresses but too shy to actually buy anything. She might have pushed her to select something, might have shared a smile with her as she helped her try it on. Might have waved more than happily as they split paths at the street corner, the blonde's fingers tight around a shopping bag.

In another life, Lana might have held her to her then, stopped her from leaving. Kissed her so softly the blonde could have only gasped, fingers tight on her jaw.

She shook her head. There was no point in daydreaming over a corpse.

She only hoped Heaven was as fulfilling as Mary Eunice had believed. Surely, that was the only place the blonde could have gone.

Feeling too restricted Lana stood from the swing and she stepped inside and locked the door behind her.

And she went back to bed, sidestepping the black stain on the carpet.

OOOoooOOO

"Would you mind passing me the Bestseller's List? It's the last page in there."

Kit glanced her over, fingering the newspaper at his side. "Why?"

"Why not? Pass it here."

"Why, Lana? What's there to see on the Bestseller's List?" he asked.

She flushed angrily, her fingers tapping on the kitchen table's wooden finish. "Kit-"

He threw her the New York Times, the papers fluttering as she caught them.

"Don't worry, Lana, your book is still selling. But I'd have thought you didn't want to hear about that Maniac now."

She looked away, shame overtaking her anger, and she pressed the newspaper to the table, flattening it out maniacally. "It's an anchor."

He leaned forward in his seat. "Why you wanted to write this down I'll never know, I read it. I did. I even considered havin' you sign it, before I read it. After that I just wanted to throw up. I talked to that man, I had conversations with that man. And now I know, like every other geezer in this country, I know what happened to you in there, in that basement, in vivid details. It's like technicolor." He shook his head. "You coulda written anything, you could have done a piece on Jude, on Briarcliff. Hell, Arden and his war crimes. Why do it on him? Why Thredson?"

"It's why I went in for in the first place, wasn't it?" she said softly. "Bloody Face. I went in for you." Her hand was shaking against her cup and she stuffed it beneath the table, between her knees. "And I came out with a whole lot more I'd bargained for. I came out with a whole lot less."

"But why write it?" he asked again. "You wrote it and you're out there and you're a journalist, like you wanted, and you're doing so well for yourself and I'm so proud of you," she blushed, "but you realize all anybody will ever ask of you is Thredson? You'll be seventy-five and doin' interviews and all they'll ask you is Bloody Face. You could discover little green men on Mars or somethin' and they won't care. You know that, you're smart. So why do it?"

"I wanted them to feel my pain, too," she snapped. Her shoulders sagged. "I'm strong, Kit, everyone tells me, but I didn't feel so strong getting out of there and winding back up in Briarcliff. I didn't feel so strong when I shot him. I didn't feel strong giving birth." She looked away, to the windows. "I needed to share the weight."

"You can't smear it on everyone you meet, Lana," he said. "It ain't fair for them."

"Kit-"

"Because they weren't there. You gave them a story, good for you. But you didn't finish it. You didn't close your own door behind you."

"What door, Kit?" she growled. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You need to heal, Lana. You never did."

She watched him, chest heaving. "I'm fine. I've healed fine. Aren't I fine? Haven't I been fine?"

"Tell that to my kids when you wake them up, screamin' bloody murder. What do you call what happened last night?" He took her hand. "Let me, us, be your anchor, Lana, not your memories."

"Kit."

"Take some time off. For real this time, don't just act through it. Stop thinkin' so hard, just be. You can," he added softly.

"And I will?" she guessed.

He shook his head, reaching for his coffee. He spoke from behind the rim. "You're a goddamned good actress, Lana, but you ain't any better."

"I know," she murmured, looking away. "God, I know."

OOOoooOOO

"Absolution. Why is that so hard to ask of you?"

It was hard to keep the bitterness out of her voice and she looked up, eyes narrowed searchingly as she gazed over the statue of her lord Jesus Christ, baptized as she was. She'd wanted to speak with the virgin, but she looked too much like Mary.

"I know I don't talk to you a lot. Or at all," she admitted. "But would you blame me after everything? I feel like I've earned a free pass at this point." She glanced around furtively, pausing on the old lady at the back of the church, and she lowered her voice. "Though maybe that's a lot to ask of you. Even if it is you."

Her head fell into her hand and she scratched her forehead, eyes closing tight. "I don't think they'll ever go away. I just have to live with the memories, don't I? And pray that they take me to heaven? Is that the key?" She breathed out.

"Fuck you." The woman sniffed and she shifted awkwardly on her knees, the floor beneath her hard. "Why should I have to forgive myself when I haven't done anything wrong? Apart from my greed and my ambition, but those are hardly sins. And I-"

She paused, her heart lurching, and she lowered her head into her elbows. "I killed him out of self-defense, right?"

"Was it vengeance?"

"He would have killed me first."

"Maybe it would have been better if he had."

"Then I wouln't be here talking to a bronze statue, which, by the way, I don't find very charitable."

"Was I ever?"

Her fingernail followed a crack in the pew before her. "I wanted to die that first day Kit was gone," she said. "I can't help but think of Thomas when I think of Johnny." The name came out hushed, a secret. "I see his face. He looks like Kit but I see Thredson everywhere, even in a child who's never known him. I don't want to see Thredson wherever I look. What do I have to do for that? Let go of who I am?"

She let her head shift on her arm as she whimpered. "I can't possibly live with this. You know that. You knew that when I tried to-The storm could-They'd have thought I simply lost control of my car." She breathed in tightly. "You've given me things to live for but do I deserve them? Kit and the children? Or did you throw me their way for that reason, that night? I'd rather have jumped. I'm a burden. Doctors couldn't help so how can they?"

Laughter raised over her shoulder and she froze momentarily, spine bristling. "Have you sent angels to laugh at me?" But when she turned, it was simply a man with the woman. She fingered the cross at her neck, a pendant she'd dug out of a drawer in her apartment before going to church.

She pulled on it until she could see it resting in the palm of her hand, the chain shifting through its loop, and she couldn't help the chagrined grin she gave as she looked back up at the statue. "My mother gave me this, when I was a child. She said it'd help me find my way. The patron saint of lost causes."

She breathed out tightly and let the necklace fall to her collarbones, the metal cold on her skin. "Saint Jude," she laughed breathlessly. "How ironic."

"Did you forgive her?" she asked, tilting her head up. "Did you forgive her when she finally went? I know she went. It's obvious in the air. Will it be when I go?" She looked down. "She saved me in the end, didn't she? And how did she save herself? She was forgiven by her victims but is that enough? What did she do that I haven't done? She didn't proclaim from the roofs what had happened in her bloodied haven, so this isn't about Maniac, it's not about my lies or my fame. Did the Angel of Death tell her something she didn't tell me? Something it didn't tell me?"

Her voice was hushed. "Did she forgive herself? Did Mary?"

When she looked up she found she couldn't quite meet Christ's eyes, as if He'd turned his gaze away from her. The church was silent and she glanced back over her shoulder. The couple was gone and she was alone. She stood, following the statue's gaze through the rows of wooden benches but she couldn't find it again. But He was pointing now with an outstretched hand, and she wasn't quite sure if she had simply not noticed or if He'd moved of His own accord, and she looked to where He lifted his fingers.

"I'm not confessing," she breathed. "I haven't confessed since I was a child and I kissed Emma Leslie behind the swings. Are you rumbling thunder at me?" she asked the ceiling, but no one replied. A flash of light illuminated the windows.

She begrudgingly made her way to a box, and she scoffed when she found it empty on both sides, but she looked back to the statue and Christ seemed to stare into her soul, and she stepped in. She sat heavily and let her head fall to the wooden wall.

She sighed softly, whistling almost, and looked into a grid pattern at shimmering light, a pale face and red lips.

"The storm?" the entity mused.

"The world wouldn't have known any better," Lana replied to thin air. "I want to get something straight." The ghost pursed its lips. "I don't regret my actions, Angel."

"Nor do I wish you to."

"Then why torture me?"

It took a long time for her hallucination to speak again, as if it mulled over its thoughts in her own addled mind. "Do you forgive?"

Lana's black gaze was hard. "I forgive my patron saint. I forgive my blue-eyed songbird and my chocolate-haired princess. I forgive myself for what I've been through and what I've done to get there and to come crawling back out. But I don't forgive him. You can't ask that of me. And if you don't forgive me and I go to Hell, then let me burn."

OOOoooOOO

"What's goin' on?"

Lana turned, hands on her hips as she looked into a disheveled honey haired man's eyes, the dawn highlighting her with a halo. Kit stared, a little lost, at the mess in the living room. She'd packed her bags, badly, had left them on the rug, so many bags that they spilled onto the black stain.

"I'm leaving," she replied simply.

He swallowed thickly and nodded, unsure.

The brunette walked the short steps to his side and she took his hands in hers and pulled him close, looking up into dark eyes with a smile he hadn't seen in so long. "I'm going to do what I love, Kit, I'm going to go back out there and I'm going to right this wrong. Write this wrong. I'm going to find the truth. No matter that people won't forget or let me forget Maniac. I don't work for anyone but myself and my heart." He smiled but her own grin fell. "What's wrong?"

"You're leavin' us."

"Don't look so disheartened, Kit Walker," she chastised lightly, teasingly. "Did you think you could hold me here forever?"

"The great Lana Winters?" he laughed and sobered softly. "Never. No one could." He gave a shake of his shoulders. "I just didn't think it'd ever happen, you leavin'? It's a little sudden. But then again, everyone who leaves here leaves a little suddenly."

"Only when they're healed."

"Somethin' like that." He watched her, shifting his weight. "Would you be honest with me?"

"Oh, Kit."

"Are you okay?"

She sighed and looked away. "I'm not okay. But do I have to be? I'm happy, isn't that all that matters?"

"You're," he hesitated. "You're happy?"

"Extremely so."

She huffed out a sigh when he only stared back, shoulders up to his ears like he'd been reprimanded as he grimaced, and she reached forward and brought him into a hug, arms around his shoulders and linking at his neck. He grabbed her around the waist and tightened until she thought her spine would pop, but she could only grin, thanking him in whispers.

"I won't try and pretend what's done it for you, but if you're happy then so am I," he murmured. "I suggest you leave before the children wake up, or you'll never walk out that door."

"I'll be back."

"I know you will."

OOOoooOOO

And she did come back, hair in a high ponytail and her grin brighter than the sun behind her. She looked sharp, healthy, and Kit couldn't help his own smile as he picked her up off the patio and spun her around lightly.

He'd asked her to keep the cameras away and she'd easily agreed, both knowing her memory was exquisite, and he let her take the excuse of the interview to let her stay the night. He'd witnessed softly for her that first afternoon, low clouds hanging off in the distance, and she finally learned Judy Martin's true ends, and she couldn't help the way her throat stuck when she heard the woman had passed happily. It'd be a good ending to her Briarcliff exposé, if she ever spoke of Judy. Speaking of the dead only tarnished their soul, and she had much more evil to write than good, no matter how good the good was.

"She talked to someone, you know?" he breathed. "Before she died. She was mumbling. I don't know who she was talking about."

Lana looked up and away, worrying at a loose thread on her pant leg, red lipstick on her mind. "I do."

It took Kit a moment to speak again, his voice tight. "I thought you might." He shook his head and stood, tightening his poncho around his shoulders. "You wanna eat somethin' warm? It's getting cold."

She nodded slowly. "I'm coming." He waited for her to stand, holding his hand out to help her up, and he left their hands intertwined as they walked from the study to the kitchen.

"I'm glad you're doin' this," he murmured. "I'm proud."

"Oh, hush."

"Lana!"

She bent down lightly and cried out when Julia's forehead smacked into her nose and she rubbed at it as she picked the girl up, tears collecting at the edges of her eyes. "Have you grown?"

"Two inches!" the girl piped. "Daddy said you were coming but he lies about the ice cream truck passing, so we weren't sure."

"I grew an inch, Lana!" Thomas tried. She laughed lightly and set the girl down with a kiss to her cheek before taking the boy in her arms, hugging him tight.

"Did you mention lunch?"

"Jesus, you've got good ears," Kit sighed. "Go set the table, will you?" He glanced back at Lana. "I made grilled cheese, I just gotta warm it up, you good with that?"

"Perfectly fine."

Julia scoffed from where she was.

Kit shrugged at his daughter. "I'm glad you are, they won't eat my grilled cheese since they've tried yours. They say you put some kinda spice in there but I can't for the life of me recreate it."

"It's just a trick I picked up," Lana admitted.

"A secret?" he asked teasingly.

"Something like that."

He looked her over thoughtfully, as if trying to decipher her, but finally sighed and placed his hand on her shoulder. "I'm happy you're here, you know? Happy you came to see us and happy you came to see me for your project instead of some orderly or somethin'."

She leaned onto the counter, her gaze falling. "I went to Timothy."

His eyebrows raised. "He talked to you?"

"No." She shifted. "He's dead."

"Holy shit." He took a step back, glancing quickly over her shoulder. "Sorry, guys, didn't mean to swear." He stepped forward again, leaning into her. "Dead?"

"He," she paused, "He did something not very Catholic."

"Oh."

"I think his sins caught up to him."

He shook his head. "I'm surprised they didn't before. Or maybe they had." He blew air out as he turned, the oven beeping behind him, and he placed lunch on the heating rack before closing the door behind it. "Selfishness does that." He slowed his movements, biting the inside of his cheek, and he turned back, eyes narrowed lightly.

"What?"

"Can I be selfish?"

"You?" Lana gazed back, surprised. "Are you asking me or is that rhetorical?" She frowned. "You don't have a mean bone in your body, Kit. You know that."

"It was rhetorical. Can I ask you a question?"

She softened and nodded.

He jutted out his chin to Julia and Thomas, too busy bickering around the dinner table. "Be their godmother."

"Kit-"

"You're baptized, ain't ya?" He shrugged. "It works."

"That's, it's very kind of you to think of me, but I'm not sure I'm such a good choice." She smiled. "I'm always scared I'll combust spontaneously when I enter a church."

"I'm warnin' you, I'll pick someone you won't like. Just to spite you." He sobered. "Lana, please, it'd make them so happy."

She gave him a sigh but finally extended her hand out and he took it, grinning widely. "I'd love to, you silly man." She went to pull away but he kept her close.

"Can I be selfish again?"

"Oh, Christ-"

"Be my best man?"

OOOoooOOO

She'd broken away from Julia and Thomas, winded and with sweat collecting along her neck, to fetch some punch. She drank greedily, finding that it went down easier when spiked, and she continued to dance softly to the music blaring from Kit's truck, the man himself celebrating with his new wife Allison somewhere in the middle of the field. She pulled a grimace when his friend passed by again with his camera and she knew he'd caught it, so she pulled another one, sillier this time.

She'd have to ask Kit for a copy.

She shifted away when a younger woman joined her at the table, worn out too and missing her shoes, and she pushed a glass towards her with the flat of her hand.

"Thank you," the girl said gratefully. "I'm parched. Who knew dancing did that?"

"I did, but I seem to forget every time." Lana smiled at the auburn haired woman, finding cloudy blue eyes sparkling with mirth. She held up her glass. "Cheers." The girl grinned back and hit her drink to Lana's, the glass clinking, before drinking.

She swallowed lightly. "How do you know the happy couple, Miss...?"

"Winters," Lana offered. "I'm Kit's best friend, if I can say so. And godmother to his children. You?"

"I'm Allison's childhood friend. We lived in the same street for forever." She smiled. "That's quite an honor, being godmother."

Lana flushed with the wine. "I like to think so, they're sweethearts."

"And good dancers, from what I saw, though you seem to be too."

"I don't have an ounce of rhythm in my body, but I appreciate you trying to flatter me," the brunette laughed.

The girl shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips. She drank again. "What do you do, Miss Winters? If I may be so bold to ask. You look like an interesting character," the girl confessed, stepping closer.

"I'm a writer. Reporter," Lana tried. "Journalist, I guess you could say. I left the writing world and went to television. It's the next big thing."

"You wrote?"

The brunette shifted her weight, and she took on a mocking voice as she raised her hands in the air to highlight the imaginary title. "Maniac, One Woman's Story of Survival."

"I didn't read it," the girl confessed. "I don't think I will. It scared me then and I think it still does."

"You shouldn't, it's bullshit," Lana said. "I know the author and let me tell you, she embellished a lot."

The younger woman peered at her from over the lip of her glass. "I think she had the right to, with what she went through. I only heard tidbits and I was terrified for her." She ignored Lana's eyes as they roamed over her in light disbelief and amusement. "When will you be on TV, then, if that's the world you've entered? I wouldn't want to miss your specials. You seem like a remarkable force."

Lana gazed back. "What do you do, Miss...?"

"I'm an opera singer," the girl offered. "Not a very well known one, but it's what I do." She played with the rim of her tumbler, then held out her hand, all smiles. "I'm Marion."

Lana grinned.