Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alison was making breakfast on the morning of Halloween when she felt it: a whisper of emotion that was not her own.

This particular emotion was excitement. But she hadn’t been excited herself in a long time. Even the supposed “spell for true love” candle that she’d burned the night before had only brought a vague presentiment of excitement before that, too, faded away.

Her love life could be defined by one word: failure. And it seemed the spell had failed, too.

Until she felt this… wisp of something.

She turned around to find her sister Charlotte standing on the threshold, a slight smile on her face. “Morning,” Charlotte said cheerily, helping herself to a slice of toast off Alison’s plate.

“You seem cheerful this morning,” Alison replied. And Charlotte felt cheerful, too. Like an aura of happiness radiated from her, seeping across the tiny kitchen and sinking past Alison’s skin. It had a tender, warm quality, like a bubbly hug.

“Date with Alex tonight,” Charlotte explained. “It’s a fancy dress party. You’re invited; you should come.”

“I have no one to bring with me.”

“Bring Will. Tell him it’s a friend thing.”

“Ugh, no, thank you.” Will was Alison’s ex, though they were “staying friends,” whatever that meant. The last thing she wanted to do was force her way through awkward small talk with him and ruin her Halloween.

“Then, what about his assistant? The guy who always delivers his paintings? You said he was fit, in a rugged sort of way.” Even as Charlotte spoke, another flash of emotion—sympathy this time—emanated from her into Alison. There was no other way to describe it: Alison was feeling her sister’s thoughts.

That alone was enough to distract her. “What? Sorry, I…”

Charlotte tsk’d and shook her head. “Nevermind. Only that if you don’t put yourself out there and talk to him, you’ll never find out what could be.”

Alison took her tea and toast and sat down hard at the kitchen table. What was happening to her?

Could it be that the spell candle had worked, somehow? That it had… opened her up to other people’s emotions like this?

The idea was ludicrous. All she’d expected was that a hot guy might message her on one of her dating apps the moment after she blew the candle out. Not a full-blown existential crisis as the rules of the universe unraveled.

“Alison?”

“Huh?”

“Are you all right?” Concern joined sympathy, tamping down Charlotte’s excitement for the time being. Her eyes grew wide and compassionate from across the kitchen.

“I’m fine.” Alison took a deep breath. “I’m fine.” And she would be. This was just a blip, a glitch. Nothing to worry about.

“Sure,” said Charlotte. “Whatever you say.” But Alison didn’t have to feel Charlotte’s emotions to know the truth:

She was not convinced.

#

Work would help. Work always helped.

Alison left their flat in Mayfair and walked through a bitter breeze toward the nearest Tube station on her way to Camden Town. Her shoulder bag weighed heavily as she brought in new products to sell at the artists’ cooperative where she worked. She made recycled paper and bound it into hand-sewn notebooks using recycled materials for their covers. Just recently she’d been experimenting with stamps, putting some quotes from her favorite poets on the opening pages of each journal for inspiration. This particular batch was full of her favorite words—and sure to sell.

But when she arrived, it was to find the shop empty save for two people—the two people she least wanted to see.

“Hiya, Alison,” said Will, drifting closer. His presence immediately scratched against her senses like a toilet brush. Gone was the wisp of emotion from Charlotte; instead, an onslaught of feelings caught Alison in the face, each of them as sharp as the last. Insecurity, brashness, egoism, fear: they all combined in a concoction that burned like acid against her skin.

“Ah,” she said, lifting a hand to her head.

“Everything okay?” Will asked.

In the far corner, Will’s assistant—Declan, wasn’t it?—glanced over from where he was putting new paintings on display for sale. The beautiful, lonely watercolors depicted unknown landscapes this time. Instead of the recognizable tourist attractions of London, Will had done something different—something greener and more ancient-looking. Could it be Ireland?

Alison barely noticed this before Will’s onslaught of emotions hit her again.

And this time, to her horror, they formed into thoughts:

God, she’s as hot as ever.

I wonder if she’d sleep with me again?

She made a noise of disgust. Will only looked more sympathetic.

“Migraine, is it? I have some pills in my bag—” At the same time, he thought, It’s always something with her.

“No! No, just… sorry. I just need a moment.” She rushed past the front desk and through the Employees Only door into their break room in the back. A set of stairs led to the artists’ studios above. Another door led to the toilet, and she rushed for that instead, locking the door behind her. Once she was safely locked away, she dropped her bag and sank to the floor.

What. The hell. Was happening. To her?

After a minute or two, Will reappeared. She felt him before she heard him on the other side of the door: a riot of those unexamined emotions, just out there for all to feel.

“Alison? I’m heading out now, but, um, I hope you feel better. I left some pills on the table.” Like she’ll take them anyway. She never accepts my help.

“Um, th-thanks.” See you never, she privately thought back to him, but because there was no justice in the world, he didn’t seem to be having the same problem she did.

His footsteps crossed the room and faded away.

She let out a sigh of relief. Whatever this was, maybe it would slowly die. Or maybe it only worked with people she already knew, which was terrifying in itself but a lot more manageable than trying to hear the thoughts of the entire world. Or maybe this was all in her head, and she had officially had a psychotic break overnight. If so, she was doing remarkably well for herself. She’d made it to work.

She could push on through the rest of this haunted day.

She made herself get up. Made herself wash her hands, rinse her face with cold water. Dried them in the machine, and then looked at herself for three steadying breaths in the mirror. You can do this, she whispered. You can do this.

Then she walked back out into the shop.

She jumped when she realized she wasn’t alone. Because he was still there: Declan. Declan Fraser. That was his name.

“Hi,” he said, slowly, with concern.

That’s when it hit her: she could barely feel anything from him. Like he was a steel door, a stone wall.

And it was glorious.

“Hi,” she managed with a relieved smile.

He drifted a step closer from the watercolor wall, a line of concern etched between his brows. “Are you okay? Do you need a… glass of water?”

Her instincts would normally be to decline, but at that precise moment, she did need a glass of water. “That would be great. Thanks.”

He walked back into the break room. In the meantime, she crossed to the display where her notebooks lived and started restocking them from her bag. She’d have to record each of these in the stock book later.

The cooperative worked on shared artist labor, so everyone who made art eventually worked in here, too. But the shifts were sometimes random, and Alison was lucky to have gotten more of them lately. She needed the pay.

Declan reemerged as she stuck the last notebook in place. “Here.” He held out a plastic cup.

As she reached for it, her fingers accidentally brushed against his. At that moment, his emotions surged to the surface, like she’d turned up the volume on a radio dial. Concern, care, and something else—something that hit like a flash of lightning, impossible to discern, sudden and intense but un-parse-able, and then… just like that… his walls slammed back into place. It was all gone.

But his eyes widened.

“Thank you,” she said. She sipped the water. For the first time all morning, she wished to feel more of whatever he was feeling, because that look on his face—surprise, wariness—made her suddenly afraid.

“Will’s new paintings are nice,” she said, flicking her head in that direction.

“Will’s new paintings.”

“I don’t really get them, though. Did he travel to Ireland with you, or…?”

Declan snorted, a light laugh. He turned away, rubbing a hand down his face. His thumb brushed against the thin red scar across one cheek. “I suppose you could say that.”

How very odd.

And all the while, she felt nothing from him.

Then he shot her a shifty sideways glance. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? You look a little… pale.”

“I’m fine,” she squeaked, just as she had in the kitchen that morning. She gulped down some more water and took too much, nearly choking on it. After a round of coughing, she glanced up sheepishly to find him even more concerned. “I’m fine.”

“You should take the day off. I’ll manage this shift.”

“I can’t leave you alone in here on Halloween.”

He raised a brow. “Are you expecting ghosts or something?”

“Or something,” she snapped, quickly losing patience with him. Why did he always have to do that? Push her buttons, when he came in here? “Tourists. We’re always busier on holidays. And before you say anything, yes, Halloween counts.”

He shut his mouth rather sheepishly. But a smile lingered around his lips, a frustratingly knowing one. “Right. Trust me, I can handle a few tourists.”

“Yes, but the idea is to sell things, not to frighten them away.” Even as she spoke, she tipped back her head, trying to drain her cup of water to its last drops. The movement, paired with her now-lightened shoulder bag, threw her off balance, and she wobbled on her boot heels. In a surprisingly gentlemanlike move, Declan reached out in a flash to catch her elbow, and then…

Then…

Everything changed.

#

He didn’t mean to. But when he touched her for the second time that morning, their emotions tangled together like searching fingers.

Worry. Anxiousness. Declan couldn’t tell where his ended and hers began. They were hands tangled in each other’s hair, nose brushing against nose, breath against lips, an intimate and extremely unusual leap that had never, ever happened to him before, not in all the years of his Gift.

He yanked himself backward, even though physically all he was doing was holding her elbow. Mentally, he was practically kissing her. It was all very strange.

Especially since he wanted to. He really, really wanted to.

Good God above. Let her not have felt that.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, nostrils flared, clearly afraid. “Did you—can you—?” She sucked in a huge breath. “Did you do this to me?”

Not what he expected. He cleared his throat. “No. No. How are you—all this time, have you been—?” Like me? He couldn’t complete the sentence. It was so bred in him, so ingrained, not to ever speak of this.

She chewed her lip, a pained expression, and then rubbed a hand down her face. “Oh, God. This can’t be happening to me.”

“You’re—you’re not crazy.”

She lowered her hand, watching him warily. “Thanks. I figured out that much.”

“Oh. Right. Good. Then you’re off to a better start than I was, fifteen years ago.”

She blinked at him. Stared. Then she sighed and said, “Come on. I think I need a warm beverage before I can have this conversation.”

She wandered up to the shop door, locked it, and flipped their sign to “Closed.” Then she walked back to the break room and held open the door for him. “Coming?”

He had no choice but to follow, because every cell in his body was telling him to find out what the hell was going on.

So he went into the break room, sat down, and had a coffee with Alison Heywood.

While she could read his mind.

He checked his mental defenses once again. They were solid, strong, built up like Norman castles after years of practice. But it didn’t hurt to make sure.

He couldn’t bear the shame if she found out how much he liked her. Or if she found out how he’d been lying to her.

“So. You can do this, too?” she asked. “Sort of… feel… feelings?”

“It starts that way—amorphous. But after a while, it’ll become thoughts.”

“It evolves?”

He shrugged. “That’s how it was for me. When I hit puberty. I was playing GAA football—it’s a bit like rugby—anyway, I got concussed. And after that, nothing was the same. I could feel the nurses… I could feel my parents… and then… turns out, it’s a thing. Both sides of my family. My mam and dad did their best to help me, took me to specialists, but after I got diagnosed with almost everything, they decided just to take me to an old grandmother with The Sight. She taught me how to, ehm, how to control it.”

“So, it can be controlled?” Alison leaned forward over her steaming mug of coffee, desperation in her big green eyes.

“Yes, it can. Given discipline and practice. You’ll be fine.”

She swallowed noticeably. “How long did it take you?”

“You’re already years ahead of me just by accepting it.”

“Declan, how long?”

He shifted in his seat. “A few years.”

She buried her face in her hands and groaned. “I’m so fucked.”

“No, you aren’t. Because you also have me. And I can help you practice.” The words left his mouth without his permission… but he couldn’t exactly leave her to suffer, could he? No, he was duty bound to help. If someone had been like this for him, his young adulthood might have been very different. He owed it to his past self to help her.

That was all.

She peeked up at him, lowering her hands. If he reached out a little past his defenses, he might feel…

No, no, no. Draw that drawbridge back up again. Lower the bloody portcullis. This was not happening.

Because that would be unethical and wrong. Especially if she could sense him back.

In fact, he’d never been in this position before: the position of potentially getting caught.

“Practice?” she whispered. “Why the hell would I want to practice?”

“Controlling it, I mean.” A few deep breaths wouldn’t hurt either, but he’d save that for a moment when she didn’t look like she was about to break down in tears. “It gets easier. Someday, you can reach a point where you don’t even notice.”

Unless you happen to meet a gorgeous woman, and your senses go haywire for a minute. He could still remember it, that first time he met her in the cooperative. When she saw him unloading his artwork—his artwork, not Will’s—a thought went through her head, the kind of thing he was normally very good at blocking out, and all his defenses crumbled to dust.

That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, she’d thought.

About his art.

He could only stand and stare as his castle fell, and then… he was besieged by her. Overwhelmed. Her insecurities—I’ll never fit in here, I’m barely even an artist—her joys—but I love being surrounded by all this—her cleverness. All of it swirled around him, and he was completely, irrevocably, gone.

But, thank God, she’d never discovered that. And as long as he was very careful today, she never would.

“Practice,” she repeated, clearly warming to the idea. She shot a glance over his shoulder, back out toward the shop and London beyond. “And what exactly does practicing entail?”

“Come with me,” he heard himself say. “I’ll show you.”

Chapter Text

I can help you practice. That was what he said.

Alison followed Declan out of the artists’ cooperative into the gray October weather. He led her to the Camden Town Tube station, down the path toward southbound trains. They stopped to wait on the platform across from a giant advertisement for “the great granddaddy of gin.” That felt appropriate, because she was starting to wish for a long pour of it herself. This day—this day when she’d woken up and been able to read minds—was officially the strangest and most terrifying day of her life so far.

And Declan could read minds, too. That was even stranger.

She shot a sideways glance at him, still wondering if he was somehow responsible for this change in her, when another person slid past them to wait further down the platform. As the woman moved by—a whisper of a thought.

God, I hope I’m not late.

Alison instinctively reached up to cover her ears, but it was no use. As the train arrived, a rush of thoughts barreled toward her over the squealing of brakes.

I hate this book—I’m never reading on the train again—I feel sick—I shouldn’t have gone out last night—I’m not sure what to tell Mum—Christ I’m peckish—maybe I’ll get a coffee before I—I want to kill her—Put in headphones you stupid lump—

All of it rammed into her brain at once as the train slowed to a stop, and she squeezed her eyes shut. “I can’t get on there. I can’t. It’s—”

“Alison, it’s okay.” She jumped as Declan’s warm hand slid around hers. “It’s going to be okay. I promise. You can do this.”

I’m so bored—why won’t my game load—I hate people who take up two seats like that—close your legs, you twat—

It all kept coming. But Declan gave her hand a squeeze, pulling her gently toward the open train doors. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you. All you have to do is… trust me.”

Her feet followed him almost without her permission. The doors made a sound, they were about to close, and suddenly she found herself stumbling after him onto the train.

“Is it like this for you all the time?” she stage-whispered as the train started rolling again. Surely not. He’d go insane. Anyone would go insane. This was… too much. A thousand painful nails scraping down the chalkboard of her mind.

“No. There are defenses, and I’m going to help you build them. But for now… until we reach our destination… just focus on me.” His low, rich voice rolled over her, rising above the cacophony. “I can help you.”

That was when she realized that she was squeezing his hand for dear life. But she couldn’t bring herself to let go. No, she squeezed harder, and a half-smile emerged on his lips. “Just close your eyes and concentrate on me,” he said.

She did. His presence. It was easier than she’d expected, perhaps because he held her hand. (Or rather, at this point, she held his.) His mind rose above all the others: like a placid underground lake, not a single ripple in it. Cool, still waters, running deep.

“Good,” he said, his voice quiet yet discernible over the murmurs of other conversation, or perhaps those were the murmurs of more thoughts inside her brain. No—don’t think about that. Think about Declan.

He smelled nice, of clean linens and something woodsy, like he’d been working in a garden that morning. His hand was solid and a little calloused around hers. What gave him those callouses?

Suddenly she was dipping a toe in those still waters of his mind. Somehow she was there, on the shore, and she was barefoot. Her movement sent ripples out across the lake.

He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth—she could hear it, though her eyes were still closed—and his hand tightened around hers. Then he said, “Wait a moment.”

The picture in her mind… changed. A lit candle, flickering in that cave. Inviting her upward. She followed the path of the light, turned a corner, emerged from a cellar into… a room of stone, with a thick wooden door. Like a room in an ancient castle.

And Declan was there.

“Hi,” he said. Just as awkward as he’d been in person that morning, in the artists’ shop, before everything went to shit.

“Hi.” In the real world, she was clinging to a train pole and his hand as if both could save her. In her mind’s eye, she was standing in Declan’s mind-palace, watching candle flame flicker over his face. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

He half-smiled, even inside his own mind. “It’s my safe place. My fortress. When we reach our destination, you’re going to build one of your own.”

“I thought the train was our destination.”

He frowned. “No. Why would you think that?”

“Because you told me I needed to practice.”

“I’m not going to throw you to the wolves. This Tube ride is a necessary evil. Hence the fortress. I’ve never…” He trailed off, his jaw flexing as if to hold back whatever he’d been about to say.

“You’ve never what?”

“Let anyone in here before. So I’m sorry if it’s a little… cold. And bare.”

“Castles can be like that. I’ve heard the upkeep is insane.” She played it off as a joke, but her heart was racing, thumping against the inside of her ribs. All at once, the intimacy of this moment became clear to her.

She was inside the walls of his mind.

He really trusted her.

And she barely knew him.

This realization was rather startling—and humbling. He was giving her a huge gift.

And then came an echoey woman’s voice, pre-recorded. This station is Charing Cross. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.

“This is us,” said Declan in the real world.

Alison opened her eyes. The castle melted away.

But she didn’t let go of his hand.

#

Declan tried not to itch with discomfort as he led Alison out of the Tube station and down the road toward their destination. Yes, her hand felt perfect within his, and he never wanted to let go—but she didn’t know that. She couldn’t. And yet here he was, letting her inside the deepest fortifications of his mind.

He was playing with fire, there.

“Here we are,” he said with relief.

“The National Gallery?” Alison stared up at the towering, pillared building with awe in her eyes—and wariness. “Aren’t there going to be lots of people in there?”

“This is London,” he said. “There are lots of people everywhere. But… it’s different here. Come on, I’ll show you.”

He tugged her gently by the hand, all the while trying not to notice everything about her—her smell (floral and feminine), her softness, her shape. This would be a lot easier if she weren’t so entrancing.

But finally, after some maneuvering, he led her right up to his favorite picture in the gallery—and he was able to let her go. “Here.”

She stared. “Is this picture… magical, somehow?”

“In a sense.” He couldn’t fight the smile at the edge of his lips. “It’s my favorite one. I used to come here when I was at uni, when I really needed an escape. I’d sit and stare at it for hours, just meditating on it. Because… listen.”

She frowned. Closed her eyes. And when she opened them, her frown disappeared. “It’s quiet.”

“Yes. The minds around you—they’re all occupied. They’re thinking about art. They’re meditative. So this is the perfect place to come when you are learning to block them out. When you need… peace.”

Relief sagged her shoulders. She looked suddenly spent. “Thank God.” She squinted at the little plaque that described his favorite picture. “And thank… J.M.W. Turner.”

“I do. Thank him. Quite often.” Declan turned to enjoy the picture.

“Why this one?”

It showed a boy standing ankle-deep in ocean water, greeted by his dog, small figures in the right-hand corner, while the ocean and a vast, twilit, gray-clouded sky filled the rest of the frame. “I like how peaceful it is. I can hear it—the gentle waves, the dog, the boy—and I can smell it, and I can imagine myself there. Looking at that layered sky.” It was called The Evening Star.

And Turner was one of his artistic heroes, the way he played with color and light. But Declan couldn’t say that, could he? Because it would cut too close to the truth. Or, more accurately, to his lies.

Alison tilted her head and studied the picture, and after a while, she smiled. “I see it. The peacefulness.”

He let out his breath. Something about those words made his stomach tighten.

“Good,” he said. “Then we can sit here for a while… and you can work on building your fortress.”

#

Alison sat beside Declan on a public bench in the center of the room, surrounded by art and the occasional tourist, and… she disappeared into the recesses of her own mind.

“It doesn’t have to be a castle,” he explained from beside her in quiet, whispered tones. “It should be something unique to you. Someplace that feels sturdy and safe. Someplace with doors and walls, so you can really retreat into it when you need to.”

As he spoke, an image appeared in her mind. Her family’s attic, where she used to go to read when she was a girl. It was the only place in the house where she could escape from her loud, abundant siblings; the only place they’d leave her alone. And you had to climb a ladder to get up to it, through a hatch in the ceiling. Once you were up, you could pull the ladder up behind you and become unreachable.

It was cozy, with a window seat covered in cushions. She’d even brought up an electric kettle so she could make tea.

She conjured it now, with its slatted-wood walls, its chill temperatures in autumn and winter, the patter of rain on the windowpanes. A weighted blanket over her, keeping her warm and relaxed.

“Do you see it? Are you in it?” Declan asked.

She nodded.

“Now you have to practice getting in when you really need it. You need to summon it as if it’s second nature to you, instantaneously.”

“How do I practice that?”

“I’m going to try barging in after you, and you have to be faster than me. All right?”

“I mean, you can just come in—”

“No.” The firmness of his voice made her open her eyes, and she found him shaking his head. “Don’t let me in. That is of the utmost importance. Because as soon as I’ve gotten in once, it’s easier for me to get in again. And your safe place should be safe. Sacred. Only for you.”

“But you—just now, on the train, you—”

He swallowed audibly, his face unreadable. “Yes. As a one-time deal. Because I trust you not to take advantage.”

Again, the intimacy—the humbling trust of it—made her spine tingle. Something in this simple confession of his made her blood rush to her cheeks. But she said, “Okay. I’ll try.”

“Do, or do not—there is no try.”

She laughed. “Thank you, Master Yoda.”

“Anytime, my young apprentice.” He chuckled, and then—without warning—she felt him, barging into her brain.

She conjured the attic. Dashed up the ladder. Yanked it up behind her, just in case. It was heavy and cumbersome, and Declan stood at the bottom, barely missing it.

“Not fast enough,” he said inside her brain. “Come down and try again. And change that ladder. Make it rope, something easy to handle.”

She did as he advised: a rope ladder, thick and sturdy but much more maneuverable. And this time, when he raced into the hallway of her mind, she was up and dragging it after her in mere moments. Safe at the top.

“Good.”

But he made her practice over and over again, until eventually she was opening her mind to the whole gallery, letting those thoughts rush in, and then—in frantic haste—rushing up to her attic to block them out again.

Soon, all she heard was the patter of her imaginary rain.

And she was exhausted. And starving.

“Right,” he said. “So, that’s your practice.” In the real world, he clenched his hands over his knees. “You can do this anywhere quiet, like libraries, museums, churches—those are all good ones. And pretty soon, you’ll be a pro at blocking out the voices on the train.”

“But… it’s only been a couple of hours. You think I’m ready to just… be on my own?”

“I don’t know,” he said softly, his eyes flicking back and forth between hers. “Are you?”

She knew the answer before he’d finished speaking. Somehow, she didn’t feel ready.

And she didn’t want to leave him.

“No,” she confessed.

She couldn’t read his face for certain, but she thought she detected something a lot like relief.