[fic] and love will not break your heart.
[Another fic written with love for 
yetregressing, who gave me the following prompt: I've been down and out, I've been spinning for so long. I store my shame in my belly.
It's worth noting this fic takes place two years ago.]
Lena gets the call at five in the morning.
“Leens,” he says, as if an affectionate pet name will change the fact they broke up two weeks ago and he was screaming in her ear and breaking promises left and right.
It shouldn’t be allowed, someone’s voice holding that much power over another through the phone. But he’s always had that talent. Lena inwardly recoils at the sound of his voice and for a split second, she’s back on the floor and he’s standing over her, a ring of fire holding them in place.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Sarcasm--the most basic and usually effective form of self-preservation.
“I need your help.”
Need.
Later on in life, Lena will learn need isn’t love.
She hasn’t learned yet.
Need isn’t love and hurt isn’t love and his way of needing her isn’t enough.
It’s not enough but it’s all they have.
Lena straightens up in her bed and lets herself listen cautiously as he starts in on an old-worn story. Rick Wilde is up to his neck covered in debts, you see. He’s broke out of his ass and there’s the rent to pay and they’re gonna come for him, they’re gonna kill him, and she can find it in herself to help him, can’t she? You understand, don’t you, Lena? I miss you and I need you. She says she doesn’t have that kind of money.
She can’t ask for it, either. She’s still proving herself again. Thanks to him.
Come on. Help your old boyfriend out, it’s not like you’ve never stolen before.
It takes her only a minute to understand what he’s asking of her.
“I don’t—you can’t—” Lena will later punish herself for sounding so small and meek.
She’s stronger than that now. She doesn’t need him anymore.
(But she does.)
“I don’t do that anymore.” Not unless it was already stolen first. She’s working at the Crowbar now. They do good things. “I’m not—I am not that person anymore.” If she was still that person they wouldn’t love her. They wouldn’t let her stay here. She’s not.
She’s not.
Even as she’s saying these words Lena knows she can’t refuse him. She hasn’t in the past and she won’t this time.
“Lena. You’re the only one I trust. Please. You gotta help me.”
And you can walk away from your past, but it’s not always possible to walk away from the people that were a part of it. Not for good.
Not when they ask for your help.
Not when they’re at the edge and you’ve been there, too.
As much as Lena likes to forget what she’s done, she can never really escape who she’s been—who she can still be—and where she once came from. A part of her will always carry that with her. She can’t escape the fact she was in a band of thieves. She can’t escape that she’s done terrible things and is capable of even more than stealing. She can’t escape she was once in love with this man and she was all he had.
Lena Austen was once an accomplished thief, and it’s easy to forget when it’s lost in bright smiles and cheerful dispositions. It’s easier to show happiness than it is to show pain.
She tells herself it doesn’t matter. The Lena that would steal, the Lena that’s hurt others and herself, that’s a different Lena, not the one she is now.
It’s with hastened movements that Lena gets dressed, and she’s barely slid into her jeans when she’s moving toward the stairs. The sun has not come up when she steps outside of the bar, and once she makes it to the motel he specified, she finds she can’t get her feet to move. She can’t, for the life of her, take a step forward. Her limbs are shaky, and the feeling—the self-loathing and the doubt and the dread—is so familiar she almost turns around and leaves.
Her lungs are failing her, and courage is failing her, and she has to remember to keep breathing. You’re not that person anymore, Lena, she tells herself as her knuckles remain poised against the wooden door. You don’t miss him. You don’t miss any of it.
She still can’t bring herself to knock.
It’s all wrong. All of this, it’s wrong. This isn’t her life anymore; she doesn’t have to be here. She left it behind, she left and tried not to look back, how is it she ends up back here, and by choice, at that?
Her worlds have bled into each other and she wants them as separate as possible.
But you have to choose.
And yet.
Yet.
What if he ends up dead?
What if they really kill him this time, and he’s reached out to her, and she turned away from him? What if he can still be saved?
It turns out she doesn’t have to knock. The door is unlocked, and she pushes it open a fraction.
The smell of nicotine and absinthe pervades throughout the room. He’s barely standing, swaying to the side, and he reaches for her hand to pull her into the room.
“I knew you’d come,” he says, and it almost sounds like a victory.
He’s holding a bottle of whiskey and lifts it in her direction, stumbling toward her.
She hates herself just a little bit more when she reaches for it.
yetregressing, who gave me the following prompt: I've been down and out, I've been spinning for so long. I store my shame in my belly.It's worth noting this fic takes place two years ago.]
Lena gets the call at five in the morning.
“Leens,” he says, as if an affectionate pet name will change the fact they broke up two weeks ago and he was screaming in her ear and breaking promises left and right.
It shouldn’t be allowed, someone’s voice holding that much power over another through the phone. But he’s always had that talent. Lena inwardly recoils at the sound of his voice and for a split second, she’s back on the floor and he’s standing over her, a ring of fire holding them in place.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Sarcasm--the most basic and usually effective form of self-preservation.
“I need your help.”
Need.
Later on in life, Lena will learn need isn’t love.
She hasn’t learned yet.
Need isn’t love and hurt isn’t love and his way of needing her isn’t enough.
It’s not enough but it’s all they have.
Lena straightens up in her bed and lets herself listen cautiously as he starts in on an old-worn story. Rick Wilde is up to his neck covered in debts, you see. He’s broke out of his ass and there’s the rent to pay and they’re gonna come for him, they’re gonna kill him, and she can find it in herself to help him, can’t she? You understand, don’t you, Lena? I miss you and I need you. She says she doesn’t have that kind of money.
She can’t ask for it, either. She’s still proving herself again. Thanks to him.
Come on. Help your old boyfriend out, it’s not like you’ve never stolen before.
It takes her only a minute to understand what he’s asking of her.
“I don’t—you can’t—” Lena will later punish herself for sounding so small and meek.
She’s stronger than that now. She doesn’t need him anymore.
(But she does.)
“I don’t do that anymore.” Not unless it was already stolen first. She’s working at the Crowbar now. They do good things. “I’m not—I am not that person anymore.” If she was still that person they wouldn’t love her. They wouldn’t let her stay here. She’s not.
She’s not.
Even as she’s saying these words Lena knows she can’t refuse him. She hasn’t in the past and she won’t this time.
“Lena. You’re the only one I trust. Please. You gotta help me.”
And you can walk away from your past, but it’s not always possible to walk away from the people that were a part of it. Not for good.
Not when they ask for your help.
Not when they’re at the edge and you’ve been there, too.
As much as Lena likes to forget what she’s done, she can never really escape who she’s been—who she can still be—and where she once came from. A part of her will always carry that with her. She can’t escape the fact she was in a band of thieves. She can’t escape that she’s done terrible things and is capable of even more than stealing. She can’t escape she was once in love with this man and she was all he had.
Lena Austen was once an accomplished thief, and it’s easy to forget when it’s lost in bright smiles and cheerful dispositions. It’s easier to show happiness than it is to show pain.
She tells herself it doesn’t matter. The Lena that would steal, the Lena that’s hurt others and herself, that’s a different Lena, not the one she is now.
It’s with hastened movements that Lena gets dressed, and she’s barely slid into her jeans when she’s moving toward the stairs. The sun has not come up when she steps outside of the bar, and once she makes it to the motel he specified, she finds she can’t get her feet to move. She can’t, for the life of her, take a step forward. Her limbs are shaky, and the feeling—the self-loathing and the doubt and the dread—is so familiar she almost turns around and leaves.
Her lungs are failing her, and courage is failing her, and she has to remember to keep breathing. You’re not that person anymore, Lena, she tells herself as her knuckles remain poised against the wooden door. You don’t miss him. You don’t miss any of it.
She still can’t bring herself to knock.
It’s all wrong. All of this, it’s wrong. This isn’t her life anymore; she doesn’t have to be here. She left it behind, she left and tried not to look back, how is it she ends up back here, and by choice, at that?
Her worlds have bled into each other and she wants them as separate as possible.
But you have to choose.
And yet.
Yet.
What if he ends up dead?
What if they really kill him this time, and he’s reached out to her, and she turned away from him? What if he can still be saved?
It turns out she doesn’t have to knock. The door is unlocked, and she pushes it open a fraction.
The smell of nicotine and absinthe pervades throughout the room. He’s barely standing, swaying to the side, and he reaches for her hand to pull her into the room.
“I knew you’d come,” he says, and it almost sounds like a victory.
He’s holding a bottle of whiskey and lifts it in her direction, stumbling toward her.
She hates herself just a little bit more when she reaches for it.