AU Fanfiction: Mockingbird
Title: Mockingbird
AU:Victorian Vampire AU
Characters: Hope Chandler, Atticus Bergenson
Rating: G
Pairings: Hope/Atticus
Warnings: Vampires
Author’s Notes: What's this? Even more vampire fic? Gasp! Originally this was going to be part of the next chapter but it started getting so long, so intense and shippy that I broke it off into its own fic. The title comes from the Rob Thomas song “Mockingbird” which I was listening to at the time.
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Though Atticus was doing all the delicate work of transcribing her husband’s journal, Hope couldn’t fight the little bit of curiosity that poked at her until she retrieved it from the little trunk of things that traveled with them. The charred remains of the journal were tucked in a hat box filled with scraps of cloth and was wrapped in silk. She slipped her the sleeping compartment with the journal cradled against her chest and sat on the floor. It was easier on her if she couldn’t look out the windows.
Somewhat nervously she started to unwrap the silk until the burnt remains of Charles’ journal were revealed. She carefully hooked the edge of the cover with the tip of her bandage wrapped finger and slowly opened it. Bits cracked and flaked off with every inch it moved. She swore even her breath sent bits of ash flying. The first few pages were almost completely gone. It appeared Atticus had salvaged what he could from them and then blown them away, leaving the stronger, less damaged pages in the middle exposed.
She carefully brushed away a few bits of char from the pages that were mostly blackened on the edges with the occasional burn hole here and there and looked down at the familiar script of her late husband. Charles’ handwriting had always been elegant, patient. She had watched him write occasionally and knew that each word was carefully considered before being written. There was a process to writing for Charles. She ran her fingers over the words, feeling the dull familiar ache of grief. Oh, how she had loved her husband, truly. She was better, much better than she had been when he first died but the ache always rose up when she remembered him.
But she hadn’t done this to take a trip down memory lane, not solely anyway. She wanted to see if she could find something Atticus might have missed in transcribing. She didn’t doubt he was very good, but she knew her husband, knew how he wrote and that his notes could often break off into a short hand that hid on the edges of pages. She was trying to help. They needed to remake the cure just as much as they needed to stop Magnus. It was getting more and more difficult to manage both tasks at once.
It was difficult to turn the fragile pages with her bandages. Her fingers were thicker than she was used to and felt incredibly clumsy. She was usually quite good with her hands and was very good at delicate tasks like this but she couldn’t always get a grip to turn the page as she scanned through the words left behind by her husband. Frustration rose in her chest as another corner broke off in her fingers and crumbled into the bandages, blackening the tips of her fingers.
“Blast it all,” she muttered and fought down the urge to throw the journal across the car.
The door to the car opened and she looked down at Atticus who suddenly looked very concerned. He crouched down in front of her, digging in the breast pocket of his jacket.
“What’s wrong, dear? Are your hands bothering you?” he asked softly.
“What?” She blinked and was surprised at the wetness that clung to her eyelashes. She swiped underneath her eye then stared at the wetness spreading through her bandages. She had been crying?
“Here, let me do that. You’re getting ash all over yourself.” Atticus gently took her chin in one hand and began to dab at her eyes. “If you had asked, I could’ve shown you what I’ve written down.”
“He used to write in the margins, I thought you might have missed something,” she said softly, sitting very still while he dried her tears. “It’s foolish, really, he’s been dead for years and I still get choked up over it.”
“It’s not foolish. You loved him very much.”
“But I swear I’m not one of those women who faints at the slightest thing or bursts into tears over spilled milked. I’m not like this normally.”
“My dear, you stuck your hands into a roaring fireplace. Do you think I would really consider you weak after that?” Atticus smiled slightly, his thumb brushing along the line of her jaw for a moment before he released her.
“There’s no shame in still loving Charles,” he said as he tucked the handkerchief away again.
“But that’s the thing isn’t it? I never really loved Charles at all,” she said, looking down at her hands. “The man I knew as Charles Xavier wasn’t him at all. He kept so much from me. I know it was for my own protection or his own protection or some reason but… I could tell him anything. I had no secrets from him and now I learn he’s kept his whole life from me.”
Atticus sighed, somewhat heavily and sat down next to her. He rewrapped the journal and set it on the little wall desk before he settled.
“What would you have done if Charles had told you the truth?”
She sighed, “Thought he was crazy.”
“Exactly. We can’t tell people what we are, Hope, even the people we love the most. I’m sure Charles wanted to tell you, and in some ways he did didn’t he? After all, you knew of me and I hadn’t visited him in ages before I showed up on your door step.”
“But what don’t I know?” She looked away, feeling foolish because she was angry and upset with a dead man.
“I don’t know. Charles and I weren’t terribly close, though we were friends.”
“Do you think…” Hope began to twist her fingers together, a nervous habit for her. “Do you think he’s been married before?”
“I don’t know.”
She huffed out a frustrated breath and quickly closed her eyes against another wave of tears. She shouldn’t feel this way. It was pointless, it was stupid. She hated pointless, stupid feelings. Charles had his reasons for keeping his secrets. It didn’t mean anything, it didn’t mean he had loved her any less.
“I would think though, that for a vampire as old as Charles marrying someone, especially a human someone, would mean something very important. He not only loved that someone enough to marry them, but signed himself up for a show, watching the woman he loved slowly age and eventually die while he stayed in the same point in time.”
Hope quickly covered her mouth with a hand, trying to hold back the sobs but it was useless. Something in her cracked and she began to shake uncontrollably as she cried. She had loved her husband, she had, but she felt so betrayed deep down. It was so stupid, so stupid to be so hurt over something she couldn’t change and couldn’t possibly have known, could have never known. If it hadn’t been for Atticus she would have lived out her whole life never knowing who her husband really was.
“Oh dear.” Atticus wrapped an arm around her and gently drew her to his side. She turned and clutched at his jacket, hiding her face away in his shoulder as it all caught up to her.
She had never taken a moment to fully realize just what had happened to her and the huge change her life faced. She was fighting a war against a vampire for God’s sake or going to eventually. There were hundreds of vampires out there who needed the cure and a whole legion of Hunters who would kill her as soon as they saw her. What had her life become?
“You must hate me,” Atticus said softly as he tried to comfort her. “I’m the one who brought you into this world, the one who destroyed everything you’ve ever known. I am sorry, deeply sorry for that. I didn’t mean for any of this, never this for anyone but you… you especially don’t deserve this.”
She drew in a trembling breath and shook her head. “I don’t hate you.”
He chuckled, somewhat bitterly. “You don’t need to spare my feelings, dear.”
“No, no, I really don’t.” She drew in another breath and drew back, even though tears were still rolling down her cheeks. “You’re absolutely right that I should but I can’t. I don’t have it in me, I guess. I can’t even hate Charles for lying to me all the years were knew each other. You’ve taken good care of me too. How can I hate you after that?”
“I’m beginning to see why Charles loved you as much as he did.”
She laughed a bit and wiped at her eyes again, then remembered her soot covered bandages. “Bullocks. I must really look like a monster now.”
“Never.” Atticus said and something in his voice made her flush underneath the soot. These mood swings were really something. She hoped they passed soon before she really did start fainting or something else terribly embarrassing.
“Here.” He once again held out his handkerchief. “I’ll get Wraith to change your bandages.”
“Thank you.” She took it with a real smile. “For more than this. I feel… remarkably better now.”
“Then so do I. Keep that, I have others.” He rose smoothly and strode out. Hope stayed on the floor, wiping at her cheeks with his, now her handkerchief and contemplated what felt like another change in her life.
AU:Victorian Vampire AU
Characters: Hope Chandler, Atticus Bergenson
Rating: G
Pairings: Hope/Atticus
Warnings: Vampires
Author’s Notes: What's this? Even more vampire fic? Gasp! Originally this was going to be part of the next chapter but it started getting so long, so intense and shippy that I broke it off into its own fic. The title comes from the Rob Thomas song “Mockingbird” which I was listening to at the time.
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Though Atticus was doing all the delicate work of transcribing her husband’s journal, Hope couldn’t fight the little bit of curiosity that poked at her until she retrieved it from the little trunk of things that traveled with them. The charred remains of the journal were tucked in a hat box filled with scraps of cloth and was wrapped in silk. She slipped her the sleeping compartment with the journal cradled against her chest and sat on the floor. It was easier on her if she couldn’t look out the windows.
Somewhat nervously she started to unwrap the silk until the burnt remains of Charles’ journal were revealed. She carefully hooked the edge of the cover with the tip of her bandage wrapped finger and slowly opened it. Bits cracked and flaked off with every inch it moved. She swore even her breath sent bits of ash flying. The first few pages were almost completely gone. It appeared Atticus had salvaged what he could from them and then blown them away, leaving the stronger, less damaged pages in the middle exposed.
She carefully brushed away a few bits of char from the pages that were mostly blackened on the edges with the occasional burn hole here and there and looked down at the familiar script of her late husband. Charles’ handwriting had always been elegant, patient. She had watched him write occasionally and knew that each word was carefully considered before being written. There was a process to writing for Charles. She ran her fingers over the words, feeling the dull familiar ache of grief. Oh, how she had loved her husband, truly. She was better, much better than she had been when he first died but the ache always rose up when she remembered him.
But she hadn’t done this to take a trip down memory lane, not solely anyway. She wanted to see if she could find something Atticus might have missed in transcribing. She didn’t doubt he was very good, but she knew her husband, knew how he wrote and that his notes could often break off into a short hand that hid on the edges of pages. She was trying to help. They needed to remake the cure just as much as they needed to stop Magnus. It was getting more and more difficult to manage both tasks at once.
It was difficult to turn the fragile pages with her bandages. Her fingers were thicker than she was used to and felt incredibly clumsy. She was usually quite good with her hands and was very good at delicate tasks like this but she couldn’t always get a grip to turn the page as she scanned through the words left behind by her husband. Frustration rose in her chest as another corner broke off in her fingers and crumbled into the bandages, blackening the tips of her fingers.
“Blast it all,” she muttered and fought down the urge to throw the journal across the car.
The door to the car opened and she looked down at Atticus who suddenly looked very concerned. He crouched down in front of her, digging in the breast pocket of his jacket.
“What’s wrong, dear? Are your hands bothering you?” he asked softly.
“What?” She blinked and was surprised at the wetness that clung to her eyelashes. She swiped underneath her eye then stared at the wetness spreading through her bandages. She had been crying?
“Here, let me do that. You’re getting ash all over yourself.” Atticus gently took her chin in one hand and began to dab at her eyes. “If you had asked, I could’ve shown you what I’ve written down.”
“He used to write in the margins, I thought you might have missed something,” she said softly, sitting very still while he dried her tears. “It’s foolish, really, he’s been dead for years and I still get choked up over it.”
“It’s not foolish. You loved him very much.”
“But I swear I’m not one of those women who faints at the slightest thing or bursts into tears over spilled milked. I’m not like this normally.”
“My dear, you stuck your hands into a roaring fireplace. Do you think I would really consider you weak after that?” Atticus smiled slightly, his thumb brushing along the line of her jaw for a moment before he released her.
“There’s no shame in still loving Charles,” he said as he tucked the handkerchief away again.
“But that’s the thing isn’t it? I never really loved Charles at all,” she said, looking down at her hands. “The man I knew as Charles Xavier wasn’t him at all. He kept so much from me. I know it was for my own protection or his own protection or some reason but… I could tell him anything. I had no secrets from him and now I learn he’s kept his whole life from me.”
Atticus sighed, somewhat heavily and sat down next to her. He rewrapped the journal and set it on the little wall desk before he settled.
“What would you have done if Charles had told you the truth?”
She sighed, “Thought he was crazy.”
“Exactly. We can’t tell people what we are, Hope, even the people we love the most. I’m sure Charles wanted to tell you, and in some ways he did didn’t he? After all, you knew of me and I hadn’t visited him in ages before I showed up on your door step.”
“But what don’t I know?” She looked away, feeling foolish because she was angry and upset with a dead man.
“I don’t know. Charles and I weren’t terribly close, though we were friends.”
“Do you think…” Hope began to twist her fingers together, a nervous habit for her. “Do you think he’s been married before?”
“I don’t know.”
She huffed out a frustrated breath and quickly closed her eyes against another wave of tears. She shouldn’t feel this way. It was pointless, it was stupid. She hated pointless, stupid feelings. Charles had his reasons for keeping his secrets. It didn’t mean anything, it didn’t mean he had loved her any less.
“I would think though, that for a vampire as old as Charles marrying someone, especially a human someone, would mean something very important. He not only loved that someone enough to marry them, but signed himself up for a show, watching the woman he loved slowly age and eventually die while he stayed in the same point in time.”
Hope quickly covered her mouth with a hand, trying to hold back the sobs but it was useless. Something in her cracked and she began to shake uncontrollably as she cried. She had loved her husband, she had, but she felt so betrayed deep down. It was so stupid, so stupid to be so hurt over something she couldn’t change and couldn’t possibly have known, could have never known. If it hadn’t been for Atticus she would have lived out her whole life never knowing who her husband really was.
“Oh dear.” Atticus wrapped an arm around her and gently drew her to his side. She turned and clutched at his jacket, hiding her face away in his shoulder as it all caught up to her.
She had never taken a moment to fully realize just what had happened to her and the huge change her life faced. She was fighting a war against a vampire for God’s sake or going to eventually. There were hundreds of vampires out there who needed the cure and a whole legion of Hunters who would kill her as soon as they saw her. What had her life become?
“You must hate me,” Atticus said softly as he tried to comfort her. “I’m the one who brought you into this world, the one who destroyed everything you’ve ever known. I am sorry, deeply sorry for that. I didn’t mean for any of this, never this for anyone but you… you especially don’t deserve this.”
She drew in a trembling breath and shook her head. “I don’t hate you.”
He chuckled, somewhat bitterly. “You don’t need to spare my feelings, dear.”
“No, no, I really don’t.” She drew in another breath and drew back, even though tears were still rolling down her cheeks. “You’re absolutely right that I should but I can’t. I don’t have it in me, I guess. I can’t even hate Charles for lying to me all the years were knew each other. You’ve taken good care of me too. How can I hate you after that?”
“I’m beginning to see why Charles loved you as much as he did.”
She laughed a bit and wiped at her eyes again, then remembered her soot covered bandages. “Bullocks. I must really look like a monster now.”
“Never.” Atticus said and something in his voice made her flush underneath the soot. These mood swings were really something. She hoped they passed soon before she really did start fainting or something else terribly embarrassing.
“Here.” He once again held out his handkerchief. “I’ll get Wraith to change your bandages.”
“Thank you.” She took it with a real smile. “For more than this. I feel… remarkably better now.”
“Then so do I. Keep that, I have others.” He rose smoothly and strode out. Hope stayed on the floor, wiping at her cheeks with his, now her handkerchief and contemplated what felt like another change in her life.