'The Aftermath' (Beckett Version)

 [Alternate Text: A close-up on a section of a metal barrier that is formed be thin lengths of metal criss-crossing to create interwoven diamonds. It's likely a barrier overlooking a sheer ocean cliff since the sea stretches out in the background, possibly representing more than an enchanting view to some. On the barrier, there are dozens of padlocks left behind by people who visit it.]

This B POV is set during TFS: Book One, Chapter 13 following the MC's failed attempt at leaving Fernweh. It's what happens after B sits down in the middle of the road, devastated.  

For this writing, the MC has high Resistance, so they kept pushing forward when trying to leave town, and is romancing B. Warrick. 🧡

The sun-warmed asphalt can't chase away the chill that's set into Beckett while he remains huddled on the road that's supposed to let you leave. It's the exit out of town—out of this small town with its even smaller-minded citizens and eeriness that belongs in a horror movie! He barely feels the pins-and-needles sensation in his legs from remaining curled inwards for so long.

Like the road's warmth, it escapes him, leaving behind an almost clammy feeling from anxiety.

He's hot and cold.

He wants to cling to you and push you away.

He needs to both scream in frustration and cry because the bad feeling he had was right.

Beckett does none of that, although the soft skin of his cheeks feels tight from the tears that did escape without him meaning for them to. Crying in front of you isn't fair. You instantly followed after him, braving the malicious road in a different way. It isn't right to make you feel bad about any of it.

…But he only came here for you…

That traitorous thought is met with Beckett's fingernails forming crescents in his palms, worryingly deep ones that also don't register. It doesn't redirect his line of thinking, which is a self-betrayal he can't handle now. He'd do anything for you! He swallows down a sob that isn't entirely distressed, his frustration at Fernweh making it have edges that get caught in his throat. Beckett shakily stands up from—

"Bee?"

And, of course, you're standing right there.

Your hand falls short of his forearm to offer help, newfound hesitation threading through an action that should be automatic. That's his fault. When he curled further inwards earlier in a silent refusal of contact, Beckett had heard your inhale and how you actually stepped back for once. He hurriedly finishes standing up.

"Yeah?" Beckett replies, softly clearing his throat. "I think we should go back to town, maybe?"

. . .

The pause is telling along with your searching look of concern, but you're kind enough not to draw attention to Beckett's emotional state. He appreciates it, while also loathing it after his earlier thoughts. You're too good to—for—him.

"We can ask the Dorrans."

He simply nods since his throat feels too tight to give voice to how that seems pretty futile. A magical, looping road defies explanation even if someone as nice as Mrs. Dorran or intelligent as Sofia tries to provide one. A small part of Beckett knows this is your ending, a bad one.

The two of you start the long walk back that's in the complete opposite direction of where all of your plans—your lives—are. It's deathly silent except for the breeze rustling the trees and Waffles whining softly on occasion. Beckett is keeping watch on the forest, while he's able to feel you observing his side profile until it ebbs.

It's familiar for the two of you to communicate through traded glances and the barest of expressions thanks to your strong friendship.

It's how he knows something's wrong now.

You're doing that thing where you're looking at something, yet not truly perceiving it. It's very subtle, a tension that overlays your gorgeous features with an imperceptible strain. There's a certain tightness around your eyes that aren't quite narrowed, whereas your lips are set into a neutral line. What's always most worrisome to Beckett is the distant, borderline hollow look that tells him you're experiencing another migraine. Waffles appears to be leading you now—the leash has become a tether and your steps are slower, less self-assured on the road.

He is acting within seconds, taking your hand in his to offer support that startles you, which is something he'll hate himself for later on.

"Is it your head?" Beckett frets.

"…What?"

You sound a touch distracted, probably too preoccupied by the pain, so he stops walking to instead take your other hand. Now, you're facing each other properly. "Are you hurting?"

"I thought I said it hurt?" you wonder. "This is just aftershocks compared to earlier. Don't worry about me."

Beckett's eyes narrowing has nothing to do with a migraine after you try to reassure him while being unable to completely focus your vision. It spurs him to reach out. His fingers gingerly rest against your cheek to direct your head a little to the left. They linger there, not a hold or a caress, but this isn't a friendly gesture. "That's like asking the sun not to rise, [Nickname]…"

Secretly, he would like to believe his touch is what helps you blink some clarity into your vision, giving you something better to focus on. Beckett skims his fingers lower in search of any drying tears that he might have caused to fall with his actions. He doesn't find any. That would've killed him. As the pause draws on, he rationalizes it's the comfort of your friendship, nothing more, and that it isn't anything less.

He'll always love you as a friend.

"Tell me if you need a break," Beckett murmurs, drawing his hand away. He offers you a brittle and honest half-smile. "If I see you swaying and you didn't tell me first, then you'll never hear the end of it, okay? Waffles agrees with me too."

The dog in question yips quietly after her name is said; maybe she is learning to accept it.

"Okay," you agree. "I'm honestly fine though."

He wishes you'd realize you could sometimes be more than that; however, Beckett nods once.

The two of you continue your walk to town, hand-in-hand, relying on each other again.

. . .

. .

.

The Bed and Breakfast coming into view from its place presiding over the cul-de-sac, injects more vigor into both of your lagging strides.

It's far more welcoming than the town line.

Beckett lets you ring the doorbell while he pets Waffles as an outlet for his nerves about the upcoming talk. Fernweh couldn't be a magical trap, right? He doubts the Dorrans would be complicit in such an act, unless the town only allows some people to leave and you and he aren't on that list. It doesn't make sense! There is a steady undercurrent of dread pulsing through him. He hasn't released your hand yet.

Maybe he should…

It's not weird, right?

Beckett overthinks that until the door swings open.

"My gracious, it's you both again!" Mrs. Dorran happily exclaims. "Did you forget something? Is there something wrong? No, wait, please come in first. It's almost lunch time, if you're hungry?"

Her welcome is beyond warm, which makes it seem further unlikely she's involved, as she ushers you inside of her home and then into the kitchen. Brunch should stand in for lunch and breakfast, but Mrs. Dorran is prepared to make any type of sandwich. "I'm good, thanks."

"What about you, [Name]?" she confirms. "BLT? PB&J? I could rustle up a turkey sub as well."

"I'm also okay, thank you though."

Mrs. Dorran stops showcasing the fresh bread she bought from a farmer's market to join you by the island. Beckett defers to you to interact with your former neighbor-babysitter-friend's mom person. He rocks some on the balls of his feet, antsy and uneasy about what's next, yet he isn't going to demand answers from Mrs. Dorran. The walk has helped him calm down a little, or that could just be the sinking feeling that makes him hold your hand securely.

"We tried to leave, but couldn't… My car broke down again when—"

"I'm so sorry! Rosie will fix it," Mrs. Dorran interjects. "She stands by her work, I know it."

"That's not all. When we tried to leave on foot—yes, I know that wouldn't have worked," you quickly clarify after she frowns briefly in confusion. "We were just trying to leave. The road—it 'looped' back around? It won't let us… Have you tried to? Can you leave Fernweh?"

Mrs. Dorran's frown deepens for a split second in an uncharacteristic expression of puzzled dismay. It's too quick, literally a blink and you'd miss it. Beckett stares as that emotion is smoothed away by a placid quality along with the warmth dwindling from her loving brown eyes. It's… It's like making a gouge in a cake and covering it with buttercream; there's no trace of the mark, just a smooth, uninterrupted surface of sweetness, except Mrs. Dorran is empty. She's empty while smiling serenely.

It's all wrong for someone so kind-hearted.

"Can you leave Fernweh?" you insist. "Please we need to know."

"[Nickname]," Beckett whispers your nickname in warning. "[Name]."

"Why would I ever want to leave my forever home?" Mrs. Dorran wonders in an eerily placid tone, beaming at such a funny question. "It's where we belong."

When you appear ready to say more, Beckett determinedly tugs on your joined hands to create distance between you and this body-snatched Mrs. Dorran. The two of you back up just when Sofia arrives in the threshold, though her slight confusion at your return heightens into alarm when she sees her mother. Of course, she'd know all of her smiles and mannerisms. Sofia stares before her eyes cut to you in a silent demand that's short-lived when she goes to Mrs. Dorran's side.

"Mom?" she tentatively asks. "Mom?"

It's a forced calm that Beckett feels guilty about.

"Sofia, we didn't—"

"Tell me what you did do," she interjects over you. "Now—please now. I need to know."

"We asked her about leaving town," Beckett speaks up. "Uhm, she didn't—couldn't—" How does he begin to describe this to Mrs. Dorran's daughter who's gently clutching her mother's shoulders to get recognition to spark in her eyes? If it was unsettling for him, it's horrifying for her. "I'm sorry."

"Can you leave Fernweh?"

Both Beckett and Sofia sharply turn to stare at you after you pose that question again, except Sofia's expression starts to buckle—to cave. It's at a slower rate than her mother's. Her urgency becomes mired by bafflement that dulls even the concern that was evident a moment ago.

"I… I can't—it isn't—"

Sofia stops formulating a reply when it's too hard to get the words out, but what strikes Beckett is how she still looks to her mom for help—for comfort—for a sign she's okay. Mrs. Dorran continues to smile while her only child is struggling. It's then that Sofia stiltedly looks down at the tile flooring; she can't bear to see Mrs. Dorran like that. Her hands limply fall away from Mrs. Dorran's shoulders, ring-clad knuckles smacking the counter and not getting any reaction. Beckett thinks she's losing the fight.

"Can you?" you press. "Is it possible to leave town? We need to know, Sofia, please."

There is a moment of quiet where the tension slowly empties from Sofia's face. She is gone.

"Why should I want to leave?" she asks in that same eerily placid tone of voice, looking at her shoes. "It's where we both belong."

Mrs. Dorran stares at the spot you no longer occupy, while her daughter stares down at the ground. Both of them are eerily tranquil, all smiles and absent of any tension. The two of you broke the Dorrans in their own kitchen.

He can't stand the sight—it's too creepy.

"We're leaving," Beckett decides. His pull on your arm meets resistance while you're struck by what happened to your former neighbors—what your questioning just did to them. It almost seems like you're mildly disoriented from the shock of it, but he'll be there for you. "Waffles."

The dog follows after him, while he guides you out of the kitchen with a rarely used authority.

He stops by the makeshift lobby to grab both his old room key and the master key without pause. You're saying something. Beckett's too intent on safety to worry about it. Everything else is muffled and muted as his nerves and self-preservation kick in. He isn't safe; more importantly, you aren't safe. It's unacceptable.

His dread has turned sickening.

His grip on your hand is accidentally punishing; however, you're the only reason he's keeping it together. He hasn't heard any footsteps from the kitchen area. They must still be like drones or zombies, standing there vacantly with that emptiness that could consume anyone. The answer is clear: you won't be leaving Fernweh.

It's all wrong. It's likely evil. It's definitely scary.

What if you'll become a husk just like—?

Beckett throws open the door to Rainforest Respite, hurriedly shutting it and then stalling when his hand is shaking too much with the key. He quietly curses. It won't line up—the tip won't align, which is easier than all of the key's ridges. He's messing up something so simple!

Gloria isn't here to be extra patient with him.

You're here, but he's trying to protect you.

"Beckett."

You take the key from him and lock the door in a single try before collecting his hand again.

"…I want to move the dresser," Beckett quietly admits. "I—I don't think it's their fault. It just—it'll make me feel better if it's only us for now."

You don't even try to question him, taking one side of the dresser and barricading the door.

He loves you for that.

"What else?" you ask. "What else will make you feel better?"

Beckett doesn't verbally answer you, stepping close and then wrapping you up in a hug that's both desperate and comforting. He welcomes your arms around him. His hands nearly bunch up your clothes to form handholds he can knot and tangle his fingers in to never ever let you go, but he catches himself. Beckett hides his face, allowing himself to sag into you because 'relaxing' isn't an option now. The realization of your failed departure from this town ending in a permanent stay chills him.

It's so much worse than he thought.

You hold him through it all, and he holds onto you.

It's then that Beckett fiercely resolves that Fernweh will never take you away from him.