Fairy Bride Ch14: The Camera (Patreon)

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Strasbourg, France

Jeremy Lyson lifts his glass, slurring out for another drink.

The bartender looks at him concernedly, muttering a warning in French.  Or German, or maybe Dutch.  It doesn’t really matter.  Five euros on the table silences the complaint, and lets the photographer burn away his financial headache with another shot of vodka.

Frowning, he slides his camera out of the bag and scrolls again through the photos.  It’s an expensive model, one he had to max out another credit card to get.  But he knew what sort of photos that camera could bring.  How it could make all those nights stuck in youth hostels or terrified stints on expired visas worth it.  And God, did it deliver.

Until those fatcat tabloid fuckwits decided suddenly to stop paying.

Jeremy stops again at #9417.  Look at that.  The Labour MP and his dolled-up wife, waltzing through a field of broken glass.  The lens caught everything.  The quaver in his smile, the bloodshot in her eyes, even those uncomfortably even steps.  It fucking screams scandal, and he has dozens more photos like them, so why aren’t the press hounds fucking biting?  These are the same rat bastards who killed Diana; it’s not like they grew a fucking conscience.

Jeremy sighs, and waggles his glass at the waitress.  It’s probably because he’s still a fucking freelancer.

He hears pairs of footsteps behind him, but doesn’t turn around.  A middle-aged man slides into the barstool beside him with a grunt, smelling of fancy, useless cologne.  He taps the bar three times and mutters something to the waitress.

“Mi scusi.  Whiskey on the rocks.  Alloro lo voglio.  Solo.”

Jeremy blinks.  That ditz doesn’t speak a lick of Italian, he knows, but she still places down three glasses before ducking around the bar.  She even leaves out the bottle for the middle-aged man to grab.  He pours casually, speaking with an accent desperate to not sound posh.  “Ahhh.  Jeremy Lyson, at last.  You’re a hard man to find.”

Jeremy breathes relief.  Finally, a fucking client.  “Not really.  Just follow the trail of cheap drinks and empty bars.”

“Cheap?”  The man asks.  “Or discounted?”

The word lingers menacingly in the air.  Intrigued, Jeremy finally turns.

“Here.”  The man offers Jeremy a glass and his hand.  “Name’s Guy.  You’ve probably never heard of me.”

Jeremy’s eyes grow wide.  Like every British journalist, he has.  And he remembers quite clearly where he last saw him.

Of course, last time, there wasn’t a very, very large man in a suit standing behind him.

Mallory withdraws his hand after a few seconds, pulling out a constantly-buzzing phone.  “I’m giving you credit, Jeremy.  I think you’re smart.  You know why I’m here.”

It takes a few blinks before Jeremy stammers out a response.  “Uh… sure.  Can show them all to you now, my usual quota’s -”

“Excuse me?”

Jeremy gulps.  Guy’s goon seems to be leaning closer.  “The pictures?”  Jeremy shrugs.  “Damning evidence against that press bill’s chief fucking author?”

Guy Mallory laughs.  Full and heartily.  “Ah!  Of course.  You think there’s a story in those photos.  Heh, not unreasonable.  After all, selling stories is my trade.  I can see where you’d be mistaken-”

“Mistaken?”  Jeremy scoffs.  “Cut the political chickenshit.  You set him up for that fall.  You’re in these photos, too!”

“I did, and I am,” Guy smiles, downing his whiskey.  “But you’ve made a mistake, Mr. Lyson, in thinking that either of those facts are true.  They aren’t.  Not until they’re public.  Whether or not they become public is exclusively up to me and the folks in my network.  And Jeremy?”

Guy smiles venomously, leaning close to whisper.  “You’re not in my fucking network.”

Jeremy slides back, searching the bar for aid.  Where the fuck is that waitress?

“You… you want me silenced!!”  Jeremy points accusingly.  “You told the press to stop buying these!”

“Hardly.  I’m willing to take the photos off your hands now.  I’m just not paying for it.”  Mallory leans half back.  “So let’s keep being smart, Jeremy, and drop all that talk about ‘quotas’ while I’m still feeling charitable.”

“You have the money,” Jeremy hisses.

“I do, but this isn’t about money.  It’s about keeping appearances.”

Jeremy slides out of his stool, more drunkenly than he’d hoped.  The goon makes an effort to grab him, before halting at Mallory’s hand.

“Are you fucking serious?”  Jeremy laughs at both of them, head shaking.  “‘Keeping appearances?’  Are you threatening me, in broad daylight, in the middle of a fucking EU capital?  Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Matters a lot more who you think I am,” Mallory replies.

“I think you’re out of your fucking sorts.  And I’m not playing.”  Jeremy snatches his camera from the table, taking two steps back.  “This might work in your ‘network,’ but it ain’t gonna work on me.  So take your drink, shove it up your arse, before I call Europol and have them shove it up for you.”

Mallory stays silent, choosing another whiskey shot instead.  He takes his time sipping it.  Jeremy can feel sweat gather on his face.

“Ah.  Refreshing.”  Mallory places the glass down.  “Now, Jeremy, in two minutes, I’ll be leaving.  I have a call with somebody, heh, far more important.  But, before that, I just wanna say…”

He points.  “I think that’s a really nice looking camera.”

The photographer hits the pavement just as Mallory slams the boy’s laptop into the brick wall.  There’s a satisfying crunch, shattered glass and broken keypads.  He stomps it with his boot a few extra times, for good measure.  That should take care of any digital copies.

Dramatically wiping his hands, Mallory saunters past the snivelling paparazzo to swipe the leather bag he abandoned.  The camera’s tucked inside, safe and sound.  He remotely starts his car and readies to leave, before his man Hans - or whatever Hans’ actual name is - interrupts him.

“What’re we doing with the target?”  He holds up Jeremy’s limp hand for emphasis.  “Still want me to rough him up?”

Guy inspects the hand.  Bruised, and there’s already more than a few broken fingers.  He’ll be out of action for a while, but…

“... why not?  I paid you for the full treatment, and this high and mighty EU capital’s bound to have a few hospitals.”  Mallory chuckles and stares the reporter down.  “Word of advice, Jeremy Lyson.  Strasbourg is only safe to folks like you because folks like me allow it to be.”

He quickly ducks into his car seat, before Jeremy’s pleas can ruin all that good whiskey.

Inside, Mallory opens the camera, flipping from photo to photo.  Hard to deny, the man has talent.  Every picture adds another detail.  Sun catching on her auburn hair. White sandals walking across all that broken china.  That liner around her eyes, so perfect that he knows it can’t be eyeliner.

His breath cuts.  He stops scrolling.  Mallory checks the file name, #9409, and looks again at the zoom-in shot of that plastered smile on her beaming face.  Jeremy had angled it just perfectly, so that the light caught in her tears.

Seconds pass in silence.  Only a ringtone pulls Mallory away from his reverie.  With a cough, he sets the camera on the passenger seat, trying to relax the excitement in his voice.  “Kimberly!  How’s my favourite host?  ... mmm, unfortunate.  Well, we all knew ratings would slump after they ended lockdowns, but… oh.”

He looks again at the equipment.  With all the risks he’s taking, he ought to destroy it.  Done such a hundred times before, will do it a hundred times again. Truth is a nasty business.

But at day’s end, it’s such a nice camera.  He knows exactly who could really appreciate it.  And how could he bring himself to destroy such lovely, tear-filled photos?

They deserve frames.

“What a coincidence!”  He chuckles.  “I’ve been looking into a certain someone who I think would go excellently on your programme!  And trust me…”

“... you’ll want to hear what she has to say.”

Mercantour, France

The sun shines fiercely into his eyes, like the brambles stuck to his khaki shorts and the branches pulling his skin.  His hands still smeared by the ink of a dozen signatures and crumbs from last night’s cocaine.  Still, he pushes through the brush, determined to hike off the beaten trail.  He’s a few hours early, and doesn’t want her to see him.

The vista around him is gorgeous: a glacial lake, snow-capped peaks, and tufts of wildflowers sprouting all over.  He walks past them all without a thought, focused entirely on his camera.  It was a gift from Guy, one he can’t wait to start using.

But there’s only one person he’d ever use it for.

He stops.  There she is, flitting through the clouds with a net in her hands, the sun shining on her piercing blue wings.  He lifts the camera lens to his eyes, zooming in and tracing her flight. It’s difficult; she keeps dipping and diving with the little butterfly, her playmate.  But he needs to catch that face.  He needs to catch that smile.  A smile he hasn’t ordered.

She’s wearing the outfit he bought for her, swinging the net he gave her, but the smile is all her own, and that makes him smile, too.  Wider and wider, the higher she flies.  Because, for a moment, he can breathe.  The worries that scurry through his mind settle, and his gut no longer twists.  She’s soaring.  And whenever Daphne Harcourt soars, Spencer feels like he can leap off the cliffs and join her.

He times himself for the swoop, waits until she’s just bent to…

A click.  A flash.  He’s got it.

With a sigh, Spencer studies the photo, never noticing the way his wife drops into a disoriented spiral.  He knows he’ll remember this moment for a very long time.  Even if she’ll never let him mention it, even if she’ll deny it ever occurred.  There was a single moment where everything was worth it.  One of the many thousands to come.

And now, with this camera, he can capture them.

The Mediterranean Sea

One Week Later

A quick breath.  A patter of footsteps.  And then Daphne leaps from the yacht’s deck, dragging her husband’s wits into the ocean with her.

“Daphne!”  Spencer races after her, peering over the railing.  Mallory laughs from a lounge chair beside him, already sipping on the day’s fifth drink.  His wife emerges quickly, and relieves a sliver of the overwhelming tightness now shackling his chest.  “Aren’t you forgetting something!?” he calls.

“Nope!”  Daphne calls back, bobbing up and down.  “The water’s great!”

“And deep!”  He whines, waving the white life-vest clutched in his hand for her to see.  “You’re not supposed to go underwater!  If you lose your Glamour-”

“Oh lighten up, Spence.  You can allow her a little fun.”

Spencer turns and scowls at Mallory.  It’s not ‘a little fun,’ it’s drowning.  Daphne could drown.  The water’s cold, and the waves are so high, and she’s been drinking, and is he the only one ever concerned about safety around here?  She is literally drowning!

“Shouldn’t you be checking the boat?”  Spencer asks, dropping his eyes to the deck.

“That’s what I have a crew for.”  Mallory mockingly lifts his glass.  “You can go harass them if you like, but I think the view’s better out here.”

“Of the sky?”  Spencer folds his arms.  “Or my wife’s swimsuit?”

“Uh-oh.”  Mallory chortles, setting his glass down.  “Am I getting scolded again?”

“We’ve been mates for decades, Guy, I can tell when you’re staring.  You don’t even bother to hide it anymore.”

“Staring’s not illegal,” Mallory smiles.  “And if you want to get all huffy and puffy about modesty, you should’ve bought her a one piece, not a bikini.  Weren’t you the one who insisted?”

Spencer frowns.  “Those were the only white ones.”

“I would’ve gotten her the red.”  Mallory leans forward to keep Daphne in his sight.  “If you couldn’t tell, that’s what she really wanted.”

Spencer turns away gruffly.  Even if he wanted to explain the importance of Fae tradition, Mallory wouldn’t care.  He has these little talks with Daphne and lets her silly ideas fill his head.  Spencer sees it.  But can he stop her?  Nooooo.  Then he’s ‘isolating’ and ‘abusive.’

He sighs.  Why is being a Keeper such hard work?

“Could you pretty please put on the vest?”  Spencer waggles it again.  “Cherry on top?”

“You said I could swim.  Not paddle.”  Daphne’s treading water, looking up at him with pale, serious eyes.

“I know, buh-but-”  He grips the railing for stability.  His heart is getting faster, and it’s getting harder to hide his panicked breaths.  “Can’t you just put it on for me!?”

He realises the fumble just an instant too late to take it back.  Raising his voice and bringing himself into it?  God, she’s never going to, now.  They’ll have a fight, and he’ll have to order her, and she can still drown to spite him and he -

Except that Daphne isn’t shouting.  Or insulting him.  Or saying anything.  Spencer looks back at the water, confused.  Daphne’s head is down, and she’s grimacing at her own reflection.

It’s the same sullen expression he’s been seeing more and more of since they picked her up from Lianna.

At first, everything seemed fine.  The vampire’s review was glowing, and Daphne stayed polite and shy not only through the whole drive to Marseilles, but the week-long cruise around Corsica after.  She still loses her temper, quite frequently, but instead of berating him, she just… sits.  In silence, for hours.  Staring out at the waves, clearly lost in her own little world.

At first, he worried that Lee-Lee had done something to her, but Daphne assuaged all his fears of harm immediately.  And has barely mentioned Lianna, ever since.

He should probably feel… better for it.  Safer.  It’s a sign that the trip is working, that her constant hostility has cooled.  Shit, he’s even relaxed a lot of their old rules, because it’s clear she has no desire to break them.  But something feels off.  Out of place.  Spencer’s not a fan of her outbursts, by any means, but at least they gave him a sort of… security.  It’s easy to tell what she’s upset about when she’s screaming it in his face.  But now…

Spencer whips off his shirt and sunglasses, jumping into the waves after her.  The cool water sends shudders through his aching spine.  Salt clings to his nose and hair, but he still smiles widely as he swims near his wife.  That’s what nymphs want, after all.  To see their Keepers confident.

“Hi there, Daffy-Taffy.”  Spencer prods at her arms, pulling them through the vest.  “Was all that resistance just an excuse to see me shirtless?”

She stays silent, letting him jostle her and tighten the vest’s cords without ever looking up.  Undismayed, he coils around her like a buoy, lifting her chin to his face.

“Hey.  Are you…”  Spencer briefly hesitates, terrified of the storm he might kick up.  “... alright?”

“Mmm?”  Daphne stares at him blankly.

“You’ve just been so quiet lately.  Feels like you’re starting way fewer problems.”

Daphne lifts her brow.  “Would you like me to start more?”

“No, no, heheheh!  It’s just… you know I’m here for you, right?”  He pulls her closer.  “If there’s ever anything on your mind.”

“Oh.  No, don’t worry,” Daphne looks away.  “This is nothing.”

Spencer frowns.  When Daphne says ‘don’t worry,’ she really means he should worry a lot more.  It’s one of her Silly Daph-isms.  “Who says I’m worried?”

“You’re always worried.”  That’s a Silly Daph-ism, too.  “I just…have some things to think about.  That’s all.”

“Okay.  But, if you need an ear…”  He offers a smile.  “It’s not like you have anyone else.”

“I have Guy,” she smirks.  Spencer’s stomach lurches before he catches the glint in her eye.  It’s just Silly Daph, peeping through.  That’s probably a good sign.

But now that he’s up close to her, he can’t bring himself to look away.  The big vest on her tiny frame, the sun shining on that wet, auburn hair, the dimples in her smile.  Even through the water, the bikini reveals a lot of her best… curves.

God.  What did he ever do to deserve her?

“Sp-SPENCER!  HEY!”

“You know what I love about these vests?”  Spencer pulls her into a bridal carry, beaming.  “I can do this without any fear of dropping you.”

Daphne presses her hand to his chest for balance.  Her cheeks glow a bright red… not that he’s allowed to bring that up or anything.  “Oh, really?  What if I just slipped out of this and flew back to the yacht?”

“I’ll hold on.”  He squeezes her.  “Really tight.”

“I couldn’t take your weight.  You’d fall right into the ocean.”  She smirks.  “I might try and fly really high up first.”

That’s his Daphne.  Even her death threats sound adorable.  “I suppose I’ll just have to find some way to…”  He leans in, pursing his lips.  “... pin you down…”

There’s a brief moment of hesitance, and then, unbelievably, Daphne leans in to join him.  His heart surges, and he closes his eyes.  He doesn’t feel her pushing down on his shoulders until it’s already too late.  She’s swam out of his grip, and instead of a kiss, Spencer’s mouth fills with saltwater.

His eyes open, and he flails beneath the waves desperately.  Spencer can hear his wife’s laughter above him as he surfaces with a gasp.  Impishly, he cuts her off with a massive splash from his arm.

“Hey, no fair!”  Daphne squeaks, trying to splash him back. The Keeping prevents any drops from touching him.  “You can’t splash me when I’m in the vest!  I’m a sitting duck!”

“You’re right!  I didn’t even think about that!  What if a shark came along?”  Spencer sinks until the water touches his chin, reaching for her thigh.  “Hunting the foolish tourist so it can BITE OFF HER LEG!”

“Ah!”  He lunges for her skin and starts tickling, dodging her feeble kicks.  “St-stop it!”  She pleads.  “Heheheh, I-I-I can’t-”

BWWWWOOOOOONNNGGG!  A massive horn blares out, jolting them both.  They spot the source near the approaching shore: a massive cruiser, its behemoth steel shell topped by a French tricolour flapping furiously in the wind.  Dozens of other ships join it in the docks, and beyond that are brightly-painted streets of open air shops, fountains, and brick roofs that glow vibrant oranges and reds.

“Signore e signori, siamo arrivati!”  Mallory lifts his glass to the Arsenal, switching to French.  “Bienvenue à Toulon.”

Toulon

Walking with Daphne is an unexpected chore.  Between all the tight Riviera alleyways and half-witted tourists, it takes most of his focus to simply guide her along.  Daphne always accuses him of ‘pushing’ her, or treating her like a child.  She never seems to realise that maybe if she wasn’t constantly trying to get ahead or straying too close to the road, he wouldn’t have to.  Maybe, just maybe, if she trusted his lead and stopped pulling away - for once - they could lock their arms and walk seamlessly.

But no.  Spencer’s a big meanie if he ever points this out, and he’s an equally big meanie if he suggests leaving her in the car while he runs his errands.  It’s not treating her like a dog - thanks for the comment, Daph - he’s just tired of silly nymph games when there’s serious human business to do!  But fine!  She can come along, she can feel special.  And she can make their stroll a jumbling, chaotic mess.

Spencer sighs.  If he lets her wander around like she wants, she’ll probably blame him for the trouble she inevitably causes, too.

They’re surrounded by a plaza of sparkling fountains and beautifully ornate tiles, but does Daphne care about any of it?  Despite all her fuss in the car, no.  Instead, she’s half-dragging him towards a clothes shop, like he won’t notice her tugging.  Her eyes are locked on the display of a small denim jacket, the question already on her lips despite knowing that his answer will be:

“No.”

“Why not?”  She darts a look back to him.  Is that a challenge?  Another game?

Spencer shrugs.  “Because Kepts don’t wear blue.”

“Lianna lets her Kepts wear whatever they like.  She even let me wear black.”  Of course she did.  Daphne smiles triumphantly.  “Seems like the traditions aren’t important to everyone.”

“True.  But excuse me if I’m not jumping to follow Lianna’s example.”  Spencer grins back.

Daphne huffs, tucking into his arm and letting him direct.  Does that mean he’s winning the game?  She never bothers to explain the rules.  Suddenly, she stops.  “Okay, but I’d look good in it!  You know I’d look good in it.”

Spencer’s not denying that.  She’d look scrumptious!  But as tempting as it is to spoil each and every one of his little nymph’s whims, Spencer knows he has to eventually put the foot down.  Somebody needs to be the adult in the room and make sure she’s only wearing her pretty white dresses.

Silently, Spencer hugs her around her waist, trapping her arms.  He squeezes, really tight, until she’s blinking in confusion.  “Sp-Spencer-”

“Shhhhh.”  He rests his head on her shoulder.  “I think you look beautiful just the way you are.  Can’t add to perfection.”

Daphne tries to break free, but he’s content to hold her like this for a few more minutes.  Letting all his love travel into her, like osmosis!  It will definitely calm her down; he’s never read anything about nymphs and compressions, but this feels like something they’d really like.

… Yeah.  They definitely do.

He rubs his cheek against her neck.  “Is Daphy-poo upset I haven’t given her enough choices today?”

“Yes,” she says tonelessly.  “Among many other things.”

“Would you like to have one?”

“Before I murder you.”

See?  All better!  He won the game!  Spencer kisses her cheek.  “Go pick out a new sun hat.  I’m thinking about a beach day tomorrow, and you need a replacement.  I’ll wait here.”

“... R-Really?”  Daphne looks at him hopefully.  “You’re… I can go on my own?  I don’t have to touch you?”

It’s so cute how she always pretends she doesn’t like touching him.  “Whatever makes you happy, darling!”

The moment he starts loosening his grip, Daphne takes off, forcing him to clasp her hand.  Aether rushes through his bloodstream.  “Wait…”

“No…” she groans.

“Give me a big smile first.”

It never gets old.  The smile’s so cute.

“And tell me that I’m the nicest and bestest Spencer around.”

“You’re the nicest and bestest Spencer around.”  The same toneless voice.  He giggles.  He won the bonus round, too!

“And still I’m only half as bestest as you.”  He blows her a kiss as she turns around.  “Have fun!”

Spencer looks back to the fountain, a devilish smile on his face.  Giving orders is so much fun.  Daphne gets this cute unfocused look, and the spell makes his voice sound so cool.  But the best part… er…

It feels a bit strange, even perverse, to actually think about it like this.  It makes him feel like a total creep, and he’s not, of course.  But…

… oh, fuck it.  Isn’t it kind of totally super awesome that she has to do whatever he tells her?

Now, wait.  Wait.  He can already sense the opposition on this one, so just… just hear him out.

Is Daphne a person?  Always.  Is she entitled to her own thoughts, hopes, and dreams?  Of course!  Is giving orders… morally questionable?  Heh, no comment, but just look at her!  She’s so cute!  And she’s his.

How can someone look at that fluffball and not want to hold her and hug her and protect her, forever and ever and ever?  Anybody in his position would do the same, or worse.  He doesn’t even give her orders all that much, if you think about it, and when he does, it’s just to make her look, like, three times cuter.

See, in Spencer’s experience, people are never reliable.  Maybe it’s the job, maybe it’s something about him, but whenever he asks Chloe or Mallory to do something for him, he runs the risk of getting stabbed in the back.  And everyone always stab him in the back.  Eventually.

But not Daphne.  Daphne - and he’s not thinking this to dehumanise her, because she’s an amazing person who he loves very, very much - is a bit more like a robot!  A Daph-bot, if you will, who’s programmed on his code!  There’s a comfort in machinery, a certainty.  Parts can break - his orders might accidentally leave her walking into a wall, or he’ll forget to feed her like that one time - but breaks can always be repaired.  One never doubts a machine’s intentions.  One never has to fear if their machine will betray them.

Is it… really so wrong… to wish that people were the same?

A jingling store bell alerts Spencer to Mallory’s approach.  The MP smiles, tossing Spencer a keyring that he very nearly fumbles.  “There you are.  Your villa in Nice is all taken care of.  Got to see a few pictures myself and whew, you’re in for a treat.”

“Thanks,” Spencer nods.  “You’re still welcome to join us.”

He most definitely is not, but it’s better to be polite.

“Nah, I’ve got business in London.  After this and Cannes, I’ll drop you two off with the yacht and… take a plane from there.”  Mallory nods to himself, as if confirming.  “Was hoping you’d be up for a final boy’s night tonight.”

“Of course.  Once Daphne’s settled.”

“Excellent.  Could use the chance to talk about those… other matters involving her.”  Mallory slowly draws out his phone.  “I’ve pulled a few favours, found some really good outlets for that interview-”

“Guy.”  Spencer’s tone turns harsh.  “We’ve talked about this.”

“I know what you said, Spence.  I’m just saying-”

“She’s not ready for that.”  Spencer scowls at Mallory’s defensive smile.  “And she isn’t going to be.”

Mallory glares back, about to say something else, but Daphne’s voice cuts through the tension.  “Spencer!”

He turns to see her hurrying through rows of clothing racks, a sun-hat with a massive brim pressed into her chest.  The ends flop with every step, trailing a matching ribbon.

“What do you think?  It’s cute, right?”  She holds it up for his inspection, her dull, ordered smile now large and genuine.

“It’s great, Daph,” Mallory chuckles, nodding.

It makes Spencer want to smile, too, but the more his wife waves the hat, the more it catches in the light.  And something about it looks…

Spencer carefully takes Daphne’s hand and holds her shoulder.  He frowns, considering the right words to say.  It’s a real treat to see her enjoy clothes shopping for once, and he understands how a nymph could get confused by these human clothes and all their colours, but…

“Daphne…”  He looks into her eyes, downcast.  “... you’re going to have to put that back.”

… he knows when he’s being tested.

She blinks in confusion. “What?”

He takes the hat, holding it up to the window. “That’s clearly yellow.  Come on, Daph, we’ve already played this game a hundred times before.”

To Spencer’s surprise, she doesn’t grow angry.  Daphne’s expression simply falters, her face contorting in odd angles to adjust to her smile.  “No.  No, see?  It-it’s cream.  That’s allowed, that’s okay.  Spencer, it looks good.”

“Spence, c’mon,” Mallory nudges his shoulder.  “It’s a hat.  What’s the big deal?”

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be!”  Spencer snaps at him.  The last thing he needs is for someone to encourage this behaviour.  He turns to her, struggling to keep his composure.  “I’m sure there are plenty of white hats in this store that are just as good as this one.  There’s no reason to push boundaries when-”

“I’m not pushing anything!” she counters, distraught.  “Spencer, it’s white, what the hell?  All I want is to-”

“It’s not about what you want!”  He replies, more sternly than he intended.  He buries his face in his hands.  She’s doing it all over again.  This whole last week, he thought she was calm.  But it was all a ruse.  “‘I want this,’ ‘I want that.’  When will you understand that we can’t have everything we like?  That sometimes we need to consider the other person-”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do!” she shouts back.  “So why are you make everything so bloody DIFFICULT!?!”

Her words echo across the small store, far louder than the music from the old speakers.  Daphne’s smiling, but she clutches the hat tightly, and her eyes are filled with angry tears.

Spencer tries to clear his throat, fruitlessly.  “Duh-Daaaaphne, I-I-I’m nuh-not the one being dih-dih-difficult here.  Yuh-you’re undermining me again, an-and I’m so sick of-”

“I’m trying to make you happy!  I’m trying to PLEASE US BOTH!”

Spencer’s heart skips.  He stops, bewildered, and tries to push out the white noise flooding into his head.  “Wha… what?  I… I duh-don’t-”

“It’s not a bloody game!”  Daphne takes a shaky breath, hugging the hat tightly. “I just wanted to pick something nice that followed the rules.  Something we could both like, and you’re… you’re telling me it’s fucking yellow!”

Oh, fuck.  Spencer’s eyes widen, and a leaden weight shifts in his chest.  “Wait, Daphne, I-I had no idea-”

“Why are you always so condescending?  Why can’t you trust me?  Do you just like taking things away from me?”

“No, no!”  Spencer raises his arms, taking a step back.  “Daphne, that’s not what I meant.  Of course, I want you to be happy-”

“Then why won’t you let me?”

Before Spencer can reply, Daphne crumples.  It’s like watching a plant wilt.  She tucks into herself, pulling the hat against her face so that all he can see is the plastered smile.  He can feel Mallory’s eyes behind him, a scowl he knows he deserves.

He starts reaching out.  “Hey, Daph-”

“I have to return this.  K-Keeper’s orders.”  She marches back through the clothing racks with heavy, mechanical steps.  “Who’d want a yellow hat, anyway?”

Spencer’s arm lingers frozen in front of him, his mind racing with far too many thoughts to grasp.  Mallory’s hand settles on Spencer’s shoulder for a moment, giving him a cautious, bracing pat, before he ducks after Daphne in the aisle.

Leaving Spencer, as always, alone.

continue reading -> 

Howdy, everyone!  Lehanna here!

In a twist from our usual HeartWorks villains, the next few chapters will be written from Spencer’s eyes?  How do y’all feel about it?  Personally, I love getting to explore in depth the thoughts and feelings of this… troubled… figure, but I understand we have a wide array of opinions!

And what Daph?  It appears that she’s less resistant than before, but Spencer’s never been a good mind-reader.  What do you think is her long game?

All these questions, and more, will be answered in Chapter 15: Regardez-moi, coming out next Friday, October 20th.  See ya then!