♥ Policy of Truth for scarletwoman710 2/2 ♥
Title: Policy of Truth
Summary: Trying to kill that kid for her had been a mistake. He was merely a gift, a grand gesture; something to show that Tate was serious about making sure that he always took care of her. Desperation and anger had made him sloppy and all she saw were his actions negating his words. That was not going to happen again.
Spoilers/Warnings/ Triggers: None
Author’s Note: None
( Policy of Truth 1/2 )
Policy of Truth 2/2
Ben and Vivien were, as always, living up to their policy of benign neglect. When they finally gave up the obnoxiously loud fucking as a form of retaliation Tate worried he’d have to find another way to distract them, but thankfully that hadn’t been necessary; they were too wrapped up in their new second chance to notice anything else.
The twins had been more than willing to help him out though. In exchange for a stack of old Playboys they were happily creating a path of destruction through the house which kept Moira busy, both cleaning up and trying to stop them all at the same time. They probably would have done it without the bribery, but good deeds deserved rewards, and keeping Moira busy meant that Violet had no one to talk to.
It hurt Tate a little to ensure that she was so cut off from everyone in the house, but sometimes unpleasant things were necessary, and she needed to know, really know, that he would always be her constant.
He’d been in the corner, watching her for hours when she called him out of the shadows. It was pointless to pretend otherwise so he settled himself cross-legged onto her bed while she stayed curled around her laptop watching a movie; the batteries charged from the extension cord Constance, in a fit of generosity, had flung over the fence.
“What are you watching?”
She rolled her eyes, but answered his question anyway. “Marie Antoinette.”
“Why do you like that so much?”
“You know why.” She kept her eyes trained on the screen, watching the images flashing across it, bathing her face in colors and light. He knew she loved it because she identified with the ill-fated monarch; a girl of fifteen who had to leave everything she knew, had to move to a strange place where she was viewed with fear and suspicion, so much like what Violet had experienced moving to California.
Regardless, it gives Tate the opening he’s looking for. “You know I’ll always be here right? We don’t have to talk or anything if you don’t want to, if you just want to, you know... not be alone, I’m here. Always.” He leans forward, fingers flexing, like he wants to wrap her up in his arms and give his words physical force. “Do you want me to go?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Tate at least is smart enough to understand girl-speak, and the translation of ‘it doesn’t matter’ is roughly, ‘if you leave it will really piss me off’, so he stays, pleased that after a little hiccup things seem to be back on track, even if Violet isn’t particularly enthusiastic. If they’re honest with themselves though it’s the best few hours they’ve had since she told him to ‘go away’
“Glad to see you and Tate are getting along again.”
“Shouldn’t you be off reading Dr. Seuss or something?”
Travis smiled despite the sarcasm; he thought it was kind of cute that Violet wasn’t intimidated by him despite the fact he was older and looked like a model. “Done babysitting for the day.” He said proudly and sat down at the kitchen island next to her. “He was upset for days, you know; breaking shit, crying. Seems to think that you think he’ll stop loving you someday because he doesn’t love Nora anymore, which - no offense - that’s just stupid.”
Violet shot him a filthy look. “Stay out of it.”
“Look Violet, I know I’m not the brightest bulb in the box, but I’m not blind. I know what kind of mother Constance was to Addie, and probably Tate too. Nora was the only mother he really had, and you’re the reason he won’t have anything to do with her anymore. That has to count for something.”
Constance walked in through the backdoor, a smile lighting up her face at Travis’ enthusiastic ‘Hey babe’ before an equally enthusiastic kiss that left Violet’s stomach churning. “Thought I’d bring over something sweet for my boys.” She cood at Travis, setting a plate of cookies down, and giving him a meaningful look before going upstairs with a giggle that was trying to be coquettish, but was mostly just disgraceful in a woman her age.
“He really loves you Violet. When he had to chose between you and Nora, he chose you. I know he did a lot of fucked up shit, but he’s trying to fix things. Being stuck here is hard enough, if you make each other happy... maybe you should give him a break.” He shoved a cookie in his mouth and trotted off after Constance.
“Here.” Violet sat down carefully next to Tate on the darkened porch, extending a hand clutching a small stack of cookies.“Your mother brought these over.” Tate took the cookie at the top of the stack, told Violet to help herself to the rest, as he leaned against the low wall ringing the porch to watch her. “What?” She asked around a mouthful of food.
“Nothing, it’s just you look beautiful right now.” He knew there was a smartass comment coming his way, and Violet didn’t disappoint.
“Yeah, the glow of the streetlight is enchanting; I’m gorgeous in semi-darkness.”
“Why don’t you ever believe me?” It’s always the same; sarcasm and eye-rolling no matter how often or insistently he said the words.
“Because it’s bullshit.” Even though she’d like to believe it; like to let a blush color her cheeks at his words she can’t because deep down she doesn’t really believe them.
“No, it’s not.”
“Yeah, okay.” She scoffs, and it’s that little disbelieving noise that finally makes Tate snap because he’s always hated that she’d never believe anything good about herself unless it was admiration for how neat and tidy her scars were, and this time he refuses to drop it.
“You know what guys like, Vi? Confidence, refusing to give a fuck. It’s not how big your tits are, or the shape of your ass; that shit only matters when all you want to do is fuck someone. When you love someone you don’t even notice that.”
“Have you ever been denied anything? You know what you look like. I really doubt you had a problem getting laid in high school. It’s easy for you to say things like that because you’re fucking perfect. You don’t understand what it’s like to stand in front of a mirror and see nothing but flaws.” The words come out harsh because it’s always easier to be angry than vulnerable, and admitting it to Tate makes Violet feel just that.
He has to work to shut down his surge of anger because Violet didn’t know that she was unwittingly echoing Constance’s words. It’s those words that make him want to break things, and not Violet. Still, his voice comes out tight from the effort. “You know what I see when I look in the mirror? Someone whose only value in life was a pretty face. Someone who couldn’t be loved because of anything that mattered, and that’s bullshit. You don’t know what it’s like to be with someone and still be lonelier than you’ve ever been.”
They descend into an uncomfortable silence, each too distracted by their thoughts to notice the neighborhood going to sleep around them until Tate decides to lighten the mood by pushing at Violet’s foot with his, knowing she’d push back; the game going on until she knocked his foot off the step and smiled in triumph even if he was letting her win. Just like that, they’re back to being two normal teenagers wasting time and being happy because they’re wasting it together.
She still twists out of his grasp when his arm tried to find its way around her; trying to remind him, again, that they weren’t together anymore. Not that it mattered much when, with a wicked grin on his face, he offered her his hand to help her up to go back inside. Predictably he plants his heels and pulls her up with all the force he has making her stumble into his chest, his arms wrapping around her keeping them both upright. It gives Violet the chance to whisper ‘sorry’ into his ear, having realized too late why beauty is a sensitive subject for him.
“You’re the only one I think about. Those other girls... I don’t even remember their faces, just how empty it was. It wasn’t like us. No one loved me, really loved me, until you.” He’s still got his arms around her, and can’t help but press her against him a little as he says it.
“You say that a lot.” It’s not the answer he was hoping for, but better than he usually gets.
“Maybe you’ll believe me someday.”
“I hear you’ve been spending time with Tate.”
Violet doesn’t say anything because of course the only time Ben even bothers to notice her was when she misbehaves, and like an errant child, and needs to be scolded. So she waits, giving her father a dead impassive stare, knowing it’s pointless to argue.
“He’s a psychopath, Violet, and a pathological liar; you can’t believe anything he says.”
Violet had to work hard to bite back the retort of is that your excuse too?
“He’s obsessed with you; he doesn’t love you, never did.” She draws in a sharp breath, her body responding like his words cause physical wounds.
“You know maybe if I had parents who set better examples, like a father who didn’t bed every pretty coed who made a pass at him, I wouldn’t have fallen in love with someone like Tate.”
It’s not so much the verbal bitch slap that left Ben stunned into silence, but being forced to accept what Violet already knew. That the distance that had started when she was barely thirteen had finally widened to a gulf he couldn’t cross. Violet didn’t need to be parented, and Ben couldn’t use it to control her anymore.
Violet had been finding him a lot lately. There was always a pretext - cards, or Scrabble, or this or that or the other thing - but she was there enough for him to know things were changing, and when he sees her lounging in the Gazebo he decides to repay her attentions. “Are you cold?”
“Not really.” Tate still dutifully shrugs out of his cardigan, draping it over her shoulders. “Very chivalrous.” Violet smirks, but pulls her arms through the overlong sleeves all the same as he sits down at her feet.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Nothing. Thinking.”
“About?”
She doesn’t lift her head where she’s resting it against her arm, against the railing. “If someone moved into the house who I actually wanted would you kill them for me?” Not that she can ever see it happening, but it’s comforting to know there’s a Plan B no matter how unlikely.
“I will always take care of you, and if that’s what you want, I’ll make sure you have it.” He mumbles it against her knee even though he knows she’ll probably kick at him for it, and she does but not with any real force. “I want you to be happy, every day, I just want to be the reason. If you can’t be happy with me then I guess it would have to be enough that every time you’d look at him you’d know you were happy because of me.”
“A simple ‘yes’ would have been enough.” She deadpans.
He looks up to find her watching him with flushed cheeks from the feel of his lips against her leg and his devotional words. “No, it wouldn’t’ve.”
There’s a loud banging of the back door on the other side of the house and raised voices carrying over on a gentle breeze. It’s takes them a moment to realize it’s Chad and Pat back at each others throats since the emergency therapy sessions and make-up sex weren’t enough.
Even at a distance it makes Violet uncomfortable, and more so when her name gets dragged into the fray. Apparently the only proper way to show your love and devotion in Murder House is to die or kill, and the only rebuttal Patrick has for it is that he would gladly commit a thousand awful crimes for the man he loves... who isn’t Chad.
Violet turns over their shouted words for a long time, watching Tate as he plays Solitaire below her, a small smile pushing his cheeks up every now and then; every time he thinks about Chad repeating the words he’d fed him a few weeks before and the contemplative look on Violet’s face when he catches her watching him.
There’s the usual back and forth of vicious banter between Hayden and Tate as the ball rolls between him and Beau. Now that she’d been tossed aside for Vivien yet again she’s back to her old tricks, only this time Violet’s watching, silent and invisible, from the corner.
Once she gets past the shattering pain of their little display - at least enough to breath again, if not enough to unstick herself from the floor where she’s glued in sick horror - it amazes her how much havoc Hayden could inflict on her heart without actually having any direct contact.
She knew from Moira that this had been going on for a while, that Tate had always refused Hayden, but she wondered if that would always be the case. If maybe, finally, some day he’d have enough of forever and forget about her with someone else.
When his hand reached up and threaded through Hayden’s hair she wished she had a dozen bullet wounds that would open up and bleed out from the pain of it because it probably wouldn’t hurt as much as seeing that. From where she was sitting she couldn’t see Tate’s face; couldn’t see the smile that blossomed there, or how he looked calm and peaceful when his eyes closed. His next move though she couldn’t miss.
Suddenly Hayden was pinned to the floor, with Tate on top of her, bashing her face against it until her cheek was pulpy bone chips and blood. He left her there, muttered something that sounded like ‘amateur’, and disappeared down the ladder.
It was a more violent response than he normally would have given her, but if the fleeting hints of acrid cigarette wafting through the air were anything to go by Violet was close and watching even if he couldn’t see her, and she needed to see this, needed to know he at least was immune to Hayden’s Kryptonite pussy, unlike her father.
Violet waited until Hayden pulled herself off the floor, followed her as she stumbled her way towards staircase, and with little more than a feather light touch sent her cascading down it, neatly sidestepping Hayden’s body at the bottom. Violet might have degraded Tate for his darkness, but feeling the visceral thrill of killing someone, of embracing the darkness, put a brilliant smile on her lips.
Violet was laying in bed, in the dark, tracing shapes on her pillow unable to shake the image of Hayden draped over Tate’s shoulders like his cardigan had been over hers. It had been jealousy that made her push Hayden down the stairs and it was an unwelcome realization once the delightful rush of darkness faded. It was easy to dismiss spending time with him as a distraction, as friendship, but jealousy couldn’t be dismissed.
She had been nervous after he rejected her that night on the beach, wondering if there was something wrong with her that made him balk at the thought of being inside her. How was she supposed to know that outside the energy of the house he couldn’t get it up? She hadn’t tried again after that, and neither had he for that matter, until the night she almost left.
Intense. That had been how she’d described their first time when he asked. The physical pain and pleasure were fleeting, but the emotions... those were intense. She finally saw what he did when he looked at her like she was the only person he could see, if only for a moment. In his eyes she wasn’t a fucked up, tragic little girl. All her fears and insecurities were brushed away because in his eyes, for a little while at least, she was beautiful and desirable, and everything he ever wanted.
Being stripped bare of all the snotty childish armor they both wore, being vulnerable like that, had been more honest than trite and tired words would ever be. She knew he loved her because she could feel it in his skin, feel it in the way that it was who he was when you took everything else away. It was true and honest and even if everything else around them was shit, he was the only one she needed.
It was the first time she felt totally, completely loved; how the knowledge made her feel full and sated in a way that had nothing to do with the way he moved inside her or the slip of his skin against hers, though there was that too. She missed that feeling more than anything else, and if she could have it back forever would have sacrificed anything for it.
It’s the thought that maybe when you loved someone, really deeply loved them, that that’s what you always felt that reminds her that Vivien thought it was Ben in the rubber suit that night, and she certainly hadn’t been complaining at the time.
Tate watches as she curls in on herself, makes herself as small as possible when pain contorts her face, and before he can think about it he’s crouched next to her, reaching out to soothe her. She doesn’t open her eyes to see the silent worry painted across his face, but he physically recoils when she asks him to do to her what he did to her mother. His bewildered refusal gets him sent back to the basement.
Vivien trapezing into her room looking sex flushed and satisfied was not how Violet wanted to wake up, something that Tate could clearly see in her eyes from where he sat, invisible, against the wall. “So, Halloween’s in a few days.” She said cheerily.
“And?”
“Well, your dad and I wanted to do something as a family.”
“No, thanks.” Violet rolled back over, trying to dismiss her.
“Come on sweetie, it might cheer you up.” Vivien whined.
“No.” Ever since her parents died it had been so tempting to tell them to ‘go away’ when she didn’t want to deal with them, when they were trying to pretend they cared as long as it was convenient for them. It had been months since Vivien had talked to her, but now that it was a holiday, now that they wanted to play pretend, here she was. “And since when do you care if I’m happy or not?”
“I always care, Violet, I’m your mother; I just want you to be happy.”
Violet rolled back over, carefully studying her mother’s face. “Why did you think it was dad... that night in the suit, why did you think it was him?”
“Because it looked like -”
“You couldn’t see him.” Violet cut her off.
“He was the same size as your dad.” There was a moment of complete and utter silence, and Vivien realized what she said and what it sounded like she said. “Not like that! That’s not what I meant!”
“Get out.”
He had beaten Vivien downstairs, beaten her to finding Moira and begging her to talk to Violet. All it did was piss her off. As soon as Moira was out of the room Vivien was in it, trapping Tate against the wall before he had a chance to disappear. “Stop trying to take care of her. She’s never going to get over you if you keep it up. Not that I’m telling you anything you don’t already know.” She sneered, looking at the boy in front of her with nothing but disgust and contempt in her eyes.
As much as it annoyed him, as much as he needed to be upstairs listening to Violet explain to Moira what was going on in her head, he forced the irritation out and assumed the mask of a naughty child that had always worked so well with Ben. “Did you know about the cutting? Have any idea how much Violet was hurting in the last few years before she died?” His words, delivered with tender timidity, knocked the anger out of her and replaced it with confusion. “Look at her wrists; they’re covered in scars.”
She stepped back, gaping at him, Violet’s sudden fashion statement of long sleeves no matter the weather given new significance. As everything clicked into place in her head he knew he had a captive audience because the one thing that would always appeal to a mother, even his fucked up excuse for one, was the well being of their children. Vivien wouldn’t ignore his words like Constance would though. She’d dwell on them for days, feeling guilty over her failings, he knew.
“You’re still hurting her. This thing with you and Ben.” He trailed off. “Taking care of her though... it’s what I’ve always done, all I’ve ever wanted to do. She didn’t really cut when things were good between us, only once when shit got really bad between you and Ben again, but she was happier then.”
He dropped his gaze, absently scuffing his shoe against the floor. “Yeah, I want her back, but that’s not why I take care of her. I just want her to be happy, because it’s not right that she’s all alone here; she needs someone.” He moved, walking widely around her to get out the door before she found her tongue and tried to argue with him.
When Ben found her hours later, lost in thought looking out the window, she had decided that really, at some point, she ignored the obvious because she saw even if she didn’t want to see.
“I think that’s a very stupid idea.” Moira’s brow was furrowed, her agitation showing in the rapid bounce of the orthopedically shod foot tapping against the floor as Violet paced in front of her.
All Violet did was shrug. “I need to know.” It could be morbid curiosity, or maybe perverse self-destruction, but it wasn’t. It was about honesty. About needing to know if everything he’s been telling her about their love being different is bullshit. If her believing him is her being stupid and naive again.
“I still think it’s a very stupid idea. He loves you, Violet. He’s never loved anyone else.”
“Yeah ‘cause the dating pool is so deep in this house.” She scoffed.
“He hasn’t been with anyone else since you, you know that. I don’t particularly like him, but in the twenty odd years he’s been stuck here with me you’ve been it for him, and I really don’t think anyone else could change him the way you have. You make him a better person.”
“Seriously, Moira what’s he bribing or blackmailing you with for all the good publicity?” Violet can’t help but snap caustically.
“If he didn’t love you why would he still be trying to make you happy? Maybe it’s because you’re young.” She says thoughtfully. “You didn’t get to live very much before you died; you don’t understand how precious a thing love is.”
Moira rose slowly to her feet, as if the years in Murder House were a tangible weight on her. “Just think about it very carefully before you do anything.”
Violet was still pacing and alternating between smoking and chewing on her nail until she suddenly stopped, picked up a heavy book and threw it into the corner where Tate was standing, invisible. He appeared, rubbing his chest and glaring at her. “That really hurt.”
“I’d ask you what you want, but I already know, so I’ll save you the trouble: I’m not going to tell you why and I’m not going to change my mind, and until you decide to show me what you did to her there’s nothing to talk about.” She doesn’t even try to be nice about it because really unless he’s wearing black latex he’s the last person she wants to see.
“Can’t I just tell you?”
“No.”
“I can’t touch you like that. I love you... I just can’t. Please, I’ll tell you exactly what happened, whatever you want to know.” He pleads. He’d spent the night in the basement, made himself physically ill more than once thinking about raping Violet the way he’d raped her mother, and pleas are all he has in the face of her determination.
“You’ll lie. Jesus, it’s not like you haven’t done it before, just close your eyes and pretend.”
“No.”
“Why not?” She screams it, clinging to the hope that if she can get him angry enough he’ll give in.
Because you’ll leave me. Because you’ll hate. Because you’ll finally see the monsters I’ve so carefully hidden from you, that’s why. “I can’t.”
“Fine. Go away.”
The house was empty; quiet and still and eerie, it was so empty. Violet didn’t even look at him as he walked through her door, just sat in the windowsill, watching the street below without really seeing it.
“It’s Halloween.” Nothing. She was back to being a ghost girl, clear and dead. She’d been like this for days and as he watches her he couldn’t decide if it makes him want to kill her in the hopes of getting something other than perfect indifference out of her, or cry and grovel at her feet for the same reason. Instead he turns and walks out the door, out of the house, and off down the street.
He knew she wasn’t going anywhere. She really didn’t see the point. However much she might enjoy her day of freedom it didn’t make up for the crushing pain of having to return to the house at dawn. If anything it was a reminder that she was stuck in this gilded prison forever and she didn’t need to be reminded.
His return wasn’t graceful; the banging and cursing as he stumbled through the door carrying more food than they could eat at least drew her attention to him though. “So fine, you don’t want to go out. I get it. I didn’t really feel like leaving either. I mean it’s nice, having the house to ourselves.” She arched an eyebrow at him, a small gesture that saved her the trouble of telling him he was full of shit.
He laid out the food on the bed between where she was sitting up against the headboard and where he was against the footboard. “I didn’t know what you’d like so you can have first choice.”
“I don’t want that.” Her voice full of patronizing humor as she nudges his peace offering with her foot.
All it does is bring his anger from before back ten-fold because everything he’s done for her isn’t enough. He’s off the bed and pacing frantic circles trying to control it, and all she does is watch him with detached amusement. “Why isn’t it enough? Why isn’t enough that I’ve been taking care of you, making you happy? Anything you want Violet, if I can give it to you, it’s yours.”
“I want you to do to me what you did to her Tate.” He doesn’t say anything, just stops his pacing and glares at her. “No? Go. Away.”
There’s an inarticulate scream of rage that tears through Tate’s throat when he finds himself banished to the basement once more. There’s no one there to hear it. No one there to care as his favourite old chair rockets across the room and breaks against the wall. It’s never going to be enough. No matter what he does, all his careful, thoughtful plans will never be enough to bring Violet back into the fold of his arms, and really what does it matter if he rapes her? Even if he feels like shit afterwards he didn’t have anything left to lose; she was already gone.
She had just cleared away the last of the food when he appeared behind her wearing the suit. She didn’t struggle as he pushed her onto the bed and pulled her panties off; did nothing more than lightly wrap her hands around his arms as he positioned himself and pushed inside her.
It gave him cruel satisfaction to see her wince at his painful intrusion; made him smile to know that in giving her exactly what she wanted he was hurting her in some way, just like she’d been hurting him. He wanted to hold on to that anger burning inside him because it was the only thing that made this possible. When he felt it start to drain away he closed his eyes and thought of Violet ignoring his desperate pleas like they meant nothing, of the ‘I love you’ and ‘go away’ said almost in the same breath.
He thought of everything he’d done for her before she died, after she died; the past and present and lingering resentments and bitterness, and it wasn’t enough. He felt his anger shrivel and die just like he wanted to do buried in the girl he loved and being so far away from her and him and everything that ever meant anything to him that all he felt was alone; profoundly, completely alone.
There was the creeping tickle of blood between his flesh and the suit and as panic stabbed at him he closed his eyes and dredged up memories of Violet to lose himself in. He focused on her face, the way it lit up when they’d find something in common, the way she smiled and laughed that first day, here in this room. The way she blushed when he presented her with rose he’d painted black for her. It was enough, at least, to close the wounds.
The sound of his own breath was harsh in his ears, confined and amplified behind the swath of darkness surrounding his face. He didn’t know or care if he was reenacting what he did to Vivien, just that he wanted it to be over, now, because he wasn’t sure who was the monster here anymore.
He wanted to leave the hands gripping his arms in both a familiar and horrifyingly familiar way. He wanted to flee the touch that flipped his reality and memory and turned the girl under him into someone she wasn’t, someone the latex shell had been as much to protect his identity from, as to protect himself from being touched by her in any place other than what was absolutely necessary because he didn’t want her touch, he wanted Violet’s.
But he had to come, had to do this for Nora, so she’d finally have the baby she wanted so much; so he could finally repay her for all the times she’d kissed his scraped knees and wiped away his tears when Momma had hit him. Violet. All the half-formed indistinct fantasies of his hands skating over her skin, of her flesh under his lips and tongue took up residence in the forefront of his brain and he had to clamp his teeth together to keep from crying out her name when he came.
He wanted to disappear from on top of the woman under him, but that would kind of give away the fact that he wasn’t Ben, so he made a show of pulling away. It wasn’t until his eyes slitted open to find his way off the bed that he realized it was the wrong room, the wrong time of day, the wrong everything. He caught a glimpse of Violet, skirt bunched around her waist, panties still tangled around an ankle, and hands covering her face as he staggered out. The weight of reality finally collapsed him on the bathroom floor where he tore at the material he was cloaked in and crawled into the shower.
He cowered there under the spray as it washed away the tears and blood and cum covering him, but not the image of Violet on her bed with her face hidden in her hands and his release glistening between her thighs.
It was pleasant inside the small cafe, dimly lit and warm, but Violet was miles away. Not empty, she hadn’t been empty since Moira came to talk to her that first time, even if it looked that way on the outside. If anything she was full, had been for days, full of thoughts of him and her mother. Now she knew. Violet didn’t doubt he had done to her more or less what he’d done to her mother, had probably been a little gentler because he loved her even if he was angry.
She didn’t really feel anything except relief. Relief that he hadn’t been lying to her. Relief that the way he was with her wasn’t like how he was with anyone else by the only yardstick she knew. She had heard his keening and choked sobs, all the inarticulate sounds of pain and heartbreak, as she passed the bathroom; even with her hand on the door she had to push herself away, put some distance between them so she could think.
Tate had been telling her for months that they were different, and he was right. The sex was one thing. If her mom really thought it had been her dad in that suit... well... Violet didn’t want to dwell on that, she thought ruefully. But it was different with her and Tate. She always knew he loved her, could feel it, but his reenactment had felt cold, empty. If he was right about that maybe he was right about the way they loved each other too.
Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t like Ben. Maybe when he said he wanted her forever, he meant it, like Travis said. Maybe he wouldn’t hurt her again. And Moira was right. He hadn’t been with anyone else, had been taking care of her when he didn’t have to. Unlike her parents he noticed and cared that she was hurting, and tried to make things better for her; making sure she had someone to talk to, taking care of Hayden, reining in Chad. He didn’t have to do those things, but he did them anyway, and wasn’t that love?
He had shown her that he loved her, that he didn’t want anyone else, and to keep ignoring it because of her bullshit seemed the height of stupidity. The only thing keeping her unhappy now wasn’t her parents or him or anyone else, it was herself. He wouldn’t wait for her forever, wouldn’t let her keep hurting him forever, and he shouldn’t. The idea of him with someone else brought new pain, sharp and fresh and worse than thoughts of him and Vivien.
The fact that he’d raped her mother - brought about her death - that was probably always going to be painful, but when her brain crash lands on the thought that he may not want the second chance he’s been working so hard for it’s enough to send her running out of the door because that’s a worse pain.
It was déjà vu; Violet could have just left her mother’s corpse in the den because here he was curled on her blankets like a scared child just like he had been before. Maybe it was just what Tate did when everything spiraled out of his control.
He expected her goodbyes again, but she didn’t say anything this time as he sat up and covered her hands with his own. Didn’t say anything as they traveled up her arms to her shoulders and pulled her down on the bed with him. His lips on hers, tender and insistent and loving, were as much reassurance as affirmation. He needed to know she was okay, that they were okay, and so did she, and this was the only way they knew how.
It wasn’t enough to tell her he loved her. It wasn’t enough to say it; he needed to show her, she needed to feel it. And she did in the touch of his fingers, so gentle, peeling her clothes away despite the nervousness and despair in his eyes, reflecting back into his as she mirrored his actions. She felt it in his lips ghosting over her, worshiping and wallowing in her flesh so reverentially. She felt it in the way his tongue cleansed away the evidence of his earlier sin, tasted it on his tongue, shared it, when he stretched back up to cover her.
He nearly cried at the warm embrace of her body welcoming him home. And just like that, just like always the world reduced down to the small space they occupied in it; smaller than the bed they were on, clinging around the shape of their two bodies melded together in the only way they could be. The silent persistent pleas declaring love and begging forgiveness obliterated in thought, because this was what love and forgiveness felt like, what it tasted and smelled like as they moved with each other.
Her hips meeting his thrusts; her tongue possessing his mouth. Familiar actions, familiar feelings, but with the unbearable pleasure of hope, because there’s nothing like starting over and having the one person you want that you thought you’d never have again. When he rests his forehead against her, rocking into her deeply, silently urging her towards release and the split second oblivion of death only so much sweeter, it’s more an action of the heart than the body.
There’s the inevitable and hated separation, and even with her draped over him it’s still too far away. That’s when the promises slip past his lips into the shell of her ear. “Don’t promise me anything.” He feels her lips form the words she’s so close. “I don’t want promises.”
“Just stay.” Simple words with heavy implications, reinforced by his arms cinched around her, keeping her close.
She pushes up to look him in the eye, lips parted to speak when Ben barged through the door. “Violet, we saved you some-” He stopped dead, mouth hanging open in shock and Violet can’t really find it in herself to give a shit that her dad has just walked in to find her naked with a boy in her bed, let alone this particular boy.
If Violet was looking at Tate and not at her dad she would have seen the smug smile plastered across his face as he watched Ben’s face turn first ashen, then red. When he finally finds his voice again he’s screaming at her, berating her for disrespecting and hurting her mother, trying to force guilt into her with his words, and all it does is piss her off.
“Fuck you!” She interrupts, screaming just as loud as him. “You think I did this to hurt Mom? This isn’t about Mom, this is about me being happy in the only way I can be now that I’m stuck here. Why should I give a shit what either of you think? You’ve never given me a reason to. Always expected my loyalty in exchange for what? For ignoring the daughter you claim to be so close to. The one you didn’t notice scarring herself with razors for years. The one who would still be alive if you hadn’t dragged across the country for some bullshit fresh start.”
She pulled Tate’s shirt on and furiously kicked away the sheets, closing the distance so she could spit her words in Ben’s face. Tate watched as the girl he loved eviscerated her father, using words as weapons, and choosing him over anyone else. He was sure this would be the best moment of his life no matter how long forever was because he was getting what he always wanted: Violet all for himself.
“You’re not the one who’s been taking care of me, you barely notice me unless it’s convenient for you. He has.” She pointed to the bed. “Even when I didn’t ask him to, even when I didn’t want him to, he did. So why shouldn’t I be with him? Why should I be loyal to people who don’t care about me? You and mom keep saying you want me to be happy. He makes me happy.”
“How can you be with someone who raped your mother Violet? How can you be with someone who has killed nearly two dozen people?” Ben was looking at her, horror struck, as if he was seeing her for the first time.
“The same way you and mom can be together. Because I love him more than the bad shit he’s done.” She said viciously before stepping away and drawing in a deep breath. “I’m done; you and Mom are just going to have to deal with it because I don’t care about you two anymore than you’ve shown you care about me. Go away.”
Violet stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard and feeling around in herself for any form of regret over what she’d just done and not finding any. She flinched as Tate came up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist because she’d honestly forgot for the moment that she wasn’t alone. “He’ll forgive you.”
“I don’t give a shit if he does.” She snapped, but softened as he squeezed her against him.
“Yes, you do.” Not that he cared, but she would when she calmed down, and as always he was giving her what she needed even if she didn’t think she wanted it.
FIC PROMPT
Preferred Character: Tate/Violet, Moira
Squicks/Character Pairings You Do Not Want: Tate/Vivien, Violet or Tate having romantic feelings for anyone but each other, but sex with other parties is fine. Noncon is a squick, dubcon is fine. Tate as a soulless psycopath is a squick, Tate flawed and as a Byronic hero or anti-hero is fine. This is going to sound contradictory when you read the prompt but I do need a happy ending, in that Violet and Tate end up together and for Violet to be HAPPY to be reunited with Tate - however, it would be fine (and natural) for that happy ending to come at the cost of Violet's humanity. A reunion of the characters does not mean fluff, so no fluff or characters acting OOC. No OC's.
Possible Scenarios/Themes/Lines to incorporate: There are two things that struck me about Tate: 1) his natural ability and inclination for manipulation and 2) the level of control he has over both the house and the other ghosts (controlling the Infantata in the Pilot, the nurses and to a degree Moira in "Home Invasion," scaring Chad and Patrick in "Halloween Part II"). I believe that Tate is the true alpha of the house, based on his control of it and the souls in it and the fact that the house "chose" him to be the instrument through which the house worked. Though I absolutely feel that Tate's love for Violet is genuine, I would love to see a fic where Tate uses his manipulative abilities and control of the house and ghosts to win Violet back (and where he finally comes off as the stronger of the pair, because there are not many fics with a stronger Tate and a weaker Violet). How does he regain his position as alpha of the house? What's his thought process like? How does he manipulate Hayden, Ben, Vivien and Violet now that they're dead? And most importantly, how does he use and control the other ghosts in the house as means to an end: Violet taking him back?
Preferred Rating: M. SMUT IT UP.
Strictly Canon, AU, Doesn’t Matter: Doesn't matter!
Song to describe the overall theme I'd like: Live - All Over You
**Mystery Author - Please remember that if you're going to reply to reviews/comments - please do so without logging in and revealing yourself. Anon comments are allowed.
Summary: Trying to kill that kid for her had been a mistake. He was merely a gift, a grand gesture; something to show that Tate was serious about making sure that he always took care of her. Desperation and anger had made him sloppy and all she saw were his actions negating his words. That was not going to happen again.
Spoilers/Warnings/ Triggers: None
Author’s Note: None
( Policy of Truth 1/2 )
Policy of Truth 2/2
Ben and Vivien were, as always, living up to their policy of benign neglect. When they finally gave up the obnoxiously loud fucking as a form of retaliation Tate worried he’d have to find another way to distract them, but thankfully that hadn’t been necessary; they were too wrapped up in their new second chance to notice anything else.
The twins had been more than willing to help him out though. In exchange for a stack of old Playboys they were happily creating a path of destruction through the house which kept Moira busy, both cleaning up and trying to stop them all at the same time. They probably would have done it without the bribery, but good deeds deserved rewards, and keeping Moira busy meant that Violet had no one to talk to.
It hurt Tate a little to ensure that she was so cut off from everyone in the house, but sometimes unpleasant things were necessary, and she needed to know, really know, that he would always be her constant.
He’d been in the corner, watching her for hours when she called him out of the shadows. It was pointless to pretend otherwise so he settled himself cross-legged onto her bed while she stayed curled around her laptop watching a movie; the batteries charged from the extension cord Constance, in a fit of generosity, had flung over the fence.
“What are you watching?”
She rolled her eyes, but answered his question anyway. “Marie Antoinette.”
“Why do you like that so much?”
“You know why.” She kept her eyes trained on the screen, watching the images flashing across it, bathing her face in colors and light. He knew she loved it because she identified with the ill-fated monarch; a girl of fifteen who had to leave everything she knew, had to move to a strange place where she was viewed with fear and suspicion, so much like what Violet had experienced moving to California.
Regardless, it gives Tate the opening he’s looking for. “You know I’ll always be here right? We don’t have to talk or anything if you don’t want to, if you just want to, you know... not be alone, I’m here. Always.” He leans forward, fingers flexing, like he wants to wrap her up in his arms and give his words physical force. “Do you want me to go?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Tate at least is smart enough to understand girl-speak, and the translation of ‘it doesn’t matter’ is roughly, ‘if you leave it will really piss me off’, so he stays, pleased that after a little hiccup things seem to be back on track, even if Violet isn’t particularly enthusiastic. If they’re honest with themselves though it’s the best few hours they’ve had since she told him to ‘go away’
“Glad to see you and Tate are getting along again.”
“Shouldn’t you be off reading Dr. Seuss or something?”
Travis smiled despite the sarcasm; he thought it was kind of cute that Violet wasn’t intimidated by him despite the fact he was older and looked like a model. “Done babysitting for the day.” He said proudly and sat down at the kitchen island next to her. “He was upset for days, you know; breaking shit, crying. Seems to think that you think he’ll stop loving you someday because he doesn’t love Nora anymore, which - no offense - that’s just stupid.”
Violet shot him a filthy look. “Stay out of it.”
“Look Violet, I know I’m not the brightest bulb in the box, but I’m not blind. I know what kind of mother Constance was to Addie, and probably Tate too. Nora was the only mother he really had, and you’re the reason he won’t have anything to do with her anymore. That has to count for something.”
Constance walked in through the backdoor, a smile lighting up her face at Travis’ enthusiastic ‘Hey babe’ before an equally enthusiastic kiss that left Violet’s stomach churning. “Thought I’d bring over something sweet for my boys.” She cood at Travis, setting a plate of cookies down, and giving him a meaningful look before going upstairs with a giggle that was trying to be coquettish, but was mostly just disgraceful in a woman her age.
“He really loves you Violet. When he had to chose between you and Nora, he chose you. I know he did a lot of fucked up shit, but he’s trying to fix things. Being stuck here is hard enough, if you make each other happy... maybe you should give him a break.” He shoved a cookie in his mouth and trotted off after Constance.
“Here.” Violet sat down carefully next to Tate on the darkened porch, extending a hand clutching a small stack of cookies.“Your mother brought these over.” Tate took the cookie at the top of the stack, told Violet to help herself to the rest, as he leaned against the low wall ringing the porch to watch her. “What?” She asked around a mouthful of food.
“Nothing, it’s just you look beautiful right now.” He knew there was a smartass comment coming his way, and Violet didn’t disappoint.
“Yeah, the glow of the streetlight is enchanting; I’m gorgeous in semi-darkness.”
“Why don’t you ever believe me?” It’s always the same; sarcasm and eye-rolling no matter how often or insistently he said the words.
“Because it’s bullshit.” Even though she’d like to believe it; like to let a blush color her cheeks at his words she can’t because deep down she doesn’t really believe them.
“No, it’s not.”
“Yeah, okay.” She scoffs, and it’s that little disbelieving noise that finally makes Tate snap because he’s always hated that she’d never believe anything good about herself unless it was admiration for how neat and tidy her scars were, and this time he refuses to drop it.
“You know what guys like, Vi? Confidence, refusing to give a fuck. It’s not how big your tits are, or the shape of your ass; that shit only matters when all you want to do is fuck someone. When you love someone you don’t even notice that.”
“Have you ever been denied anything? You know what you look like. I really doubt you had a problem getting laid in high school. It’s easy for you to say things like that because you’re fucking perfect. You don’t understand what it’s like to stand in front of a mirror and see nothing but flaws.” The words come out harsh because it’s always easier to be angry than vulnerable, and admitting it to Tate makes Violet feel just that.
He has to work to shut down his surge of anger because Violet didn’t know that she was unwittingly echoing Constance’s words. It’s those words that make him want to break things, and not Violet. Still, his voice comes out tight from the effort. “You know what I see when I look in the mirror? Someone whose only value in life was a pretty face. Someone who couldn’t be loved because of anything that mattered, and that’s bullshit. You don’t know what it’s like to be with someone and still be lonelier than you’ve ever been.”
They descend into an uncomfortable silence, each too distracted by their thoughts to notice the neighborhood going to sleep around them until Tate decides to lighten the mood by pushing at Violet’s foot with his, knowing she’d push back; the game going on until she knocked his foot off the step and smiled in triumph even if he was letting her win. Just like that, they’re back to being two normal teenagers wasting time and being happy because they’re wasting it together.
She still twists out of his grasp when his arm tried to find its way around her; trying to remind him, again, that they weren’t together anymore. Not that it mattered much when, with a wicked grin on his face, he offered her his hand to help her up to go back inside. Predictably he plants his heels and pulls her up with all the force he has making her stumble into his chest, his arms wrapping around her keeping them both upright. It gives Violet the chance to whisper ‘sorry’ into his ear, having realized too late why beauty is a sensitive subject for him.
“You’re the only one I think about. Those other girls... I don’t even remember their faces, just how empty it was. It wasn’t like us. No one loved me, really loved me, until you.” He’s still got his arms around her, and can’t help but press her against him a little as he says it.
“You say that a lot.” It’s not the answer he was hoping for, but better than he usually gets.
“Maybe you’ll believe me someday.”
“I hear you’ve been spending time with Tate.”
Violet doesn’t say anything because of course the only time Ben even bothers to notice her was when she misbehaves, and like an errant child, and needs to be scolded. So she waits, giving her father a dead impassive stare, knowing it’s pointless to argue.
“He’s a psychopath, Violet, and a pathological liar; you can’t believe anything he says.”
Violet had to work hard to bite back the retort of is that your excuse too?
“He’s obsessed with you; he doesn’t love you, never did.” She draws in a sharp breath, her body responding like his words cause physical wounds.
“You know maybe if I had parents who set better examples, like a father who didn’t bed every pretty coed who made a pass at him, I wouldn’t have fallen in love with someone like Tate.”
It’s not so much the verbal bitch slap that left Ben stunned into silence, but being forced to accept what Violet already knew. That the distance that had started when she was barely thirteen had finally widened to a gulf he couldn’t cross. Violet didn’t need to be parented, and Ben couldn’t use it to control her anymore.
Violet had been finding him a lot lately. There was always a pretext - cards, or Scrabble, or this or that or the other thing - but she was there enough for him to know things were changing, and when he sees her lounging in the Gazebo he decides to repay her attentions. “Are you cold?”
“Not really.” Tate still dutifully shrugs out of his cardigan, draping it over her shoulders. “Very chivalrous.” Violet smirks, but pulls her arms through the overlong sleeves all the same as he sits down at her feet.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Nothing. Thinking.”
“About?”
She doesn’t lift her head where she’s resting it against her arm, against the railing. “If someone moved into the house who I actually wanted would you kill them for me?” Not that she can ever see it happening, but it’s comforting to know there’s a Plan B no matter how unlikely.
“I will always take care of you, and if that’s what you want, I’ll make sure you have it.” He mumbles it against her knee even though he knows she’ll probably kick at him for it, and she does but not with any real force. “I want you to be happy, every day, I just want to be the reason. If you can’t be happy with me then I guess it would have to be enough that every time you’d look at him you’d know you were happy because of me.”
“A simple ‘yes’ would have been enough.” She deadpans.
He looks up to find her watching him with flushed cheeks from the feel of his lips against her leg and his devotional words. “No, it wouldn’t’ve.”
There’s a loud banging of the back door on the other side of the house and raised voices carrying over on a gentle breeze. It’s takes them a moment to realize it’s Chad and Pat back at each others throats since the emergency therapy sessions and make-up sex weren’t enough.
Even at a distance it makes Violet uncomfortable, and more so when her name gets dragged into the fray. Apparently the only proper way to show your love and devotion in Murder House is to die or kill, and the only rebuttal Patrick has for it is that he would gladly commit a thousand awful crimes for the man he loves... who isn’t Chad.
Violet turns over their shouted words for a long time, watching Tate as he plays Solitaire below her, a small smile pushing his cheeks up every now and then; every time he thinks about Chad repeating the words he’d fed him a few weeks before and the contemplative look on Violet’s face when he catches her watching him.
There’s the usual back and forth of vicious banter between Hayden and Tate as the ball rolls between him and Beau. Now that she’d been tossed aside for Vivien yet again she’s back to her old tricks, only this time Violet’s watching, silent and invisible, from the corner.
Once she gets past the shattering pain of their little display - at least enough to breath again, if not enough to unstick herself from the floor where she’s glued in sick horror - it amazes her how much havoc Hayden could inflict on her heart without actually having any direct contact.
She knew from Moira that this had been going on for a while, that Tate had always refused Hayden, but she wondered if that would always be the case. If maybe, finally, some day he’d have enough of forever and forget about her with someone else.
When his hand reached up and threaded through Hayden’s hair she wished she had a dozen bullet wounds that would open up and bleed out from the pain of it because it probably wouldn’t hurt as much as seeing that. From where she was sitting she couldn’t see Tate’s face; couldn’t see the smile that blossomed there, or how he looked calm and peaceful when his eyes closed. His next move though she couldn’t miss.
Suddenly Hayden was pinned to the floor, with Tate on top of her, bashing her face against it until her cheek was pulpy bone chips and blood. He left her there, muttered something that sounded like ‘amateur’, and disappeared down the ladder.
It was a more violent response than he normally would have given her, but if the fleeting hints of acrid cigarette wafting through the air were anything to go by Violet was close and watching even if he couldn’t see her, and she needed to see this, needed to know he at least was immune to Hayden’s Kryptonite pussy, unlike her father.
Violet waited until Hayden pulled herself off the floor, followed her as she stumbled her way towards staircase, and with little more than a feather light touch sent her cascading down it, neatly sidestepping Hayden’s body at the bottom. Violet might have degraded Tate for his darkness, but feeling the visceral thrill of killing someone, of embracing the darkness, put a brilliant smile on her lips.
Violet was laying in bed, in the dark, tracing shapes on her pillow unable to shake the image of Hayden draped over Tate’s shoulders like his cardigan had been over hers. It had been jealousy that made her push Hayden down the stairs and it was an unwelcome realization once the delightful rush of darkness faded. It was easy to dismiss spending time with him as a distraction, as friendship, but jealousy couldn’t be dismissed.
She had been nervous after he rejected her that night on the beach, wondering if there was something wrong with her that made him balk at the thought of being inside her. How was she supposed to know that outside the energy of the house he couldn’t get it up? She hadn’t tried again after that, and neither had he for that matter, until the night she almost left.
Intense. That had been how she’d described their first time when he asked. The physical pain and pleasure were fleeting, but the emotions... those were intense. She finally saw what he did when he looked at her like she was the only person he could see, if only for a moment. In his eyes she wasn’t a fucked up, tragic little girl. All her fears and insecurities were brushed away because in his eyes, for a little while at least, she was beautiful and desirable, and everything he ever wanted.
Being stripped bare of all the snotty childish armor they both wore, being vulnerable like that, had been more honest than trite and tired words would ever be. She knew he loved her because she could feel it in his skin, feel it in the way that it was who he was when you took everything else away. It was true and honest and even if everything else around them was shit, he was the only one she needed.
It was the first time she felt totally, completely loved; how the knowledge made her feel full and sated in a way that had nothing to do with the way he moved inside her or the slip of his skin against hers, though there was that too. She missed that feeling more than anything else, and if she could have it back forever would have sacrificed anything for it.
It’s the thought that maybe when you loved someone, really deeply loved them, that that’s what you always felt that reminds her that Vivien thought it was Ben in the rubber suit that night, and she certainly hadn’t been complaining at the time.
Tate watches as she curls in on herself, makes herself as small as possible when pain contorts her face, and before he can think about it he’s crouched next to her, reaching out to soothe her. She doesn’t open her eyes to see the silent worry painted across his face, but he physically recoils when she asks him to do to her what he did to her mother. His bewildered refusal gets him sent back to the basement.
Vivien trapezing into her room looking sex flushed and satisfied was not how Violet wanted to wake up, something that Tate could clearly see in her eyes from where he sat, invisible, against the wall. “So, Halloween’s in a few days.” She said cheerily.
“And?”
“Well, your dad and I wanted to do something as a family.”
“No, thanks.” Violet rolled back over, trying to dismiss her.
“Come on sweetie, it might cheer you up.” Vivien whined.
“No.” Ever since her parents died it had been so tempting to tell them to ‘go away’ when she didn’t want to deal with them, when they were trying to pretend they cared as long as it was convenient for them. It had been months since Vivien had talked to her, but now that it was a holiday, now that they wanted to play pretend, here she was. “And since when do you care if I’m happy or not?”
“I always care, Violet, I’m your mother; I just want you to be happy.”
Violet rolled back over, carefully studying her mother’s face. “Why did you think it was dad... that night in the suit, why did you think it was him?”
“Because it looked like -”
“You couldn’t see him.” Violet cut her off.
“He was the same size as your dad.” There was a moment of complete and utter silence, and Vivien realized what she said and what it sounded like she said. “Not like that! That’s not what I meant!”
“Get out.”
He had beaten Vivien downstairs, beaten her to finding Moira and begging her to talk to Violet. All it did was piss her off. As soon as Moira was out of the room Vivien was in it, trapping Tate against the wall before he had a chance to disappear. “Stop trying to take care of her. She’s never going to get over you if you keep it up. Not that I’m telling you anything you don’t already know.” She sneered, looking at the boy in front of her with nothing but disgust and contempt in her eyes.
As much as it annoyed him, as much as he needed to be upstairs listening to Violet explain to Moira what was going on in her head, he forced the irritation out and assumed the mask of a naughty child that had always worked so well with Ben. “Did you know about the cutting? Have any idea how much Violet was hurting in the last few years before she died?” His words, delivered with tender timidity, knocked the anger out of her and replaced it with confusion. “Look at her wrists; they’re covered in scars.”
She stepped back, gaping at him, Violet’s sudden fashion statement of long sleeves no matter the weather given new significance. As everything clicked into place in her head he knew he had a captive audience because the one thing that would always appeal to a mother, even his fucked up excuse for one, was the well being of their children. Vivien wouldn’t ignore his words like Constance would though. She’d dwell on them for days, feeling guilty over her failings, he knew.
“You’re still hurting her. This thing with you and Ben.” He trailed off. “Taking care of her though... it’s what I’ve always done, all I’ve ever wanted to do. She didn’t really cut when things were good between us, only once when shit got really bad between you and Ben again, but she was happier then.”
He dropped his gaze, absently scuffing his shoe against the floor. “Yeah, I want her back, but that’s not why I take care of her. I just want her to be happy, because it’s not right that she’s all alone here; she needs someone.” He moved, walking widely around her to get out the door before she found her tongue and tried to argue with him.
When Ben found her hours later, lost in thought looking out the window, she had decided that really, at some point, she ignored the obvious because she saw even if she didn’t want to see.
“I think that’s a very stupid idea.” Moira’s brow was furrowed, her agitation showing in the rapid bounce of the orthopedically shod foot tapping against the floor as Violet paced in front of her.
All Violet did was shrug. “I need to know.” It could be morbid curiosity, or maybe perverse self-destruction, but it wasn’t. It was about honesty. About needing to know if everything he’s been telling her about their love being different is bullshit. If her believing him is her being stupid and naive again.
“I still think it’s a very stupid idea. He loves you, Violet. He’s never loved anyone else.”
“Yeah ‘cause the dating pool is so deep in this house.” She scoffed.
“He hasn’t been with anyone else since you, you know that. I don’t particularly like him, but in the twenty odd years he’s been stuck here with me you’ve been it for him, and I really don’t think anyone else could change him the way you have. You make him a better person.”
“Seriously, Moira what’s he bribing or blackmailing you with for all the good publicity?” Violet can’t help but snap caustically.
“If he didn’t love you why would he still be trying to make you happy? Maybe it’s because you’re young.” She says thoughtfully. “You didn’t get to live very much before you died; you don’t understand how precious a thing love is.”
Moira rose slowly to her feet, as if the years in Murder House were a tangible weight on her. “Just think about it very carefully before you do anything.”
Violet was still pacing and alternating between smoking and chewing on her nail until she suddenly stopped, picked up a heavy book and threw it into the corner where Tate was standing, invisible. He appeared, rubbing his chest and glaring at her. “That really hurt.”
“I’d ask you what you want, but I already know, so I’ll save you the trouble: I’m not going to tell you why and I’m not going to change my mind, and until you decide to show me what you did to her there’s nothing to talk about.” She doesn’t even try to be nice about it because really unless he’s wearing black latex he’s the last person she wants to see.
“Can’t I just tell you?”
“No.”
“I can’t touch you like that. I love you... I just can’t. Please, I’ll tell you exactly what happened, whatever you want to know.” He pleads. He’d spent the night in the basement, made himself physically ill more than once thinking about raping Violet the way he’d raped her mother, and pleas are all he has in the face of her determination.
“You’ll lie. Jesus, it’s not like you haven’t done it before, just close your eyes and pretend.”
“No.”
“Why not?” She screams it, clinging to the hope that if she can get him angry enough he’ll give in.
Because you’ll leave me. Because you’ll hate. Because you’ll finally see the monsters I’ve so carefully hidden from you, that’s why. “I can’t.”
“Fine. Go away.”
The house was empty; quiet and still and eerie, it was so empty. Violet didn’t even look at him as he walked through her door, just sat in the windowsill, watching the street below without really seeing it.
“It’s Halloween.” Nothing. She was back to being a ghost girl, clear and dead. She’d been like this for days and as he watches her he couldn’t decide if it makes him want to kill her in the hopes of getting something other than perfect indifference out of her, or cry and grovel at her feet for the same reason. Instead he turns and walks out the door, out of the house, and off down the street.
He knew she wasn’t going anywhere. She really didn’t see the point. However much she might enjoy her day of freedom it didn’t make up for the crushing pain of having to return to the house at dawn. If anything it was a reminder that she was stuck in this gilded prison forever and she didn’t need to be reminded.
His return wasn’t graceful; the banging and cursing as he stumbled through the door carrying more food than they could eat at least drew her attention to him though. “So fine, you don’t want to go out. I get it. I didn’t really feel like leaving either. I mean it’s nice, having the house to ourselves.” She arched an eyebrow at him, a small gesture that saved her the trouble of telling him he was full of shit.
He laid out the food on the bed between where she was sitting up against the headboard and where he was against the footboard. “I didn’t know what you’d like so you can have first choice.”
“I don’t want that.” Her voice full of patronizing humor as she nudges his peace offering with her foot.
All it does is bring his anger from before back ten-fold because everything he’s done for her isn’t enough. He’s off the bed and pacing frantic circles trying to control it, and all she does is watch him with detached amusement. “Why isn’t it enough? Why isn’t enough that I’ve been taking care of you, making you happy? Anything you want Violet, if I can give it to you, it’s yours.”
“I want you to do to me what you did to her Tate.” He doesn’t say anything, just stops his pacing and glares at her. “No? Go. Away.”
There’s an inarticulate scream of rage that tears through Tate’s throat when he finds himself banished to the basement once more. There’s no one there to hear it. No one there to care as his favourite old chair rockets across the room and breaks against the wall. It’s never going to be enough. No matter what he does, all his careful, thoughtful plans will never be enough to bring Violet back into the fold of his arms, and really what does it matter if he rapes her? Even if he feels like shit afterwards he didn’t have anything left to lose; she was already gone.
She had just cleared away the last of the food when he appeared behind her wearing the suit. She didn’t struggle as he pushed her onto the bed and pulled her panties off; did nothing more than lightly wrap her hands around his arms as he positioned himself and pushed inside her.
It gave him cruel satisfaction to see her wince at his painful intrusion; made him smile to know that in giving her exactly what she wanted he was hurting her in some way, just like she’d been hurting him. He wanted to hold on to that anger burning inside him because it was the only thing that made this possible. When he felt it start to drain away he closed his eyes and thought of Violet ignoring his desperate pleas like they meant nothing, of the ‘I love you’ and ‘go away’ said almost in the same breath.
He thought of everything he’d done for her before she died, after she died; the past and present and lingering resentments and bitterness, and it wasn’t enough. He felt his anger shrivel and die just like he wanted to do buried in the girl he loved and being so far away from her and him and everything that ever meant anything to him that all he felt was alone; profoundly, completely alone.
There was the creeping tickle of blood between his flesh and the suit and as panic stabbed at him he closed his eyes and dredged up memories of Violet to lose himself in. He focused on her face, the way it lit up when they’d find something in common, the way she smiled and laughed that first day, here in this room. The way she blushed when he presented her with rose he’d painted black for her. It was enough, at least, to close the wounds.
The sound of his own breath was harsh in his ears, confined and amplified behind the swath of darkness surrounding his face. He didn’t know or care if he was reenacting what he did to Vivien, just that he wanted it to be over, now, because he wasn’t sure who was the monster here anymore.
He wanted to leave the hands gripping his arms in both a familiar and horrifyingly familiar way. He wanted to flee the touch that flipped his reality and memory and turned the girl under him into someone she wasn’t, someone the latex shell had been as much to protect his identity from, as to protect himself from being touched by her in any place other than what was absolutely necessary because he didn’t want her touch, he wanted Violet’s.
But he had to come, had to do this for Nora, so she’d finally have the baby she wanted so much; so he could finally repay her for all the times she’d kissed his scraped knees and wiped away his tears when Momma had hit him. Violet. All the half-formed indistinct fantasies of his hands skating over her skin, of her flesh under his lips and tongue took up residence in the forefront of his brain and he had to clamp his teeth together to keep from crying out her name when he came.
He wanted to disappear from on top of the woman under him, but that would kind of give away the fact that he wasn’t Ben, so he made a show of pulling away. It wasn’t until his eyes slitted open to find his way off the bed that he realized it was the wrong room, the wrong time of day, the wrong everything. He caught a glimpse of Violet, skirt bunched around her waist, panties still tangled around an ankle, and hands covering her face as he staggered out. The weight of reality finally collapsed him on the bathroom floor where he tore at the material he was cloaked in and crawled into the shower.
He cowered there under the spray as it washed away the tears and blood and cum covering him, but not the image of Violet on her bed with her face hidden in her hands and his release glistening between her thighs.
It was pleasant inside the small cafe, dimly lit and warm, but Violet was miles away. Not empty, she hadn’t been empty since Moira came to talk to her that first time, even if it looked that way on the outside. If anything she was full, had been for days, full of thoughts of him and her mother. Now she knew. Violet didn’t doubt he had done to her more or less what he’d done to her mother, had probably been a little gentler because he loved her even if he was angry.
She didn’t really feel anything except relief. Relief that he hadn’t been lying to her. Relief that the way he was with her wasn’t like how he was with anyone else by the only yardstick she knew. She had heard his keening and choked sobs, all the inarticulate sounds of pain and heartbreak, as she passed the bathroom; even with her hand on the door she had to push herself away, put some distance between them so she could think.
Tate had been telling her for months that they were different, and he was right. The sex was one thing. If her mom really thought it had been her dad in that suit... well... Violet didn’t want to dwell on that, she thought ruefully. But it was different with her and Tate. She always knew he loved her, could feel it, but his reenactment had felt cold, empty. If he was right about that maybe he was right about the way they loved each other too.
Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t like Ben. Maybe when he said he wanted her forever, he meant it, like Travis said. Maybe he wouldn’t hurt her again. And Moira was right. He hadn’t been with anyone else, had been taking care of her when he didn’t have to. Unlike her parents he noticed and cared that she was hurting, and tried to make things better for her; making sure she had someone to talk to, taking care of Hayden, reining in Chad. He didn’t have to do those things, but he did them anyway, and wasn’t that love?
He had shown her that he loved her, that he didn’t want anyone else, and to keep ignoring it because of her bullshit seemed the height of stupidity. The only thing keeping her unhappy now wasn’t her parents or him or anyone else, it was herself. He wouldn’t wait for her forever, wouldn’t let her keep hurting him forever, and he shouldn’t. The idea of him with someone else brought new pain, sharp and fresh and worse than thoughts of him and Vivien.
The fact that he’d raped her mother - brought about her death - that was probably always going to be painful, but when her brain crash lands on the thought that he may not want the second chance he’s been working so hard for it’s enough to send her running out of the door because that’s a worse pain.
It was déjà vu; Violet could have just left her mother’s corpse in the den because here he was curled on her blankets like a scared child just like he had been before. Maybe it was just what Tate did when everything spiraled out of his control.
He expected her goodbyes again, but she didn’t say anything this time as he sat up and covered her hands with his own. Didn’t say anything as they traveled up her arms to her shoulders and pulled her down on the bed with him. His lips on hers, tender and insistent and loving, were as much reassurance as affirmation. He needed to know she was okay, that they were okay, and so did she, and this was the only way they knew how.
It wasn’t enough to tell her he loved her. It wasn’t enough to say it; he needed to show her, she needed to feel it. And she did in the touch of his fingers, so gentle, peeling her clothes away despite the nervousness and despair in his eyes, reflecting back into his as she mirrored his actions. She felt it in his lips ghosting over her, worshiping and wallowing in her flesh so reverentially. She felt it in the way his tongue cleansed away the evidence of his earlier sin, tasted it on his tongue, shared it, when he stretched back up to cover her.
He nearly cried at the warm embrace of her body welcoming him home. And just like that, just like always the world reduced down to the small space they occupied in it; smaller than the bed they were on, clinging around the shape of their two bodies melded together in the only way they could be. The silent persistent pleas declaring love and begging forgiveness obliterated in thought, because this was what love and forgiveness felt like, what it tasted and smelled like as they moved with each other.
Her hips meeting his thrusts; her tongue possessing his mouth. Familiar actions, familiar feelings, but with the unbearable pleasure of hope, because there’s nothing like starting over and having the one person you want that you thought you’d never have again. When he rests his forehead against her, rocking into her deeply, silently urging her towards release and the split second oblivion of death only so much sweeter, it’s more an action of the heart than the body.
There’s the inevitable and hated separation, and even with her draped over him it’s still too far away. That’s when the promises slip past his lips into the shell of her ear. “Don’t promise me anything.” He feels her lips form the words she’s so close. “I don’t want promises.”
“Just stay.” Simple words with heavy implications, reinforced by his arms cinched around her, keeping her close.
She pushes up to look him in the eye, lips parted to speak when Ben barged through the door. “Violet, we saved you some-” He stopped dead, mouth hanging open in shock and Violet can’t really find it in herself to give a shit that her dad has just walked in to find her naked with a boy in her bed, let alone this particular boy.
If Violet was looking at Tate and not at her dad she would have seen the smug smile plastered across his face as he watched Ben’s face turn first ashen, then red. When he finally finds his voice again he’s screaming at her, berating her for disrespecting and hurting her mother, trying to force guilt into her with his words, and all it does is piss her off.
“Fuck you!” She interrupts, screaming just as loud as him. “You think I did this to hurt Mom? This isn’t about Mom, this is about me being happy in the only way I can be now that I’m stuck here. Why should I give a shit what either of you think? You’ve never given me a reason to. Always expected my loyalty in exchange for what? For ignoring the daughter you claim to be so close to. The one you didn’t notice scarring herself with razors for years. The one who would still be alive if you hadn’t dragged across the country for some bullshit fresh start.”
She pulled Tate’s shirt on and furiously kicked away the sheets, closing the distance so she could spit her words in Ben’s face. Tate watched as the girl he loved eviscerated her father, using words as weapons, and choosing him over anyone else. He was sure this would be the best moment of his life no matter how long forever was because he was getting what he always wanted: Violet all for himself.
“You’re not the one who’s been taking care of me, you barely notice me unless it’s convenient for you. He has.” She pointed to the bed. “Even when I didn’t ask him to, even when I didn’t want him to, he did. So why shouldn’t I be with him? Why should I be loyal to people who don’t care about me? You and mom keep saying you want me to be happy. He makes me happy.”
“How can you be with someone who raped your mother Violet? How can you be with someone who has killed nearly two dozen people?” Ben was looking at her, horror struck, as if he was seeing her for the first time.
“The same way you and mom can be together. Because I love him more than the bad shit he’s done.” She said viciously before stepping away and drawing in a deep breath. “I’m done; you and Mom are just going to have to deal with it because I don’t care about you two anymore than you’ve shown you care about me. Go away.”
Violet stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard and feeling around in herself for any form of regret over what she’d just done and not finding any. She flinched as Tate came up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist because she’d honestly forgot for the moment that she wasn’t alone. “He’ll forgive you.”
“I don’t give a shit if he does.” She snapped, but softened as he squeezed her against him.
“Yes, you do.” Not that he cared, but she would when she calmed down, and as always he was giving her what she needed even if she didn’t think she wanted it.
FIC PROMPT
Preferred Character: Tate/Violet, Moira
Squicks/Character Pairings You Do Not Want: Tate/Vivien, Violet or Tate having romantic feelings for anyone but each other, but sex with other parties is fine. Noncon is a squick, dubcon is fine. Tate as a soulless psycopath is a squick, Tate flawed and as a Byronic hero or anti-hero is fine. This is going to sound contradictory when you read the prompt but I do need a happy ending, in that Violet and Tate end up together and for Violet to be HAPPY to be reunited with Tate - however, it would be fine (and natural) for that happy ending to come at the cost of Violet's humanity. A reunion of the characters does not mean fluff, so no fluff or characters acting OOC. No OC's.
Possible Scenarios/Themes/Lines to incorporate: There are two things that struck me about Tate: 1) his natural ability and inclination for manipulation and 2) the level of control he has over both the house and the other ghosts (controlling the Infantata in the Pilot, the nurses and to a degree Moira in "Home Invasion," scaring Chad and Patrick in "Halloween Part II"). I believe that Tate is the true alpha of the house, based on his control of it and the souls in it and the fact that the house "chose" him to be the instrument through which the house worked. Though I absolutely feel that Tate's love for Violet is genuine, I would love to see a fic where Tate uses his manipulative abilities and control of the house and ghosts to win Violet back (and where he finally comes off as the stronger of the pair, because there are not many fics with a stronger Tate and a weaker Violet). How does he regain his position as alpha of the house? What's his thought process like? How does he manipulate Hayden, Ben, Vivien and Violet now that they're dead? And most importantly, how does he use and control the other ghosts in the house as means to an end: Violet taking him back?
Preferred Rating: M. SMUT IT UP.
Strictly Canon, AU, Doesn’t Matter: Doesn't matter!
Song to describe the overall theme I'd like: Live - All Over You
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