hold me really tight (until the stars look big) - II

Part I
Part II


Jael looks at Tate, hesitates and then turns to Mica. "How many weeks far are you, now...?" she asks, even though she knows, because she's been counting.

Mica smiles a bit awkwardly, unsure why the girl asks about it while she had mental breakdowns over it a few hours ago. 'Almost twenty weeks,' she says, but can't help but sound a little proud. 'I'm... not really big yet, but the doctor said I'd be growing a lot soon, because I've got two instead of one...' She looks at her stomach, hidden by Tate's shirt, and frowns.

Jael smiles a little. "You're beautiful. I mean—Your stomach grows really beautiful, I didn't—" She laughs a bit, her cheeks flustering with a shy blush.

Mica laughs, loudly, reaches out to pat Jael's hand comfortingly. 'Thanks,' she says, smiling. 'I appreciate it.'

Jael looks at Tate, wants to say something to him, but she has no idea what. Instead, she just looks away and takes a bite from the pizza. "Does the doctor have any idea what they're going to be...?" she asks Mica, hoping to distract herself a little from her feet being just inches away from Tate's.

'I went to the doc a few days ago and he knows, but I don't want to know. I just... I just want it to be a surprise, I guess. There's a seventy percent chance they're dyzygotic, though, since they don't share placentas,' Mica says, smiling softly.

Jael smiles too, eyes wandering off to the pizza on her plate, that suddenly doesn't seem so tasty anymore. She pokes the plate with her finger. "I um—You don't have to hide your belly for me," she says, quietly. "I don't want you to have to do that because I'm around. That's—That's bullshit."

Mica turns red, fingers funbling with the hem of the shirt when she nods. 'I just didn't want to make you uncomfortable, that's all,' she mumbles.

Jael shakes her head a little. "It's okay." She cuts a piece off the pizza, hand already traveling to her mouth as her phone starts to beep. She freezed, hand in the air. The ringtone is unmistakable.
"That's my mom," she breathes.

Mica's eyes shoot to Tate's, who only looks mildly surprised.
'Well, we should've expected that, to be honest,' he offers a bit strained, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips.

Jael hesitates at first, but then shoves her chair backwards and runs for the phone.
Her fingers are trembling as she picks up, voice wavering as she says: "Hi, mom..."
"Darling! Oh, sweetheart, I'm so happy to hear your voice!" Her mother is clearly very relieved to be speaking to her.
She smiles a little. "Yeah, it's been a while."
"Happy birthday, sweetie. Your father and I have missed you very much," her mother babbles while Jael puts the phone on speaker so Tate and Mica can listen to what's being said. She's standing with her back turned towards them.
"Thanks, mom... I miss you too," she says, genuinely, still a bit nervous, while putting the phone on the counter so she doesn't have to hold it.
"When will you visit us? Could you visit us today? Your dad and I both have taken a day off, it doesn't have to be long."
She's quiet for a moment, then says, voice silent: "I'm not in California anymore. I'm in New York. With friends."
There's a brief silence, and Jael's father's voice in the background. "New York," her mom then says, clearly a bit taken aback. "Why New York? Honey, please tell me you aren't with Denny—"
Jael's breath hitches and she hesitates, slowly turns towards Tate and Mica. Her cheeks are wet with tears. "No, I'm not." She stares directly at Tate. "Mom, I've had—I've had time to think, I've been having too much time to think, and I'm just—You were right about him. You and dad—Denny is—He's a dick. Forgive me my words. But he is, and I'm not going back to him. I'm not—I'm with other friends. Emma, and Hale."
There's a sigh at the other end of the line, a relieved one. "I'm glad to hear that, darling. Have you been with them all the time? I haven't met them, haven't I?"
Jael smiles a little. "No, you haven't. They've been—They've been good to me." She averts her eyes. "I'm having a great time. New York is—it's a wonderful place to be."
"Are you going to come home soon, Jael?" her mother asks, pleads.
"I don't—I don't think so," Jael says, quietly. "I need some time, to sort things out. I miss you, though. And I miss dad too. Tell him, okay?"
"Oh, honey, honey—she's talking to you." Her mom's voice wears away a little and then the phone is handed to her father.
"Happy birthday, sweetheart," he says, clearly emotional. She can hear the tears in his voice.
"Thanks, dad..." she mutters, not really knowing what else to say.
"I know it's probably not the best birthday gift, but um—" Again, there's a short silence, and then her father surprises her: "I'm going into therapy. I promised your mother, she threatened to divorce me if I didn't." He tries to sound jokingly, but he fails.
Jael falls silent, pushing her nails into the palms of her hand. "Really...?" she breathes.

Mica stares at her plate, the fingers of her right hand clenched around the hem of her shirt still. Tate grabs it and slowly unfolds her fingers from their deathgrip on the fabric, squeezes her hand comfortingly. They both don't want to hear this, don't want to hear Jael talk to her parents like they've been good to her, like she's thankful they've taken her away from home and to New York City, like she's seen anything besides the inside of the apartment and the books books books on the shelves in her room.

"It's the least I could do to make things a little bit better. It's probably very distant over the phone, but Jael, I want you to know that I am sorry for what I did to you that night. Do you understand that?" Her father speaks slowly and empathetically, like he always does when he wants to convince her of something.
"Yes, I do..." Jael mutters, refusing to look at either Tate or Mica. "I'm sorry I put you through that. Not knowing where I was." Over time she learned to lie to her parents, and she did it so often it comes natural now, but it hurts, and it's visible by the way she stands, a bit crouched, shoulders tense.
"It's okay, sweetheart, let's put that behind us." She can hear how he's smiling, probably happy that she forgave him for what he did—again. "Now, there's another thing..." 
"Is this the right time, dear...?" comes her mom's voice from the background.
"It's probably never the right time. Jael, you need to sit down, alright?" Her father sounds determined and her heart starts to pound. She takes the phone off the counter and slowly sits down at the dinner table again. Her hands are trembling as she puts the phone on the table top.

Tate's hand stills in Mica's, breath stuck in throats, air sucked out of the room leaving nothing but white-hot tension and the echo of her fathers words, soft but deliberate.

Jael slowly takes in a deep breath. "I'm sitting down," she says, voice unstable, clasping her hands in her lap. Her shoulders are tense and she's chewing her lip nervously.
"Kyle's been released out of prison, based on good behaviour," her father says, slowly, carefully.
It's like the world drops around her and for moments there's only loud ringing in her ears. "No," she exclaims, then, loudly. "No, that's not possible. He's not supposed to get out for another three months! He's not—He can't—"
"Jael, please calm down," her father tries. "He's got a tracking device, they check on him every six hours, you're going to be fi—"
"No, they can't let him go! He's going to come look for me, he's going to find me, he's going to—to kill me! He swore he'd kill me! Dad, you can't—" She starts to cry.

Mica's frozen on her spot, pizza cooling down on the plates, forgotten, Jael's voice ringing in her ears. Tate gets up, but she barely feels his hand leave hers, eyes trained on Jael and the way her hands shake like she's going to fall apart, like she doesn't know she's a person but feels like fragile china instead. Mica waits for her to fall and break.
Tate picks up the phone, takes it of speakerphone, says 'That was really smooth, thanks,' to Jael's father and hangs up.

Jael jumps from her chair as soon as Tate starts moving, stumbles back. Her eyes are wide with fear, and she trips over her own feet, grabbing the counter to keep herself standing. She keeps hearing Kyle's voice, keeps hearing the cutting words, I'm going to kill you, you're going to pay, sees the flicker of his knife and tries to scream, but her voice falters as she sinks to her knees.

Tate knows a panic attack when he sees one, and it scares him a bit that he now recognises the glazed over look in her eyes so effortlessly, but he doesn't act on that, he just moves quick and deliberate, eyes focused on her and her movements, looking for sharp things, edges of tables, cabinets, where she can hurt herself on.

Jael cringes, throwing her hands forward as she thinks Tate is Kyle, and that he's going to hurt her, that he's going to kill her. She pleads, soft, high pitched please don't please don't kill me's, creeping back until she can't go any further, until her back hits the cabinet. She's quivering, she's terrified.

Tate grabs her hands and puts them on his chest, knowing he wont be able to get behind her to help her without her having a fit. He talks to her, quietly, softly, letting her feel the rhythm of his breaths with her fingertips, the rise of his chest against her palms.

Jael tries to pull her hands away, still seeing Kyle, still hearing his voice, his threaths, his laughter. "Let me go, let me go," she begs him, hands trembling against his. And then there's Tate's heartbeat and his steady breathing and his voice, but her fear doesn't go away, it doesn't fade. "He's going to find me," she sobs, "he's going to kill me, he's going to—he's going to kill me, I can't—"

'He's not going to find you,' Tate says. 'He's not going to find you,and he's not going to kill you. You are safe.' He heaves in a breath, then exhales steadily. 'You are safe.'

Jael tries to breathe with him, like she always tried to remember when she was alone, going through things like this. Her breathing goes shakily, but steadier, and she's slowly relaxing, her hands on Tate's chest. She can feel his heartbeat, his muscles. He's warm, and he's safety, and she wants nothing more than feel these arms around her, but she doesn't act upon it.
She lets her hands slip away from him, not wanting to take advantage of the situation. "I'm sorry," she whispers, shaking her head a little. "I'm so sorry."

'You have nothing to be sorry for,' Mica says resolutely from her place at the dining table, loud and clear, before Tate can open his mouth and say exactly that.
'You've been in contact with some annoying, homicidal assholes and now they won't leave you alone, and you're afraid. That's natural.'

Jael keeps shaking her head. "No, I—I didn't—I didn't mean for that." She looks at Tate, eyes filled with tears. "I meant for everything else." Her voice is barely audible. She's still trembling, still scared, still fucked up.

Tate shakes his head. 'You-'
'What's everything else?' Mica asks, interrupting him.

Jael looks at her, at Tate, then averts her eyes. "For making you think I'm brushing you off. I didn't. I promise I didn't—" She stops, inhales shakily. "It's such a mess..."

Tate frowns. 'I don't—I don't understand.'

Jael doesn't look up. "You think I rejected you." She plays with her fingers, nervously, still sitting there on the ground with Tate in front of her.

Tate doesn't take notice of a door opening and closing, the table now empty aside from two plates, and nods. 'You did,' he says.

"I didn't." Jael looks up now, wants to touch him, to take his hand, to brush her fingertips over his cheek, to kiss him, but she doesn't. "I didn't, Tate."

'Well, you didn't really tell me you had the same feelings, either,' Tate sneers, hurt too fresh in his veins too look at this like it is.

Jael swallows back her tears. "Did you forget everything that happened before I ruined all of this...? Because I didn't. I kissed you—twice." She shakes her head a little. "And I'd do it again."

Tate swallows, shakes his head. 'We don't—I don't... What is this? Is it Stockholm syndrome? Is it—Is it real? Or is this a way to get out, to escape? I don't—You don't—'

Jael averts her eyes. Of course he wouldn't believe her. She smiles bitterly. "Just—forget I said it." Her voice wavers a little and she surpresses the urge to sob. "It doesn't matter, just forget it." She scrambles to her feet and smoothes her clothes.

'This is exactly what I'm talking about!' Tate sighs while walking away, loud enough for her to hear. 'You kiss me, but you hate me. This can't—The chances of this working out are extremely low.'

Jael's anger is too much to keep hidden. "Why the fuck do you think I hate you?! Do you honestly think I meant that?! Yes, I hate how you one moment tell me you want to kiss me and the next you ask me if whatever I feel is real! You're right, the chances of this working out are zero." She clenches her fists and then drops her shoulders.

Tate groans. 'I researched it, you know,' he says, voice calm and even, like he doesn't have any emotions at all. He sounds hollow. 'Stockholm syndrome, I mean.' He inhales deeply. 'Hostages who mistake a lack of abuse from their captors for an act of kindness and then develop positive feelings towards them.' He spits the words out like venom, like they're burning his throat, like they itch on his tongue. 'The mind is protecting the hostage from the trauma of becoming a victim, by forming bonds between the kidnapper and the hostage, to get them on even ground.' He shudders. 'I do not want you to develop any feelings for me just because I don't beat you to an inch of your life, Jael. I refuse to act until I know that this—that this is real.'

Jael feels crippled, pained. Desperate. Powerless. "I don't know how to prove it to you." She sounds empty. "I don't know how to prove to you that what I feel for you is because you are Tate Hale, not because you are my kidnapper that doesn't abuse me, not because I mistake your lack of abuse for kindness, because I know that whatever you did to and for me was out of kindness. Because you are no abusive kidnapper, Tate. But I don't know how to prove that to you." She stands there feeling as if he beat the life out of her, in fact. She feels done. "So I guess that's it."

Tate nods shakily. 'I guess that's it.'

Jael looks away. "I'm sorry I hurt you." She gives Polar a last brush over his ears and then slips back into her room.

~ Sunday, April 5th, 08.30 AM ~

Waking up early has never really been Mica's forte, especially not on Sundays, since those always happened to be her days of. She hasn't worked since Vinnie left her, but—semantics. So when Tate (the bastard) wakes her up around half past eight, she's just about as coherent as a dead sloth, and really, if she was awake and in control over her limbs, she so would've punched him in the face. But instead, she makes vague mnghmrph noises and pulls the covers over her head and tells Tate he can go "fuck his own urethra", which seems to be really hard to do since that particular urethra is inside his dick, but okay, whatever.
It's near 08.45 when she eventually does get out, leaning against the kitchen counter with the biggest mug she could find, filled to the brim with black coffee. Tate makes retching noises when he steals it to take a sip, but really, they've been friends for almost a goddamn decade, he should've known how she takes her coffee by now. She rolls her eyes.
Tate knows really well that all communication with Mica before her third cup of coffee is non-verbal, so when she stares pointedly at Jael's door, he sighs, shrugs and unlocks it. He looks at her, hand on the doorknob, eyebrow raised in a way that seems to ask  do I really need to do this?, but Mica gestures at her mug like do I look like I'm equipped for this? and he sighs before walking into the room.

Jael has been up the entire night, pacing her room, packing her things. Yesterday was a pain. She spent most of it laying in the bath trying not to think about how old the kid would've been by now, or how Denny managed to make her miscarriage a baby that he made her carry with his own sperm. She spent time in the hot water until it turned cold and made sure she didn't have to face either Mica or Tate the whole day, hiding in the bathroom around breakfas and lunchtime. At dinner Mica had told her to pack her things. She still wonders where they are going now.
She's sitting in the windowsill, her sketchbook on her lap, drawing. The sketch is nearly done. It's the view she has from this spot over Central Park. However much she hates this room, she loved watching over the trees. When Tate enters, she doesn't really look at him. She's a bit ashamed of how she looks like. Make-up can't fix everything, sadly enough.

'We're leaving—We're leaving in ninety minutes,' Tate says flatly, like he's some guy in a booth explaining to a customer which movies are playing.

Jael nods, not really allowing herself to give attention to the cold way he's speaking to her. "I'll be ready." She's a little hoarse from exhaustion, but she decides to ignore it and act like nothing is wrong.

'You should—' Tate starts, but he stops himself before he can finish the sentence. 'Wear something comfortable. There's gonna be a plane. And a boat, if everything goes to plan.'

Jael hesitates, but then asks: "Where are we going...?" She closes the sketch book.

Tate shrugs. 'It's near Hawaii,' he provides. 'It's—It's an island.'

Jael is impressed, but she doesn't show it. She just nods, slowly. "Alright..." She smiles a little awkwardly and looks down at her sketchbook.

Tate shifts awkwardly. 'I'd rather have... Please don't tell Mica. It's—The island... It's hers.' He blushes, cheeks and tips of his ears red, shivers down his spine. 'It's... It's too much, I know. I just—' He stares at the ground. He shouldn't have told her. He should have told someone else, if he wanted to tell someone so bad. Mason, for example, who had been his best friend (#2, of course) for ages. He's just fucking stupid in the morning, that's all. 'Just—Just be ready in ninety minutes.' He turns on his heels and leaves.