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THAT MAKES THE BOTH OF US, THEN
CW: Mentions of attempted infanticide in the latter half of the chapter.
Harry Mason reluctantly wrenched an eye open when he heard his stalwart alarm clock beep at him relentlessly.
Grunting as he reached over to smack the button on top of the clock to shut it up, he caught the 7:30 AM in the corner of his eye and rolled back over onto his spine, thrusting a palm over his abdomen. He cast a weary gaze at the speckled ceiling above and tossed away the blankets tangled around his legs with a huff.
He felt the bones of his back crinkle in protest when he sat up, and another grunt escaped his sealed lips. Harry held his slumping posture for a moment, blinking vacantly at the Bachelor’s degree he had hanging up above the broken-down TV in his room. He was suddenly compelled by the sight and gingerly stepped out of bed to wander near it, the wistful nostalgia dancing in his exhausted eyes growing faster as he approached the wall.
The words were blurry from his vantage point, but he could easily infer what they said on the framed paper. He felt his chest constrict in protest at the sight of the very obviously written-in “Harrold'' that was glued on top of his deadname. It brandished its stark printer paper sheen against the off-white card of the diploma. Before the upheaval, he had found refuge in the excuse that they had just misspelled Harrold as Harold or something similar if anybody came into his room and noticed the discrepancy, but it tore at him that he couldn’t be Harrold when he walked across the stage.
It tore at him that he couldn’t be Harrold now.
Down his dark brown eyes went, and he propped his right elbow up with his left hand. He pressed a knuckle into his lips when he read his major and minor:
English Literature and Native American Studies.
Harry hummed wryly and threaded his fingers through his hair, catching them in the tangles near the ends. There was a particular knot when passed through that tugged on his scalp, and when he dared move his fingers down further, pain shot throughout his head. Harry winced, and a frown was quick to form on his face in the wake of a pained grimace.
He barely got any sleep last night. He was tired. He was aching. He was irritated. Harry wasn’t sure how good of a day this would turn out to be…
But he had to hold out for Heather. He knew that he could. She always made even his worst days better.
“Alright. Alright, alright...” Harry busied himself with picking out today’s outfit in the closet just a few steps to the right of the decorum he was ruminating over. “Should I go with black, blue, or with…?” Leafing through his collection of knitted tops, he was quick to speed past the dreaded cardigan before settling on a nice and easy knitted blue v-neck. He gave it a satisfied smile after he pinched off a few bits of stray lint and placed it at the end of his bed, hanger and all.
He lifted his cargo pants off the floor and gave them a quick shake, and he heard all the trinkets he neglected to take out of its pockets the day prior clink against each other.
“I took my stun-gun out, right?” Harry furrowed his brows as he whirled his head around the room. “Did I? Shit, hang on a minute…” He set his pants down gently and pulled open the drawer of his nightstand when he reached it, and the ballooning worry expanding within him was quick to deflate in his chest. “There you are. Good. Good, good, good.” He gave his forehead a few self-congratulatory knocks with a knuckle and he pulled out the gun, setting it aside his alarm clock.
He resumed putting together his outfit, placing the cargo pants next to the sweater, and he wasted no time adding a folded white t-shirt and plain black socks to the mix from his drawer. Pressing his tongue against his teeth, Harry set his hands on his hips and nodded in satisfaction.
“Right. Time to freshen up.” He gestured with both index fingers pointed and cascaded into the bathroom with ease. He never got over how there was a bathroom in his actual room. It wasn’t luxurious by any means—it was actually incredibly cramped—but still. Still! It did him so many favors.
Harry shot himself a sardonic glance in the mirror when he reached the sink, plucking his toothbrush from the mug sitting on the right-hand side. After wetting the bristles with a quick splash from the tap, he grabbed the toothpaste and squeezed out a bulb of minty blue onto the toothbrush. Another splash and into his mouth it went, brushing away as he allowed himself a good, long stare into the mirror.
Yeesh, the bags under his eyes were heavy today. That wasn't a real shock to Harry, but there was a very small and miniscule part of him that yearned for the reliability of concealer to cover up anything he didn't want to see.
Well, rather, what he didn't want others to see.
Old habits die hard, don't they? Always thinking about the eyes of the many. It was tiring, but ruminating on it any further would make his eyebags worse and bleach his sideburns even grayer than they already were.
He sighed as he scrubbed the molars in the back of his mouth. Harry’s eyes rode up and around the grooved metal of the faucet knobs of his tiny bathroom sink, finding his weary face to be a bit of a hit to his morale. It wouldn’t be wrong to call Harry Mason vain in this respect; he always prided himself on personal upkeep and appearances, and in some cases, it became excessive.
He remembered how Jodie always chided him for it, always saying that he futzed about with his looks too much. He looked handsome. He looked wonderful. It was fine, Harry. One particular incident had her dragging him out of the bathroom by the hand because if Harry dawdled about any further, they were going to be late to dinner with her girlfriends.
Harry spit the toothpaste into the sink basin and ran the water again, and he washed it down the drain. He huffed a bit and shook his head, something rueful claiming his lips. What a handful he was, honestly. It was a miracle she could even stand him.
Tilting his neck side to side, Harry reached for his comb to the left of the sink and began teasing out the knots at the ends of his hair. He never looked forward to this part, always the part after, when he could cleanly and gracefully slip the teeth of his comb through his locks. It had always soothed him.
Poor Heather, though! She didn’t hate anything more than having her hair brushed in the mornings. Harry certainly didn’t begrudge his daughter for that, as he remembers the urgency in which his mamma brushed his own hair as a young child every morning before school.
Simply put, he was very happy when he graduated from that routine, and early at that.
He tried to rectify this with Heather, being as gentle and careful as he possibly could with her hair no matter what time it was during the day, no matter how late they were.
Hm. Her roots were growing in a little bit, weren’t they? Harry remembered when he ran a hand atop her head last night in the kitchen…
“We can worry about that later, Harrold,” he scolded his reflection as he ran the comb through his hair. “If people start to stare for too long, then we’ll start to worry.”
The comb clattered a bit as he tossed it back into its spot. Funny that, worry was what kept him up all night. Worry tended to keep him up most nights, and he wasn't exactly the biggest fan of that.
Opening the cabinet the mirror was affixed on, he thumbed around the bottles of cologne he had and plucked one out of the line, setting it down near the basin. He then grabbed the stick of deodorant situated below on another shelf. Harry wasted no time in applying the anti-perspirant, and once that was finished, he grabbed the cologne bottle and sprayed a few times around his chest and neck. He waited for a few moments until he was sure the fragrance settled, and then spritzed his wrists as well.
“Right,” Harry sighed, nudging the bottle back in its place in the row, “that takes care of that… Oh! Shit, I should wash my face.” He eyed the box of facial soap on the top shelf and was quick to take hold of it. Sliding the washcloth off the rack to his left, he wet the cloth, soap, rubbed the soap into the cloth, and then rubbed the cloth all over his face.
Swiping under his eyes, Harry felt the swell of embarrassment rise in his chest. He liked to be on top of things, and forgetting something so vital to his morning routine was its own slight against himself. Maybe to some, it was minute. It was forgivable. But he cared a lot about this kind of thing. A lot. He rode the cloth across a temple languidly, crossing over his wrinkled forehead and down the other one. It was funny how desperately he wanted to remember the insignificant but forget the damning.
Last night was damning, and to a petrifying degree. He got careless. He’d told that James guy that he was a single father of one. He didn’t need to know that! Not in the slightest! He was a stranger, he scolded himself once more. We don’t talk to strangers, dammit. Number one rule and Harry had dropped it on the ground and shattered it into tiny, miserable little pieces.
He straightened himself out as he gave his reflection a steely glare, soap suds still clinging onto his skin. James was pretty drunk last night, though. Maybe he wouldn’t remember their conversation. Harry beseeched Ussen for some kind of miracle like that to happen as he wrung the washcloth out into the sink. How wonderful would it be if the next time he saw James in therapy, there would be no mention of his raising Heather all by his lonesome…
The guy didn’t seem all that presumptuous, but Harry’s lips twisted at the memory of his insistence that he finish the sentences he started. Sure, the father did trail off that one time, but it was as the man himself said—it wasn’t like his life was any of James’ business. And neither was James’ life! He didn’t need to know why he was drunk on the other end of the phone. There was no reason to get worried about it.
None at all.
Rinsing with lukewarm water, he grabbed a hand towel from the cubby underneath the sink and patted it around his face, sighing once the job was finished.
“Finally, we’re done.”
Wait. Fuck. The moisturizer.
Harry buried his face in the towel, muffling a very indignant groan of annoyance. What a fucking hassle all of this was! He wrenched the cabinet back open and glared daggers at the damned container.
Narrowing his eyes, he wondered which side of him would dictate his course of action: his ego or his laziness? He dug his front teeth into his bottom lip as he delicately removed the container from the shelf it sat on and twisted the lid back and forth. Harry rode searching fingertips over one of his cheeks and grimaced.
Dry… yep. That’d do it. Looks like you win today, ego.
Off the lid came and onto the bathroom vanity it would sit. Dipping two fingers in, he applied the cream to his face, using upward strokes. After he was sure it was applied diligently and his face was silky smooth, Harry twisted the lid back onto the container and put it back where he found it. He allowed himself another sigh before looking back at his reflection. The father caught his head at varying angles and nodded affirmatively.
“Okay. We’re done for real this time.” He tossed his hair behind his shoulder and promptly exited the bathroom, flicking the lightswitch off.
Getting dressed was quick and wordless, with the shuffling and sliding of fabric of all kinds being the only thing audible in Harry Mason’s bedroom. He did have to hobble over to his alarm clock to snooze it again when it went about its second round of beeping, as Harry rarely if ever got up at 7:30 on the dot most days. Another one of his surefire ways to keep him chugging through life, no matter how much he found it aggravating in the moment.
Once he had his pants pulled all the way up and fastened, he rummaged around in his nightstand drawer for his turquoise rings and earrings. One ring with two circular stones on his left middle finger, another with an elegant oblong stone on his right pinky finger. Harry then pulled out a cotton ball from a bag in the drawer, along with some rubbing alcohol in a small bottle. He dabbed a few drops on the cotton and rubbed the posts of each earring diligently. After that, he slid them in each lobe with ease.
He chuckled a bit as he gently flicked the rounded stones dangling from the metal in which they were affixed. Harry then tossed the cotton ball in the wastebasket next to his bed and put the bottle of rubbing alcohol back in the drawer.
He was sure to slip his glasses on when he took them from the nightstand, too.
After smoothing down his v-neck sweater, he finally exited his bedroom. Harry felt a modicum of hope twinkle deep in the chambers of his heart. Maybe he could make it into a good day. Or, at the very least, he won’t have to try so hard to. He and Heather were headed to the park today; that was definitely something to look forward to. He deigned the living room with a yawn, stepping onto the carpet nestled beneath the couch. Harry craned his neck down to observe it.
Mamma gave him this rug a while back, hadn't she?
The rug was old and worn with memories, gently patterned and still soft to the touch, bizarrely enough. Harry vacuumed it with delicacy, yet he dreaded the day he’d have to truly wash it at some point, for fear of ruining its gentle texture. He’d have to call her up to ask her how to properly clean it, exactly…
He’d really just have to give her a call in general. It’s been ages.
He missed her voice.
Of course, much like with James, he was apprehensive about calling his mother back, but it wasn’t for the same reasons as it was with the former. He didn’t want Mamma swept up in all this nonsense; didn’t want to put her in harm’s way.
He didn’t want to lose anybody else so suddenly again.
The thought of the Order laying a finger on his mother ripped through his chest—such a cold and merciless image to visualize. Harry glared at the rug, rubbing his foot back and forth into it as if to scrub the stain of the thought away. He was sick of it. Sick of this worry, sick of this fear. It coated his throat in nausea, it tied his stomach into ugly little ribbons, and it relentlessly stole from him wherever it could. Be it his sleep, his appetite, his mood; it was a sadistic kind of fear that plagued Harry Mason, and he was so fucking sick of it.
He just wished it would go away. He wished all of it would go away.
"Papa?" A little voice grabbed him by his sweater's collar and hoisted him upright. It was Heather's. He swiveled in the direction he heard it come from and was met with his daughter sitting at the dinner table, framed by crayons and markers while she scribbled into her coloring book. “Why are you mad at the floor?” Strands of her dyed blonde fringe slipped over one of her eyes when she tilted her head and Heather vigilantly brushed it out of her face with the fist she held a crayon in.
Harry blinked. Heather was already up? Granted, still clad in her polka-dot pajamas and her hair a mess, but it was a first seeing her out here all by her lonesome. His heart suddenly lurched with the thought of her having another nightmare. That very well could’ve been it. It then spun itself around at the next thought of Heather not bothering to let Harry know of this fact.
Or maybe she’d just woken up before him without a hitch. He sincerely hoped that was the case. The father swallowed and managed a reassuring smile.
“Ah! Good morning, sweetie. I’m not mad at the floor… I’m just worried.” He shrugged. “You know, like always.” Harry tacked on a self-effacing chuckle to try and soften his daughter’s studious gaze. Her eyes held his for a moment, but she then returned them to her coloring book, applying a generous amount of violet to wherever she was on the page.
“Are you worried about the scary man again?” Heather asked the question so casually that it rendered Harry agape. The scary man… that damn cultist. Right. His shoulders stiffened at the boldness of such a statement, and when the words washed over him in full, he sighed and let them slump back down. Brushing some strands out of the way of his eyes, he shrugged again, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets.
“I’m always worried about the scary man, sweetheart… and other men like him.” The image of James flashed clear in his mind, and he averted his eyes when he replied. He was given nothing but the sound of soft wax rubbing against paper. Fair enough, he reasoned.
When he did dare to look at his daughter, there was a look of darkness on her face—it was unbecoming for someone so young. Harry’s lips thinned at the sight.
He strolled over to where she sat and drew his hand over the top of her head, rubbing a spot with his thumb. “If anything like that does happen again though, love, you know I’ll be there to keep you safe.” Heather looked up at her father when he regarded her with attempts to further reassure her. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Okay?”
Heather put her crayon down and pressed her lips together, looking aside Harry before looking back up at him and smiling in full. “Okay,” she said placidly and leaned her head into his torso. He tousled her hair affectionately and spotted the page she was previously focused on coloring.
"What're you working on, sweetheart?" Heather pulled away from Harry and scooted her chair in as much as it would allow, with her father taking that as his cue to pull the chair across from her to better see what she was doing. He took his seat, watching as Heather picked her utensil back up and carefully shaded in what looked to be the last of the rocks at the bottom of a seabed. The sea itself was a piercing shade of blue and the rocks lining the floor were all different colors and textures. Heather must've used some of her markers, too.
"The ocean." She tucked in her lips shyly after responding, earning a heartened chuckle and nod from Harry.
"Mmm. It looks very nice! I love the rocks you did at the bottom here." Harry craned over with a pointed finger to indicate said rocks, and he could hear her excitedly kick her feet from under the table.
"They’re my favorite colors!" Heather chirped with a sparkle in her eyes, and Harry outright laughed this time.
"The whole rainbow's your favorite color?" He grinned as he rested his cheek on the knuckles of his fist and Heather nodded with the characteristic vigor of a six-year-old. Harry felt relief wash over him as he witnessed the metamorphosis of her expressions settle back into normalcy.
"You know… that's a pretty solid choice, all things considered." Harry tossed his hand in an explanatory manner. "Your old man's a tried and true fan of blue himself, but that isn't to say colors like… you know, brown aren’t good, either."
“Brown?” Heather wrinkled her nose with a pinch of her brow and Harry nodded confidently.
“Yep. Brown’s a beautiful color. From earth, to skin, to eyes, to clothes… it’s everywhere! Don’t let anybody tell you it’s ugly, alright?” As he listed off his examples, he drew attention to them with his fingers, gesturing to the table in which they sat, his arm, Heather’s eyes, and his cargo pants. He punctuated the sentence by pressing his finger gently against her nose.
Her expression remained a bit puzzled, but the longer she seemed to sit on the words, the more she seemed to understand them. Heather then rummaged around in her box of crayons for a brown one, and Harry couldn’t help an adoring smile at the sight.
He then pushed himself up from where he sat and slid the chair back against the table, maundering into the kitchen. “You hungry for breakfast, sweetie?” Harry called over his shoulder as he opened the cupboards, eyeing the cereal boxes lined up on the shelf. He heard an affirmative noise back and nodded to himself, pulling out a box of off-brand, cinnamon-flavored cereal. Sugary enough to placate Heather, but healthy enough to assuage most of his fears about potentially malnourishing her.
Most of them. Anything that was multigrain was enough for Harry.
There was enough for two bowls, so Harry decidedly made them, giving Heather most of the milk when he saw that the carton was nearly empty. He made a mental note to go grocery shopping soon, as they were running fairly low on foodstuffs. The father let a tiny sigh slide through his nose, just quiet enough so Heather wouldn’t hear.
What a hassle it all was, truly…
That’s life, though.
After placing Heather’s bowl adjacent to her project, he set his where he was sitting last and resumed his place at the table, watching as his daughter did her best to put all her utensils away in a timely fashion so she could eat her breakfast.
“Need any help, love?” Harry was just about to stand back up when Heather vehemently shook her head and vocalized her refusal to be helped. He smirked at the rebuff and continued to spectate as she put the last crayon back in its box, slid it to the side, and finally closed her coloring book. She then pulled the bowl of cereal closer so she could take her first bites.
Harry tilted his head as he smiled in full at Heather, reaching over to brush some of the fringe out of her eyes as she ate before giving her head a few loving strokes. She beamed up at him, but her gaze then found Harry’s bowl, eyes now filled with concern.
“Papa, you should eat, too!” She exclaimed, pointing to Harry’s breakfast with her spoon. “Your cereal will get soggy!” The father raised his eyebrows at Heather’s urgent words, and he looked at the inside of his bowl. For his lack of hunger in the mornings, she did have a point. It’d be best to eat as much as he could before he took her to the park today. The last thing Harry needed was low blood sugar biting him in the ass while he was in the middle of playing with his daughter.
“You’re very right, sweetheart.” Harry spooned out a bite and ate it, with Heather scrutinizing him as he did such. His eyes flicked back to hers and saw that she was still unsatisfied, given her furrowed brows and pouting lips. He couldn’t help another chuckle and continued to eat, feeling his stomach begin to protest that it really didn’t need that much food right now.
He ignored it. The rest of him would be thankful in the future, he scornfully thought.
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Heather said mid-chew, imitating Harry’s fatherly tone. All he could do was smile and nod, agreeing wordlessly as he hummed through yet another bite.
Their meal went on without a hitch, with father and daughter saying little if anything at all to each other. Their eyes found their bowls, the table, or somewhere off into space. Harry wished he had more to talk about with Heather, but the words weren’t there. What was there was worry. Worry clung to him still, and worry often spoke for him more than he did.
It’d have to take a goddamn backseat today, though. Worry couldn’t be driving when they were at the park.
At least, that’s what Harry hoped for. The likelihood that would happen was slim.
He still had to try, though.
Heather quickly finished her breakfast, sporting a mustache above her upper lip after drinking the leftover milk from inside the bowl. Seeing this, Harry grabbed a napkin from the middle of the table and handed it to Heather. “You got a little milk above your mouth, love,” he said through a chuckle; Heather stilled for a moment, then thoroughly wiped just about every corner of the lower half of her face. It would only be a matter of time before Harry took her face into his hand and took care of the rest of it when she considered the deed done.
She’ll get better at it, Harry mused as he gently swept away any remaining milk around her mouth.
"Alright..." Harry rose from the table and collected all he needed to, taking bowls, spoons, and used napkins into the kitchen. He tossed the napkins in the bin and rinsed out the bowls with ease after placing the spoons in the sink. He noted how he'd managed to make through most of breakfast, but there was still a fair bit of cereal left in his bowl. Oh well. He ate what he could and that was that.
After he ran the waste disposal interspersed between the cabinets below the sink, he washed his hands in full. Harry dried them off with the towel hanging from the dishwasher handle when he was finished. He then walked back out into the dining area of their apartment and placed his hands on his hips as he addressed his daughter,
“Did you brush your teeth before breakfast?”
Heather, in the midst of fiddling with her box of markers, looked up at her father and pressed her lips together, shaking her head. Harry hummed affirmatively. “Alright. Let’s brush your hair and teeth and get you dressed for today, yeah?” Heather slid down from her chair and joined Harry at his side when he reached out his hand for her to take.
“Are we still going to the park?” Heather asked with wide eyes as she wrapped her fingers around his and Harry nodded.
“That’s the idea, sweetheart.” He smiled down at her while they paced to her bedroom. She was quickly assuaged by his words, smiling in turn and seemingly far more enthusiastic to get ready for the day.
When the duo arrived in her bathroom, she was quick to brush her teeth, and was similarly quick to grimace at the comb Harry lifted from one of the mugs on either side of the faucet once she was finished.
“I’ll do my best to be gentle, love,” he said reassuringly as he combed his fingers through her hair, trying to preemptively tease out a few nasty knots before fully tackling them with the comb. A dissatisfied grumble was his response and he gave her an empathetic sigh. “I know, I know… No fun at all, is it?”
Heather quickly shook her head.
The hair brushing session went by as swiftly and painlessly as it could. There was only one snag that got Heather to wince, but it was quickly remedied by Harry’s comforting words and apologies, gently rubbing the spot where it hurt the most.
“There we go! The worst of it is over.” Harry wrapped his arms around Heather’s shoulders and bent down to give her temple a kiss. “You did a very good job. I know how much it sucks.” Heather grinned throughout her father’s praise, hanging her hands off of his arms folded around her.
“Ready to get dressed?” He asked while pressing his chin gently down on her shoulder and he felt her head nod beside his. He pulled away so she could step down from her stool. They walked into her bedroom, with Harry making his way towards her dresser and pulling open the top drawer, leafing out some bright orange socks, white underwear, and a white undershirt. Next—from the second drawer—was a long-sleeved, off white shirt with thin orange stripes and a pair of snow bib overalls with gold colored clasps. The last garment was a particular favorite of Heather’s. Harry laid them all out on Heather’s bed in order of acquisition.
“Alright, love. I’ll let you get ready. If you need help with anything, though, just call for me, okay?” Harry gave Heather’s head a few loving strokes, watching her nod and taking that as his cue to exit her room to give her some privacy.
He lingered by her door, folding his arms and leaning against the wall. Heather took to dressing herself with ease as she aged, noting that on the contrary, Cheryl—at least, the previous Cheryl—still needed a fair bit of assistance in getting dressed. She wasn’t the kind of kid that liked being left alone for too long.
He pursed his lips at the thought of that. Cheryl had always been somewhat clingy. Shy and even-tempered. Not that he minded, honestly. On Harry’s end, his veneer of sociability was greatly undercut by introversion. He was a guy that lived in his own head a lot of the time, and for a while growing up, he found it hard to get out of it. At least, not without some kind of personal incentive.
He figured Cheryl was cut from the same cloth in that respect; a creative soul who dwelled within the depths of their own heart, and that with the right kinds of people and the right amount of convincing, would blossom into a passionate, beautiful individual.
He had prayed that it wouldn’t take her as long as it did for him, but with Heather… she was uncharted territory. She was so different in so many ways, yet there were elements of her, facets of the old Cheryl that peeked through the cracks. Harry drew his hand up to his face and dragged it down the rise of his cheekbone as he ruminated.
The line of where Cheryl ended and Heather started was impossible for the father to discern. Sometimes they were easy to separate, and sometimes they melded together into one incomprehensible being.
It didn’t help that some of the nightmares she had were of the things in that dismal tourist town.
“Papa?” He heard her little voice from behind the door and he opened it a touch, peeking in to see what was amiss.
“Yeah, love?”
“I can’t do this button here.” She was holding one of her overall straps over her shoulder, obviously having wrestled with it for a while. Heather pouted up at her father and he strode over to where she stood, kneeling down and fastening the button with ease. Once finished, Heather gave Harry a hug as thanks, which was gladly reciprocated by the latter.
“Alright!” Harry clapped his hands against his thighs as he stood up in full, looking down at Heather with a grin. “Ready to head on out?” He was met with Heather nodding excitedly as she bounced on her heels. She quickly exited the bedroom, leaving it up to Harry to close the door behind him. He saw her pull open her labeled drawer near the entrance doorway and pull on her hat, then rummage around quickly for her gloves.
“Hang on a minute, Heather, love,” Harry chided affectionately as he brought down her coat from the rack from which it hung next to his. “Let’s put this on you, first.”
“But Papa,” Heather began, readjusting her hat so she could see her father a bit better, “if I put my jacket on first, the gloves’ll feel weird on my hands.” She held out said gloves to Harry with a look of insistence, and he blinked. That was a pretty good point. He always had to go through the trouble of pulling the cuffs of her coat over the cuffs of her gloves. He was none the wiser until Heather had brought it up… What a smart girl she was!
“Well, I stand corrected! Gloves then coat, yeah?” He took Heather’s offering and kneeled down to put them on her, and she nodded again with a smile. Harry grinned back at her as he shuffled them onto her hands, craning back up from his kneeling position to pluck her coat from the rack once more and passed it onto her for her to put on herself. After helping her out with getting the zipper all the way up to the top stop, he threw on his gloves, hat, coat, and scarf with ease.
Before either of them could put on their boots, though, Harry swiftly paced into the kitchen to check the oven clock. It was 9:13 AM. Perfect. He turned off a few lights before making his way back to the doorway. He saw Heather sitting on the floor and pulling on her winter boots when he returned, and he did the same. He was last to finish putting his on, as Heather was graced with laceless footwear.
Once he secured the final knot, tugging on it a few times to make sure it would stay, he stood up again with an exasperated grunt. Harry then massaged a few circles into his knees through the fabric of his cargo pants.
He unlocked the door, letting Heather slip out before him. After stepping out and closing the door, he rummaged around for his keys in one of his jacket pockets, sliding it into the keyhole and twisting it.
When he heard the lock click, only then did he let his shoulders relax.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.
Harry Mason peered over his shoulder for what seemed to be the umpteenth time, finding nothing but the snow-laden landscape behind him. Nothing but the road in which Harry had parked his Jeep to the curb on and nothing but rows of houses looking snug under the white blankets draped over them by the sky above.
The snowfall wasn’t anything that worried the father much, as it wasn’t too heavy, but it was prominent enough for him to want to shield his eyes from the flakes that blew into his face every now and again.
Heather relished in the snow, of course. She had just about every excursion under her belt- snow angels, snowballs, attempted snowmen (of which the family of two had given up hope on rolling a big enough ball for the snowman’s base the third time around). She romped through it with joy and vigor, and Harry loved to spectate her antics.
He had since excused himself to a nearby bench to rest for a minute, swiping away a generous helping of snow to make room. It was then that the worry that he so dreaded to feel twisted around his heart again, this time with gleeful intent. The father threw hasty glances over his shoulder once, twice, thrice, more than he cared to keep track of and more than he cared to admit.
Any movement he saw out of the corner of his eye, any vehicle that drove through the road adjacent to the park they were at, and especially if it lingered too long for his liking. He had found his arms stiffly folded around himself, straining against his ribcage as he scorched the view behind him with his sweltering glare.
It didn’t help that they were the only people at the park.
It didn’t help that Harry felt a cloying agitation writhe alongside that godawful worry.
It really didn’t fucking help that Harry wanted—needed—a cigarette now more than anything.
He tore his eyes away from the street behind and rode his palms against his thighs. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. There’s no way in Hell that he would when Heather was around. She was a smart girl; she knew something was up as the stench of tobacco was nigh impossible to get out of his clothes, but he shook his head at the thought of her seeing him in the act. He left his smokes and lighter at home. He can hold out until then.
Hold out for Heather. Hold out for her.
God, he felt like he was falling apart. He should really figure out a way to get back into some form of fitness, but between work, his daughter, and the cigarettes, he wasn’t sure how easy of a transition it would be.
He should at least kick smoking to the curb before any of that could happen, but that was its own battle he was reluctant to fight.
Harry could worry about that later, though. He was a little bit preoccupied right now.
A car whizzed on by, pulling Harry’s head back to warily fixate on the noise behind him. Once more, his gaze lingered. He balled his hands into fists and chose to stare at the snowy ground beneath his boots instead. Harry let loose a sigh, letting his fists slide inward between the gap in his thighs, releasing them in the process.
Bending over, he let his head droop and hair slide down his shoulders, framing his face like a protective veil.
He was so unbelievably tired.
A wry chuckle slipped out of him. Yeah, no shit. He felt it in the ache in his shoulders, the crick in his back. The way his knees wept and moaned whenever he stood or sat, the way his lungs rasped when he breathed in and out.
It was under his eyes. It was in his eyes. Lined on his forehead, around his mouth, pulling the skin down with it… the list was practically endless.
Worst of all, though, is that he knew exactly why he was so tired in the first place.
He loved Heather. Truly, he did. There wasn’t a thing that he wouldn’t do for her. He’d give her the sun, moon, and stars if she so desired, and he’d do it all with a smile on his face…
But he wondered—and God, how he loathed to wonder—what a life free from this worry… free from Heather, would be like. Sometimes this wonder came within the form of dreams, of feelings…
Of memories.
He saw himself walking over to her crib. He dared to look into it, like he'd bear witness to something truly awful, but instead saw her. He saw Heather, then called Cheryl.
The new Cheryl.
He told himself time and time again that it was just a placeholder name, just something to work with, but the circumstances of this baby, his baby, bequeathed unto him by the girl that had taken his first away…
Here she was, sleeping peacefully through the night. The new Cheryl.
He stared long and hard at her resting face.
He shut his eyes, sighing as he did.
He reached in and snaked his hands around her throat.
Harry then suddenly heard crying. Loud, pained, and high-pitched wailing from just beyond the playground obscuring his vision. His head shot up and whirled around.
It’s Heather’s. She’s crying for him.
She needs him.
“Heather?! Heather, sweetheart-” The father snapped off the bench and tore through the snow, dashing this way and that in search of his daughter. “Heather, where are you?!”
“Papa, it huuuurts!” He’s closer now, he heard her clearer than before, but somehow the wind picked up and it—in tandem with the snow blinding him—refused to release her from its grasp. Squinting through the flakes, he pressed on with fervor.
“Don’t worry, love, I’m coming! I’m coming, I’m coming…” he trailed off, shielding his eyes from the winter onslaught. Heather’s wails intermingled with the howling air and shored pieces of his heart away as they did. He spun back facing the street when he heard the sound of another car speed on by and grit his teeth.
They needed to get out of here. They needed to leave as soon as possible.
There was no way they weren’t being watched. Sooner or later, they'd be surrounded.
"Heather! Oh, my God… Oh, sweetheart…" Finally, Harry had found her on the ground just a way's off near a fallen tree branch. She'd huddled in on herself and clutched her leg while she wept. The father knelt by her injured side, hissing at the sudden chill lapping up his legs, but hastily ignored it in favor of more pressing matters.
"What happened, love?" He brushed the fringe out of her eyes, and wiped away the culprit tears guilty of sticking it to her face. Heather shuddered out a sob as she did her best to explain,
"I- I fell… I hurt my… I hurt my leg." Her voice wobbled throughout and all Harry could do was pull her close to his chest and hold her in his arms. Heather nuzzled into him and shut her eyes tight.
"It hurts, Papa."
"I know it does. I know. I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry." Harry pressed his lips against the worn fabric of her hat and whispered, voice threatening to crumble at any second. He allowed himself a shaky sigh while rubbing circles into his daughter's back.
He cursed him.
He cursed the man he once was. He cursed the man cruel enough to even think of abandoning Heather; of laying anything but a loving hand on her.
Whomever she was, whatever she was, it didn't matter. It shouldn't matter.
Heather was his daughter—his heart—and he would do anything for her. Fear, guilt, and exhaustion be damned, there was not a force in the world that would change that. That would change his love for her.
Never.
Scrubbing his eyes clean from tears of his own, he took a closer look at Heather's shin and gingerly rode the cuff of her pant leg up so he could better see the injury.
Oh, thank the Creator. It wasn't anything too serious. The area of concern looked a bit red, and Harry predicted it would bruise within the coming days. But otherwise, there was no bleeding, and nothing seemed broken.
"Do you think you can walk alright, Heather, love? Do you need me to help you up?" Harry shuffled the pant leg down into Heather’s boot and held out his hands for her to take. She sniffled and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her jacket, deciding on her options. Heather wordlessly grabbed onto her father's hands, and with a countdown of 3, 2, 1, she was hoisted off the ground.
"There we are!" Harry brought her close to him once more and gently ruffled her hat.
He then did a quick lookover of the perimeter, trying to identify anything out of place, be it car, person, or a stray glove lost amid the white.
Of course, there was nothing, but that fear inside him screamed that there had to be something. Something hidden in plain sight.
Harry's eyes settled on what looked to be a silver Honda Accord on the far side of the park, nestled up against the curb of a dead-end street that kissed the boundary of the park's would-be grass. The dead-end was always so strange to him; rows of houses hugged around its bend, but it seemed barren of life. Haunted and foreboding. Needless to say, the Honda was the sole vehicle in the dead-end. Its front was facing directly towards him and as he squinted, he thought he made out one… no, two figures in the front and passenger seats.
Were those… binoculars?
Harry Mason took a sharp breath inward. Jesus, either he was losing his mind and seeing things, or he and Heather really were being watched this entire fucking time. Bunching his lips inward, he took another breath to straighten out his tangled nerves and bent down to regard Heather again. He smiled tautly as he placed his hands on her shoulders.
"Heather, sweetie," he began, slow and steady. "Papa thinks that we should head home now. It's almost lunchtime and you should go as easy on yourself as you can, okay?" He brought up a hand to caress her cheek as her face fell, none too pleased with having her playtime cut short. It hurt Harry to see that despondent expression, it always did, but he really didn't want to risk it this time.
Not when he was outnumbered two to one.
"I'll make you some hot cocoa when we get home, yeah?" He quickly pressed a kiss to her forehead in hopes of lifting her spirits back up somewhat, and sure enough, her face brightened at the mention of a sweet drink to ease her sorrows.
"Okay!" She bounced on her heels excitedly and then trekked diligently through the snow towards Harry's Jeep parked a ways away on the street. "I want extra marshmallows!"
The father half-laughed, half-yelped at his daughter's sudden leaving. "Okay, okay, we can do that, sweetheart! Just wait up for your old man, alright?" He rose to his feet once again and managed to catch up to Heather in a timely fashion.
But not before glowering at the silver Honda perched by the dead-end.
Go to Hell.