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She doesn’t have flashbacks anymore.
She did in the beginning, when HW started training her. Words like mother, head, Grimm, trailer, fire, smoke, and child would fling her back into terrible moments where she’d done unforgivable things. And the ways HW dealt with those flashbacks were probably not psychologist-approved, but they were mostly effective; she learned to do her duty, suppress her emotions, and make it through each day.
So now, she’s fine. Really.
They expect her to break. She can see it in their eyes, a thousand times over. Now that the cold shell of Eve is slowly melting, transforming her into a woman she knows they can almost recognize, they’re watching her carefully, waiting to see what will set her off. Monroe trips over his words when he mentions a book being too burnt to read, Adalind falters halfway through a story about her pregnancy with Kelly, and Nick…
Nick walks on eggshells, these days. She hates it, knows exactly why he’s doing it and appreciates the thought but desperately wishes he would stop. He doesn’t have to stumble over his mother’s name. He doesn’t have to brace himself whenever she sees a charred page. He doesn’t have to do any of that. She doesn’t have triggers, anymore.
HW took that from her.
-
When it happens, she doesn’t even put the pieces together at first. She’s sitting in the back at Monroe and Rosalee’s shop, looking over some numbers at their request, and hears the bell ring. Someone walks in, and she listens for only a moment, but Monroe and Rosalee seem happy enough to see whoever it is, so she tunes them out, focusing on the paperwork instead.
“Special delivery for Rosalee Calvert?”
Beside her, a vase shatters.
It takes her several long seconds to realize that it shatters because of her; her pulse is pounding, almost deafeningly loud, and she can barely make out the sound of her own breathing, much less the voices in the next room. Her chest is tight, and she can’t-she can’t-
What is happening to her? She closes her eyes, desperately trying to get the screaming under control as another vase splits. She’s better than this. She doesn’t lose control like this. Panic curls around her, nearly suffocating, at the thought that this is happening again, and she can’t control it.
… Again? What again? When has this happened before? It hasn’t; not like this, anyway.
The door to the back room opens, and Monroe and Rosalee walk through. They can’t be here. What if she can’t control her powers again? She knows that bullet hole’s still in the wall, a painful reminder of what happened the last time she lost control around them, and-
Another vase shatters, and she wraps her arms around herself, trying to hold it in.
“Eve, are you okay?” Rosalee sounds so gentle. So concerned. Not afraid of Eve, but worried for her.
“I-” How does she even answer? She wants to scream, to warn Rosalee and Monroe to get away before she hurts them, but the words catch in her throat. Instead, the couple moves toward her, and after just a moment, she finds herself caught in an embrace, caught between them, both of them holding her tightly.
“It’s okay, “ Rosalee whispers. “You’re okay.”
Monroe says nothing, and his hold is a bit more tentative, but he doesn’t let go, and she finds herself relaxing against both of them.
Awareness trickles back in slowly, and Eve manages a few breaths, before nodding, pulling away from them. “I apologize,” she mutters, grappling for the façade that has protected her for so long. What broke it?
“Nothing to be sorry for,” Rosalee assures her. “Just vases.”
Monroe offers a conspiratorial smile. “Honestly, we didn’t even really like them.”
Her lips twitch in turn, and she exhales, tension slipping out. “I don’t know what happened.”
A single shrug. “Maybe you didn’t like the delivery man,” Monroe offers, and it’s obvious he’s joking, but realization dawns all at once.
“That’s it. Special delivery. ” At their baffled expressions, she winces. Now she’s going to have to explain this, isn’t she? “It’s, um… It’s what Kenneth said.” She can barely even hear herself, but by the way their eyes widen, it’s obvious they can. “When he was putting-you know. Special delivery for Nick Burkhardt. ” She feels sick, and they look like they feel it, too. Apparently HW missed one little trigger, hidden in the back of her mind. How many others did they miss?
Rosalee reaches out tentatively, resting a hand on Eve’s arm. “Hey, don’t go there, okay? That was a long time ago, and you’ve come a really long way since then. You’re okay.”
She doesn’t feel okay. There’s a humming under her skin, wild and desperate, that reminds her of those worst days of being Juliette. She’s not that person anymore; she can’t be. But she doesn’t know how to feel okay, either. “I…”
“We’ve got you,” Rosalee promises, drawing her into another hug. “We’ve got you.”
Taking a breath, Eve lets herself lean into the embrace, drawing strength from her friend. It’s funny; by all rights, Eve should be the strong one, but the Fuchsbau seems to single-handedly hold the team together some days.
Slowly, the humming ebbs, fading into the background like it always does. She’s safe, they’re safe, and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now.