Chapter Text
I heard a soft knock on my door, startling me from my near-trance. I had been deep in thought, and then my mind had begun to wander. “Come in,” I said, my forgotten book still on my lap. I put it on the table sitting between the couches, but did not rise from my spot on the one nearest the fire.
The door opened, and I was surprised to see Katherine, my human girlfriend and the only empath I knew, walk into the room. She had her purse on her shoulder, and clutched the small knitted pouch as if her life depended on it. Worry pinched her features, and as she closed the door softly behind her, I stood. Something was wrong. I started towards her, but she held a hand out. “I'll come sit,” she said in a strangely detached voice. I returned to my place, and she sat next to me on the leather upholstery, though she did not touch me.
We sat there, silent, for many minutes. Unsure of what to say, I loosened my shields a little. She tended to project emotions more strongly when she was upset, and today was no exception; I could feel her unhappiness filtering through, a combination of apprehension, worry, and a touch of fear. I felt her tall frame shaking the couch, and then I realized she was crying. Surprised, I refrained from touching her, but murmured in her ear that no one could touch her here, that she was safe with me. I didn't push her to tell me what was going on, though I wondered what could have made her this upset, and I badly wanted to know if it was something that could be warned off with a good threat. Instead, I waited patiently; in the last week I had begun to suspect she was hiding something from me, and if this was a reaction to that, I didn't want to scare her off of telling me.
Finally, she raised her head so that her hair fell away from her face and revealed reddened eyelids and thick tear tracks. “Have you ever wondered why I don't talk about my family much?” she asked me, looking afraid of my answer.
“Of course I have,” I said carefully, “but I don't like to speak of mine, so I understood that you might not want to speak of yours.”
“Do you want to know why?”
She sounded so young and worried, like a child who's just seen something life-changing. Her eyes flicked to mine, then away, and I realized she was asking me to ask her because she wasn't strong enough to just tell me. I could be the same way sometimes, if the memory was painful enough. Though I didn't have a lot of people who would ask.
“I always want to know more about you, if you want to tell me,” I said, making my gaze gentle but unwavering. She had me worried, but I couldn't let her see that. “Why don't you talk about them?”
She took a shaky breath, averting her eyes. “My parents were put in prison when I was ten years old, for drug dealing.” I said nothing, though I was surprised. Not that someone was in prison, but that someone as harmless as her had come from that sort. “They.. they weren't mean to me. Not really. But they always had something better to do. And.. I didn't have control of my abilities yet. I think I scared them.” I watched her with a pleasantly blank face, but I was saddened. My family had been ripped away from me, too, but they had been loving, and had accepted that I had strange abilities. She continued, “I was put in the foster care system. Before you ask, it was awful. I never stayed in one house longer than six months. They were scared of me, too. I worked hard, got a scholarship, came to college here. I tried to forget about them, and it almost worked.” She paused for a long time, fresh tears flowing. She rummaged in her purse, and pulled out an envelope, then handed it to me.
I took it, opening it and pulling out the letter inside. Upon unfolding it, I saw it had the letterhead of a local prison. I scanned it, the words “release” and “30 days” popping out at me. I blinked at it, then raised widened eyes to her. “Jonathon Harnoncourt? Your father?
She nodded. Her voice was tight when she said, “I received that two weeks ago. I don't-- I don't know what to do,” she said haltingly, hiding her face in my neck. “I didn't think he would be out any time soon, I just didn't think about it.”
I curled my arm around her, kissing her forehead gently. “Do you want to see him?”
“No,” she said firmly, though her voice was breathy. “I have never forgiven them for being afraid.” Cold anger and sadness blanketed her features at that admission, and I felt the emotions touch my awareness, joined by a hint of regret.
“Does he know anything about you? Where you live, or that you're still in town?”
“No,” she said, but that one word conveyed that she was scared he would find out, and that she didn't want him to know. “The only things he knows are my age and my name. But that might be enough, if he has the right contacts.”
I nodded soberly. I knew quite well how easily one could find information with enough money, or other types of persuasion. “What can I do?”
“Nothing,” she said angrily. “Absolutely nothing, just like I can't. A restraining order would mean nothing to him, and would clue him in to the fact that I still live here.” Her jaw was tight, the muscles cording with tension.
“Katherine, I..” I began, but she cut me off.
“Don't. I'm too upset.”
I was hurt, but I didn't let it show. I just said, “Coffee?”
She nodded once, and I rose from the couch and stepped over to the highboy that held my coffeemaker. I hadn't had one until I'd met Katherine, and she'd begun spending more time here. I kept late hours, and sometimes she needed a boost.
Filling the filter with grounds, then moving over to the small hand sink to fill the carafe, I stewed in my own thoughts. She had been orphaned, like me, only at a much more tender age. I could sympathize with her-- she must have felt so ostracized by the people leery of her power. After my family had died, our neighborhood had started referring to me-- only once to my face-- as “Odd Anderson,” because I had stopped trying to shield my abilities from others, and I had been so wrapped up in my dour thoughts that I often muttered to myself in public.
“ Dragonflight ?” Katherine said from the couch, sounding surprised. “Anne McCaffrey is a rather modern author.” She had found the book sitting on the coffee table.
“A friend pointed me in her direction,” I said, pouring the water into the coffee maker and turning it on. “I find it interesting how the dragons can communicate telepathically. They're almost like animals to call.” I smiled. “Besides, she and I have the same first name, or used to, at least. I have faith in most people named Anne.”
Katherine made a considering sound. “Wait.. wasn't your last name Anderson?”
I stifled a sigh. “Yes.”
“You were Anne Anderson?” she asked with a lilt that threatened to become a giggle.
“Actually, everyone called me Annie,” I said reluctantly, flinching inwardly in anticipation of her reaction.
Then she did giggle. “Annie Anderson? That's so cute!” she exclaimed, still laughing.
“See why I changed my name?” I asked dryly, pulling a coffee mug from the shelf, but I was glad she was laughing. Her closed-off demeanor earlier had unnerved me.
“Oh, now, don't get all huffy,” she said, her voice full of humor. “What was your middle name?”
I groaned for the theatrics of it; I was managing to cheer her up. “Do I have to say?”
“No,” she said sweetly, “but I'd like to know.”
“Fine,” I said, letting my annoyance filter through my voice. “Amelia.”
She burst out laughing. “You were triple A!” She seemed to find this hilarious.
“I don't understand why it's so funny,” I said, peeved.
“AAA is a towing service, for cars.”
I still didn't get it. Why were cars funny, and what did I have to do with it? But I said, “Oh, okay,” anyway. She was in a better mood. I supposed I should let her laugh, even if it was at my expense. The coffee was done, and I poured a cup, knowing she would want it black without having to ask.
I walked carefully over to the couch with it, handing it to her with a smile. She returned it, but it didn't quite reach her eyes, and I could see the creases in her brow that told of her continuing worry.
After she had taken a sip, sighing with the taste of her favorite drink, I touched my hand to her shoulder. “We will figure this out,” I said, with more confidence than I had.
She lowered her eyes to the mug in her hand. “I don't know about that,” she said quietly.
I didn't either, but I had to try.