forthsofar | in days to come when your heart feels undone

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caleb

in days to come when your heart feels undone

At first, she'd given that late-night text from Caleb--a friend in trouble, Caleb okay but out of school for the week--a healthy amount of sympathy, but no real concern. She sought out Clint in the senior hallway and divvied up the task of collecting assignments and notes from Caleb's classes, ignoring to the best of her ability the vague sniggers about sex cults she overheard from a few of the other members of the team as she walked away.

It was all working rather smoothly, with very little room for worry--until she stopped by Caleb's apartment that night and actually saw him. Whatever had happened, it left him drawn and tired, something almost lost behind his eyes. Rosie hadn't pried, despite the flurry of questions that rose to her mind, just handed over the collected assignments and made the appropriate vague noises of sympathy before he pushed the front door slowly shut again. Still, the sight was enough to make her worry, to increase that faint concern from before to something far harder to ignore.

Clint had agreed to drop things off the next two days, leaving Rosie time to think--and to plan. By Thursday, she had at least the seed of an idea, something that might provide Caleb with a little more comfort after a situation that had so clearly rattled him. She got Clint's half of the assignments from him after school, then stopped by the small market a few blocks from Candlewood to pick up a few additional things before heading home.

That night, she loads everything into a few tote bags she and Neil had picked up from one Darrow event or another and heads downstairs. She knocks once, twice, then tries the knob, finding it unlocked and barging in before she can quite stop herself.

"It's just me," she calls, nudging the door shut with her foot.

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From everything she's told him so far, Caleb thinks that he has an idea of the kind of daughter Rosie's parents wanted her to be. He's heard only whispers of the rumors at school — the team know Rosie's his friend, so they don't talk about her around him — so to him, they're just rumors. He frowns a little more, watching her, feeling her feelings, and he reaches out to place a gentle hand on her wrist.

"You're not a bad daughter," he says. A part of him regrets it immediately. He's supposed to be careful about the shit he says, be more tactful, but. Rosie's worried about that, under everything. That she's not a good daughter because she's not doing exactly what her parents want. So maybe she just needs to hear it.

She'd come over to make sure he was alright after whatever had happened with--or to--his friend, and as Caleb's hand comes to rest along her wrist Rosie's briefly embarrassed at how their positions had reversed. What he says both surprises her and doesn't; even though she hadn't said it in so many words, she supposes that between whatever feelings he's getting from her and the shift in their conversation, it wouldn't have been a hard thing to guess.

"I'm almost certain they wouldn't see it that way," she says quietly, moving just enough to lean against him a bit without disturbing the position of their hands on the countertop. "But thank you."

"You're welcome," he mumbles, maybe blushing a little. "But I mean it. You're not. There's no way." He nudges against her, gently, and tips his head to look at her. "Anyway, they're not here, so you don't have to worry about what they think of you right now. All you've gotta worry about is what you think of you." He huffs a little laugh, because, fuck, he sounds like a fucking fortune cookie, or something.

Lamest fortune ever.

"They're not here," she echoes. There's still a twinge of sadness behind it, because for all that they'd never really understood one another, they were still her parents; that still meant something, even years in the future and an entire world away from anything they would've seen as familiar. "But there are plenty of people who are, people who've become a bit like family anyway, and...that's better." Rosie looks up at Caleb, a steadier, stronger smile on her face as she leans into him, drawing as much reassurance from the contact as the things he's said.

Even the ones that are slightly ridiculously phrased.

"Okay, I'm owed at least a few questions," she says, straightening up again, her gaze going far away and thoughtful as she considers what to ask. "How many other empaths did you know, back home? Or other people with...powers, or abilities, whatever you want to call it. I suppose not everyone's got the same ability, unless they all do where you're from."

It was the wrong thing to say, but Rosie isn't upset. There's a guitar-string twang of sadness that vibrates the same way it does when Caleb thinks of his own family — well, okay, maybe not the same way. Caleb has a better relationship with his parents and sister than Rosie does with her family. But the feeling is similar, anyway. She misses them, because they're her family. Found-family is good, too, but it'll never be quite the same.

He smiles when she moves on, and he feels that curiosity bubble down his arms again, so he settles in for the serious stuff.

"Nah, everyone's got a different ability," he assures. "I've only met a few other Atypicals. That's what we're called: Atypicals. I know, um... a telepath. She can read minds, like... so fast. She'll carry on whole conversations with you and you don't even have to say a word, she just. Responds to your thoughts. It's cool, but can be a little overwhelming." Fuck, he misses Chloe. "Then, she has a friend who can travel through time? Like, literally, go back in time, anywhere she wants. I guess she can't do anything. It's like she's stuck behind a curtain, she can just observe. And then there's this guy who can copy any Atypical's power. So when he's around, we get this sort of empathy feedback loop. He feels what I feel, and I feel him feeling what I feel, and then he feels that, and it sort of... snowballs?"

He's talking a lot, but Rosie isn't bothered. She's fascinated, and it's so cool to feel that, he can't help but want to continue.

But that means bringing up Damien, and...

He looks down at his hand. He still has a tiny scar on his knuckle, where he'd broken the skin against Damien's teeth, but the break has long since healed. The nightmares still visit, undercut and tangled with nightmares about Michael and Alex. He takes a bracing breath and finally continues.

"And then there's Damien," he says. His voice is weighty, warning, and he looks at Rosie to give her a chance to process not only what he's said, but what she's about to hear.

The term Atypicals strikes Rosie as a little cold even if it is accurate--Caleb and the other people he describes aren't typical, at least compared to what Rosie herself always thought of as normal before she discovered Anterwold or Darrow--but she doesn't dwell on it for too long. Not when Caleb's so eagerly sharing so much. His excitement fuels her own, or maybe the other way around, and she hangs eagerly on every word.

"That's amazing," she says when he pauses for breath. "I mean, I'm sort of a time traveler being from 1960 and all, but that's different than being able to control it." One side of her mouth lifts in a wry little smirk. "Not sure I'd want to read people's thoughts, though. If I had to pick."

Engrossed though she is, Rosie doesn't miss the heavy shift in Caleb's tone when he continues on, nor that glance down at his hand. She thinks back to his first day in the city, the first time they'd met; the scrapes and blood along his knuckles and the awkward splint he'd worn for weeks afterwards. It feels like another thing sliding into place, and her eyebrows draw down just slightly. "Damien," she repeats. "Who has...something else he can do? Not empathy, or time travel, or any of the rest?"

Caleb bites his lip and nods. "Yeah, he, um. His ability is sort of like mind control. It's not, not really. He can... make you want to do things. Usually, things he wants, so it feels a lot like mind control, but... it's more like reverse empathy. Instead of feeling the things people want, people feel the things he wants, and..." He shrugs and shakes his head. "You can't tell, at first, y'know? That's the worst part. You don't know it's not you until it's over."

He thinks back to that night, the way he'd felt his whole body stand stock still against his own wishes. The way the anger had overwhelmed the want that wasn't his. The way Adam had been so scared, but still obeying Damien's ability.

He thinks about the way he'd rushed forward, fist colliding with dull, fleshy thuds against Damien's face, his side, his stomach.

He clears his throat. Enough of that.

"A-anyway, there's this whole organization, I guess, back home? They keep an eye on Atypicals and... sometimes it's not always good, so I'm not supposed to tell anyone about my ability. I don't... think they're here? But I don't actually know."

To say she thinks about that night she'd confronted Nick--or not Nick, just the thing wearing his face and slinking around in his body--would be inaccurate. Even all these months later, there's a gap, something her mind skitters away from just as she's about to grasp the edges and pull it into view. What Caleb describes in talking about Damien isn't quite the same, maybe, but it's close enough.

"That sounds horrible," she says at last, snagging her lower lip in her teeth for a moment before letting it go again. "To doubt your own mind like that."

Caleb takes a breath and moves on, and Rosie tries to do the same, nodding faintly at what he says next. "Well, I'm not going to tell anyone," she says. "Even if they're not here. And not always good doesn't sound particularly encouraging anyway."

"Thanks," he says when she promises not to tell anyone. He smiles a little, then shrugs and says, "Anyway, um. New question, please?" He laughs, trying to brush it off, but he doesn't like talking about Damien or the AM.

He'd expected that, and it's his own fault for bringing them both up, but there's a big part of him that also wants to make sure Rosie knows about them, just in case they show up the way he did. Fuck, the idea of Damien in Darrow is terrifying in its own right.

"Absolutely," she says, because she doesn't need any kind of ability to see how uncomfortable Caleb is at the turn in the conversation. After checking the time on her phone, she slides off her chair once more, taking another empty pot to the sink and starting to fill it with water as she thinks of what to ask next.

"What about Adam?" Rosie glances back at him, something gently understanding in her expression. "Not that we have to talk about him either, if you don't want, but is he Atypical too, or just..." She laughs, turning the water off. "Typical? Like the rest of us."

"No," he answers. "He's just your standard issue non-Atypical human." He smiles to think about him, even if it is a little sad. "But, he knew about my ability. I wanted him to, before we became a thing. It didn't feel right to keep that from him, y'know? Dr. Bright, too. She's my therapist back home. She works with a lot of Atypicals, but she isn't one, herself. She's the one who helped me figure out how to balance my empathy."

He laughs a little ruefully.

"I wish I had my phone from home. I'd show you pictures of him. Adam, I mean." There's a part of him that's afraid to admit it, but he's starting to forget the finer details of Adam's appearance. He can see the freckles, and the hair, and his eyes, but. The edges are starting to blur.

"It would've been a big thing to keep from him," she agrees, setting the pot of pasta water on another burner before turning it on. "From anyone you loved." Anterwold wasn't as big or dangerous a secret as Caleb's ability--as far as she knows nobody's keeping an eye on her because of it, here or there--but she's been careful about who she's told, waiting until there was understanding and trust and a particular kind of closeness. It only made sense.

Leaning against the edge of the counter, Rosie smiles softly. "I'd have liked to see what he looks like," she says. "If you'd had your phone." She doesn't say anything about hoping Adam will show up in Darrow one day, not wanting to spoil Caleb's mood, but the wish is still there at the back of her mind.

He watches her, sorting out the things she's feeling. Then he smiles again, another sad one, and shrugs one shoulder.

He doesn't know exactly what she's thinking, but he can guess. She wants something, for him, but she doesn't want to upset him. There's that slight protective feeling coming from her, that she wants to take care of him, and between the two things, he can guess what it is. She wants Adam to be here, for his sake, but she doesn't want to say so, because she doesn't want to upset him.

"Me, too," he says. "I... I want him here, too."

"It's still odd how you can do that," she says, her tone a little lighter, trying to bring them both out of where they'd sunk. "Make a guess at what I'm thinking, because of how I feel, and be right."

She goes quiet and thoughtful, something companionable in the silence that falls between them. They were already friends, and close, but tonight's felt like something deepening between them. It's nice.

"I'm not always right," he says with a little shrug. "When people are feeling something for me, like, on my behalf, it's a little easier to figure out. Context helps, too. If you'd just suddenly started feeling that way when we were talking about, I dunno, school, or something, I wouldn't get it. I'd have to ask you. I... I do that, sometimes. Ask people why they're feeling what they're feeling. I hope that's okay."

If she doesn't want him to, he'll try not to, but it'll be harder not to, now that she knows about his ability. He won't feel obligated to keep quiet about emotions around her.

Rosie pauses to give the idea some genuine thought, the kind it deserves. There is something oddly intimate about Caleb knowing her in a way that not even Nick or Sabrina could manage even with all their magic, and it's fascinating and a little frightening all at once. She could say no, and Caleb would respect it; even without any abilities to speak of, Rosie knows that without question. It makes answering him easy.

"You can ask me," she says. "As long as it's okay if I don't always want to tell you why."

"Yeah, no, of course," he says.

He watches her, though, because he can feel that fear, buried deep and small — not because she's trying to hide it, but because she's not afraid. Not really. It... it feels like when someone sees something they've never seen before. It's huge and new and fascinating, and a little scary, too, in its newness.

She trusts him too much to be fully afraid.

When he realizes that, his eyebrows unfurl from the gentle, concerned furrow they've been in, and he smiles.

"Cool," he says, maybe a little bashfully.

"What?" she says, laughing a little at how shy and pleased Caleb looks all of a sudden. The water's reached a rolling boil, and she turns away, plucking the lid off the pot and opening up the box of pasta, sliding about half of the long noodles inside into the hot water.

"Your turn again," she says. "As long as there's more you wanted to ask me."

"No, I just," he says, and shrugs bashfully. "You trust me. That's... that's cool. I mean, it's nice." He watches her dump the noodles in, breathing in the smell of the sauce and the steam rising from the noodles as they sink into the water.

"I can't really think of anything," he admits with a little laugh. "So, I guess if you wanna keep going?"

"Of course I trust you," she says, giving the noodles a brief stir as they soften, letting the bubbling water cover them completely. "And I believe you, and you believe me, and..." Rosie smiles, shaking her head a little. "Darrow's such an odd place, but I'm really glad we're both here. And that we're friends."

She echoes Caleb's small, soft laugh, her brow furrowing a little as she tries to think of something to ask. When the idea comes, it's not about secrets or powers or anything mysterious at all. "What was your favorite thing, back home? Not about being an empath, necessarily, just...as you, Caleb."

"Definitely playing Quidditch with Alice," he says without even needing to think about it. "Or, sometimes just being in that green place." He realizes she probably has no idea what that means, so he explains, "Adam's feelings are blue. Mine are yellow. We... make green, and... it's nice." That's an understatement, and he knows she knows it, because his voice is soft and sweet and warm when he says it, cheeks coloring a little.

She gives him a confused frown when he first mentions the green place, and for a moment she thinks of Anterwold, wooded and lovely and bathed in a sunlight that hadn't felt real even when she was standing in it. What he describes is better than that, sweeter and more meaningful, and Rosie's faint frown turns into a much steadier grin. "You compliment each other, or...blend together," she says. "Like some kind of...soulmates sounds ridiculous, maybe, like something from a storybook, but it's not such a bad word for it."

Blushing a little too, she ducks her head, wishing she'd said something a bit less silly. "And what was the other thing? Quidditch, right? What's that?"

"Oh, yeah," he says, recovering a little from her reaction to his explanation. Fuck, he misses Adam. "It's a sport, from a book series my sister and I like. It's not real, the author made it up, but there's all these rules and stuff, so we played it together. You're supposed to ride flying brooms, but..." He shrugs with a grin. "We made do."

"All those people with all those abilities, and not one of you has the power to fly?" Rosie teases, giving him a laughing, pointed look. "I'm terribly disappointed."

They'd talked a little about their families before, hanging out at school or when one of them had been over at the other's to work on something for French class, and there's something nice about this added bit of information. Rosie and her own brother had interests too separate from one another--whether by choice or circumstance, she didn't know--to have the kind of closeness it seemed Caleb and Alice had, but that had been the way of things at home, in her own time. He did the things boys did, and she took on more girlish pursuits, and that's how it ought to be.

"It sounds absolutely ridiculous," she says after a moment. "But a lot of fun."

He grins and shakes his head. "No, like, it's about this school in England, where witches and wizards learn how to cast spells and stuff, and they've got this whole culture all their own, completely separate from Muggles — that's, that's what they call non-magical humans, is Muggles." He stops suddenly, eyes widening. "Oh, shit. Atypicals should totally find a word to call non-Atypicals!"

in days to come when your heart feels undone

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