Chapter Text
Quill puts his head in his hands. He thought he’d be fine. Not that he was over it, he would never be over it. But the pain had been sanded down, the memory of her less piercing. He could think about her and smile again. So when he saw the name Anthony Lockwood on the board next to his, he’d shaken it off.
He hadn’t counted on him looking so much like her.
He’d seen him from afar, of course. Watched the dark horse knock out opponent after opponent. Until he was next. Up close, as he moved to shake his hand—God, it was worse than seeing a ghost.
When he loses, it is not graceful. It’s error after error and it’s embarrassing. He remembers the little pipsqueak poking his head out from the top of the stairs, not this gangly thing that should be awkward but instead is so graceful, so much like Jessy it makes him want to cry.
And he does cry, in the showers after. Full-body wracking sobs muffled by the stream of water directly in his face. Everyone will think it’s from shame and he’ll let them. Better than baring his grief for everyone to see.
Quill doesn’t stay to watch the final, can’t bear to look at the young Lockwood for another second. Instead he does what he hasn’t done in ages: he buys an armful of lavender and makes the trek to Marylebone.
The cemetery is closed; he has to hop over the wall, follow the path she’d shown him once. It’s overgrown, but the Lockwood plot has been cleared. He wonders how often Anthony comes here.
There’s a sharp pang of jealousy. It’s rare these days, to be able to visit the dead not armed to the teeth. He wonders what they’ve lost, hiding and fighting the dead instead of letting them rest—although he supposes that’s the whole point, that they aren’t resting. Still, there are so many that he wishes he could pay respects to like this. He pushes his wanting down.
Standing in front of her grave feels awkward. He doesn’t know what to do. He sits down next to her parents and makes the sign of the cross.
Many years ago, before he was shipped off to Fittes, his grandmother had taught him the Prayer for Our Faithful Departed. You’re going to need it, she’d said. It feels too short, and so he lists off his dead, hoping they’re at rest wherever they are.
Sorry it’s been so long, he whispers when he finishes. Because he doesn’t know what else to do, he fills the silence. He tells her about Fittes and his rise through the ranks. Penelope herself has taken notice, and he can feel everything that he wants at his fingertips. Almost.
He tells her about the match, half laughing and half crying. I miss you so much, Jessy. He runs his fingers through the damp grass, as if he could touch her somehow. It’s the soft earth that holds her now, and he envies it.
He spends the rest of the afternoon there, until he notices the sun hanging low and remembers himself, remembers where he is. He gently sets the bouquet in front of the stone and says goodbye. He does not promise to come back; he doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.
That night, when Quill’s done fighting another ghost, he thinks of her. He remembers when he had everything he wanted.