Inherent

The air is thick with tension, with unceasing anger, and I find it harder than ever to breathe in the confined space of Harry’s car. He doesn’t speak as we leave the suburbs and the disaster of this past week behind us, but he refuses to let go of my hand. Captured and held protectively in his on my lap while he steers with his left hand, I focus just enough to gently massage the taut tendons that lead to his knuckles with my free one in hopes that somehow, this added touch will bring him some comfort. Calm.

I know he needs the contact, needs to know that I am okay and not harmed exponentially. It is impossible at the moment because it’s obvious he wouldn’t believe it, but I want nothing more than to tell him that none of this is his fault. He needs to know that he did more today than anyone has ever done for me. He stood up for me, he protected me.

Regardless of his state of mind, he doesn’t drive recklessly, keeping his speed to just under the limit, and past the hard set of his jaw he is careful when pulling onto the freeway. For a long time I remain quiet, because I understand. He needs time. Time to settle. The war between such conflicting emotions—unbridled fury and the need to take me as far from danger as possible—is difficult to wage. He’s probably thinking of Alex, back at the house, how he had to relinquish control of the situation and let Louis handle it. I’d seen how every part of him fought against that, fought against turning back so he could continue to beat the pulp out of the drug addict who caused me so, so much grief. Hell, his hand over mine shakes as he struggles to maintain composure, the composure that is only hanging on by one barren, weak thread.

None of this feels real. For as calm as I might appear, silent and anticipant here in the passenger seat next to Harry, I feel dizzy and not in this world. I start to suspect that I might be in a state of shock from the entire ordeal. Like, after the psychical adrenaline of being hurt has worn off, the weight of what has transpired is only now hitting me.

Alex did this.

“I’m okay,” I urge quietly, voice hollow, sounding totally unlike myself. By now we’re on the street of his apartment. It’s unclear who I’m trying to convince with this claim, and while my mind, in denial, believes it for the moment, Harry only tenses next to me.

Aside from a stiff shake of his head after glancing over at me in a mute look of dismay, he doesn’t reply. And maybe I really am totally out of it, but I begin to wonder if he is mad at me.

But the familiar sense of safety the sight of his apartment building brings helps me to relax somewhat.

“Wait for me,” Harry instructs after parking the car when I reach with my other hand to unbuckle my seat belt. He still refuses to let go, so I hesitantly glance up to him and nod in understanding. Under the low light the parking garage offers, his eyes appear dark and hard. On edge.

He remains this way long after he finally relinquishes my hand and steps out of the car, pausing for several seconds to look carefully around the garage crowded with other cars, before striding over to my side and opening the door for me. Quickly taken by the hand once more, he pulls me close to his side. So close my body nearly merges into his own. This confuses and scares me. Not the contact, but the fact that after everything, after finding out who caused all the damage and took such personal things from my own home, he is still prepared for danger. I’m not sure if it’s in result of all that has already happened, or if there might be something else.

I feel sick and exhausted at the possibility of there being another threat, and I find myself burrowing even farther into the safety that is Harry’s protective embrace.

What tips me off even more is when we walk through the lobby, I notice he glances out the large windows toward the outside. Because it’s still not even ten o’clock in the morning, the streets aren’t busy. Everyone is either at work or still at home, so the man standing across the street directly in front of our building is all too easy to spot.

The man who held Harry back at the bookstore all those weeks ago—Liam. Keeping watch.

Harry barely glances at the doorman behind the counter watching security cameras, but speaks to him over his shoulder as we walk toward the elevator. “Don’t let anyone in unless I call, under any circumstances. Tell anyone who asks that I am not home.”

I keep my head down, line of sight on my feet. He hasn’t fully looked at me since I tried to talk to him in the car. Since I tried to convince him, myself, the universe that I am okay. The dull throb that encompasses my throat says otherwise, but I can’t think too long on it, can’t recall what happened, that someone’s hands were around my throat and if it had been allowed to go on any further, it would probably be much worse than a couple of red marks and bruises.

I avoid any surface that might allow me an unintentional glimpse of my reflection. Seeing the proof of just how wrong things went today might be yet another tipping point, when I can’t ignore it any longer. And I don’t want Harry to see that, don’t want him getting angry all over again.

Even though he is still pretty damned mad right now.

Cautious, I follow him into the living room after the short but tense elevator ride. He walks calmly, but it is easy to decipher that his entire body is still as tense as when he held Alex up against the wall, gasping, dangling, as Harry extracted his retribution. But that wasn’t enough; I don’t think it would have been enough if I’d let him continue either. Because while clearly his rage is centered on the man who hurt me, his anger is for more than that. For me being hurt at all. I know the only thing we can do is accept what has already happened, but it will not be so easy for Harry to swallow and move on. Not when he’s holding onto it so hard, with clenched fists and hard eyes.

Now anxiously sat on the edge of the couch, I crane my neck to watch him stride over to the balcony doors. With his hands clasped tightly together behind his back, I grow a little uneasy as he peers out the window. He stays this way for nearly a minute, until I can’t take the silence and will myself to break it. I can’t let him stay this angry, I can’t. He needs to see that there is nothing more to be done, that he did his best. He protected me even though I know he most likely feels he didn’t.

Quiet and hesitant, I say “I am.”

He turns around at the sound of my voice, eyes narrowed but unseeing. He is too angry to realise his tone is hard when he speaks next, but I forgive him without even feeling hurt for it. “What?”

“I am okay.”

In one piece, and on days like these I think that’s all we can really hope for. That, however, is not be good enough for him.

“No, you are not,” he slowly grits it out, disbelieving, and I watch with remarkable calm when he draws closer until he stands just a few feet from me, now taking in my appearance for what it is. It most likely doesn’t help my cause, how dishevelled I might appear right now. Perhaps it would be a good idea to face reality and try to clean myself up soon, but I just can’t bring myself to do it yet. I want to hold onto the hope of things being normal today, of us just packing up and heading north for the weekend, without any evidence that any of today’s events ever occurred.

Unfortunately, though, it is right here. Marked on my own skin.

Perhaps foolishly I persist, regardless of the soreness felt when I shake my head in response. “I am, Harry. I’m fine. Please, just calm down.”

“No, no you are fucking not, Julia.” His harsh words are accompanied by his hand reaching for mine, pulling me up from my sitting position, and he forces me to follow him out of the living room. I underestimated how difficult this would be, how angry he really is still, and my scrambled mind finds it impossible to understand why. Right now I just want peace, I want to erase Alex from my memory and fill the space with only happy moments, moments with Harry, moments I want so desperately to share with him this weekend. If only I could get him to the same positive mind space.

I can almost feel myself pale when I realize he is towing me toward the bathroom, and I dig my heels into his hardwood floor. “I don’t need to see it,” I resist pitifully, words shaking with apprehension. Before today I’ve never been harmed in such a violent way, and I cannot handle seeing the damage. I can feel it, and right now even that is too much. Any more, and I might not be able to hold it together.

“Clearly,” he speaks low, calm, hold secure and unrelenting on my hand, and he knows what I’m doing. He knows I’m trying to avoid myself. “You do.”

“Please.” Finally he looks at me from over his shoulder, and that indescribable hardness in his eyes softens at the sight of my trembling, hesitant, hurt figure. I begin to have an idea where all this frustration—seemingly directed at me—stems from. From the very start of our relationship, he has been nothing but caring and protective. Almost to a fault. He made sure at every moment that I was okay, that I was and also felt safe, and took precautions. Precautions that paid off today. Or else we might not be standing here worrying about minimal injuries, we might not be in this one mendable piece, but he doesn’t see it that way. And I know it’s going to take a lot of effort for him to appreciate what we have been given today.

Anxiety nearly takes over my senses totally when he nevertheless gives a gentle tug to my hand and opens the bathroom door. Still, though, he remains focussed on me, not nearly as tense as he was only moments ago when he pulled me up from the couch to go prove me wrong. This guest bathroom isn’t quite as extravagant as his ensuite, and the intimate space causes us to crowd together. His hand migrates from its light hold on my hand to my waist, and he doesn’t do what I thought he had planned. He doesn’t force me to stare into the mirror at my reflection until I come to terms with what happened; instead, he gently guides me to sit on top of the closed toilet lid next to the counter. I remain there for several seconds, watery vision trained on the tiled floor, before he sighs softly and crouches so he is at the same level.

“Look at me,” he orders quietly.

I do, but it’s hard. Even harder when I see the pain in his eyes, pain that he kept skilfully hidden until this moment. With a ginger touch while never straying his eyes from mine—a sign of faith, comfort, and support—he pushes my hair back, exposing my neck fully. Maybe it’s another means of coping, but I currently am not able to feel more than a dull heated twinge where Alex earlier placed his hands. I hope it stays that way.

Still as gentle and careful as ever, he remains impassive as he tilts my chin to the side, takes in the full extent of whatever damage might be littered across my skin. On another quiet exhale, he leans forward until I feel his soft breath fan against my throat, and then his mouth lightly ghosts over the exact places where Alex had applied the most pressure, inflicted the most pain. He does this so carefully, a barely there skim so as not to unintentionally cause me any more harm. As soon as I feel the light contact my eyes flutter closed in relief, and I loop one hand under his arm and around his torso while the other tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, my own head bowing to rest against the top of his.

Soon he is circling his arms around my waist, too, and he pulls me forward until we are flush against each other, as close as can be, arms locked securely around me. God, we need this. I lay a kiss to the crown of his head and breathe softly, all the tension slipping from me in this tight, comforting embrace. He dips farther to rest his head against my chest, ear to heart. It’s hard not to notice him take deep, methodical breaths while listening to the beat of my heart. And I feel relief, I feel so much relief because I know he feels it now too. We are okay, despite all of this. We are okay.

“Are you hurt anywhere else, my love?” His voice his thick and hoarse with repressed emotion. Such vulnerability he has only shown me once before, and that was over a week ago. Back at Vivian’s apartment in the elevator after he witnessed me faint for the first time.

Right now, I know he is only trying to hold himself together for my sake. The anger that consumed him is slowly draining, losing its power while he concentrates on me, now concerned only with my wellbeing.

I hesitate, and without even seeing my expression, he knows. Albeit reluctantly, he pulls back and stares at me evenly. “Show me,” he urges. “I just want to make sure you aren’t hurt seriously.”

“I’m not, Harry...” I falter, now recalling every heart stopping moment of my encounter with Alex, but decide not to even try and argue with him. The determined look in his eye tells me he knows there’s more, and that he won’t give up until he has seen every bit of it. Instead of trying to brush off the minor injuries like I so want to, I tentatively pull up my shirt to expose my side, where Alex grabbed me after temporarily relinquishing my throat. The blood drains from my face upon seeing there really are fingertip shaped bruises already formed there. Just like the ones he put on my arm long ago, the ones Harry later discovered during our argument at The Castle.

Hurriedly, I glance up to see his reaction. His jaw is clenched as he stares intently down at my hip, at the marks marring my skin. I know they would be tender to the touch and pray that I don’t knock my hip into anything like I usually do, but I opt out of voicing these complaints. The animosity is rebuilding in his stare, and before he can say anything I burst with a heated plea. “Please, don’t be mad.” It comes out rushed, and as desperate as my next words. “I need you.”

Shock rattles him upon hearing the anxiety in my quick, pitched words, and his steely gaze dissipates once again when he flicks his eyes back up to mine. He sees how much his own mood affects me. More than anything, I want for him to calm down, realize that this was all unpreventable.

“I’m not mad, baby. I’m not mad at you,” he clarifies. “But I will never allow this to happen ever again, I promise you.”

There it is. Again. Harry claiming this incident as his fault, as if he had any idea this was going to take place today. Absolutely convicted, though, he appears to mean every word he says, and I start to feel a little safer in my own skin. It seems that I have been on edge ever since it happened, as though I’m just waiting to be hurt again, and finally with his protective promise I start to feel somewhat better. A whole lot better than I did a few minutes ago, at least.

He pulls my top back down after it remained ridden up and slots his fingers between mine, helping me stand before turning to lead me out of the bathroom. I can’t help but to pause in front of the long mirror placed above the sinks, however. The very mirror I avoided like the plague when we first entered. Harry watches me closely while I peer at my reflection, at my neck. My hair is still pushed back, which allows me a perfect view of the damage. The red marks at the base of my throat have begun to fade to nothing, thankfully, but the same can’t be said for the sides. If I try hard enough to delve into those painful memories, I recall Alex especially squeezed those places, applied far too much crazed strength and left the beginnings of small splotchy bruises on the flesh below my ears. Seeing this throws me, just like I thought it would, and I sigh shakily while tossing my hair back over my shoulders; at least it can be hidden.

I’m still here, I remind myself. And Harry is okay. We are okay. Now there’s no longer any apparent danger. This could have been much worse.

A light squeeze to my hand prompts me to tear my eyes away from the mirror and look up to Harry, who still watches me with carefully. “I love you,” he murmurs, quiet, intense.

“I love you too.” My reply is now automatic, instinctual, requiring no forethought. I love him more than anything.

“Are you hurt anywhere else? You’ve been in shock, and things might only be starting to hurt now.” He’s right. It’s like when you somehow cut yourself without feeling it straight away, don’t feel any pain until you actually take note of the cut being there in the first place. That is me right now, and I wonder just how well versed Harry is when it comes to physical injury for him to know exactly what I am feeling at this very moment.

By now he has slowly guided me back out into the living room, and pulls me down onto the couch with him in a familiar position: him hovering over me while my back rests against the cushions, his elbows supporting most of his weight on either side of me, his legs framing mine. I feel safe here, and all I want is his soft warm gaze and comforting words and fingers absently playing in my hair, not talk of pain and thoughts of who caused it.

“No.”

His eyes narrow the moment I try to lie. Mostly because I absently reach to try and ease the aching only now felt at the back of my head. Right now, it hurts more than my neck does. His much gentler touch comes up to pull my hand away, and now resigned I lift my head slightly for him to lightly massage the area. His features darken at what he finds; a small bump, one I wasn’t even aware was there.

“How did this happen?” He asks gruffly, intoning an order for me not to even think about fibbing again. As if I could get it past him, anyway.

“He... he kind of, shook me, I guess.” I wince as soon as it’s out of my mouth. Beside my head, I hear his knuckles pop as his hands clench. Out of fury, fury at me being hurt. “And he didn’t really do that, it was kind of me who... I just bumped my head on the wall, that’s all.”

“No.” His voice simultaneously becomes deeper and louder, and I can easily tell he is holding back even more. Nostrils flaring and face reddening, he tries to compose himself. “That is not all. You didn’t bump your head. He shook you so goddamned hard that he knocked it back with the force. That is what happened. Don’t try to make it sound better for that sorry son of a bitch.”

“Okay, okay.” My hands come up to either side of his jaw, and while I’m shocked at the vehemence and hate still present in him, just restrained for my sake, I know he is right. I don’t try to argue even slightly, because that was exactly what I was doing. Like always, I tried to cover for him. It was a habit than formed over years of working with him. “I just didn’t want you to be upset.”

After a moment of silence, Harry starts to simmer. Slightly. I didn’t underestimate just how passionately he felt about this, how protective he is of me or just how much he really does loathe Alex, but hearing it, seeing how upset he truly is, still manages to shock me. And it all feels like my fault, like I was the one who started this chain reaction and put Harry in such an awful state. It’s because of me he is so angry and upset.

“It will take me a while to get past this,” he admits, still rough but subdued. Controlled. “He got off far too easy. He did all of that to you, he deserves more than what I gave him. If the club finds out he tried to frame them, then he’ll get it.”

A jolt of sudden comprehension rushes me, and I nearly bump my forehead against Harry’s when I try to sit up from the shock. On a laugh mixed with a grunt, he pushes me back down and presses his nose into the crook of my neck, not nuzzling as far as he can like he usually does. Because of the bruises.

“I—I forgot about that,” I say by way of explanation for my abrupt reaction.

Why did Alex put The Rogues’ mark on my wall if they didn’t have anything to do with it?

“I haven’t.” His chuckle turns grim, and I start to realize that may have been another reason why Harry didn’t stay back at the house when I begged him to leave. He knew that Alex would face justice, no matter what. If not from him, then from the club. “He knows I am loosely involved with the club, and he tried to use it against me. He did that to try and turn you against me.”

How cruel… and utterly evil. Alex practically grew up with me, knew how alone I was, how much I struggled despite not complaining to him or ever making it known. He knew, and yet he tried to take away the one person who made me feel whole and alive again. I am too shocked to speak, so Harry continues. “He has always been jealous of my relationship with you, and he saw the opportunity to put an end to it.”

Suddenly fierce I shake my head, which causes him to lean up once more to see my expression, which is equally passionate. “Harry—he might have tried, but he didn’t succeed. I never once believed you could have been involved.”

His once hard expression relaxes even more at my reassurance, successful in calming him from the resurgence of anger almost instantly. He looks me at me with that same wondering gaze that causes me to shiver, warm and soft and comforting. “I know you didn’t, Jules. And I thank you for that, because I didn’t deserve it.”

“Why? Why on earth wouldn’t you?” The question is posed with total disbelief. Every step of the way, Harry went above and beyond to make sure I was comfortable, coping with this past week’s stress and rapid changes. Hell, I’d even felt happiness since all of this happened. Because of him, because of how much he cares for me, the amount of love he has shown me. Without even asking for anything in return he insisted I stay here with him practically indefinitely, took care of the house repairs without even mentioning it. And more than that, he never once let me feel alone throughout it all. I knew I had him to count on, and if it’s possible I love him more for it.

This week alone, our relationship has grown stronger than ever.

Sensing his frustration mount again, I know we are about to finally delve into why he has been so very angry with himself. Unfairly so. He releases a light breath and doesn’t look away. “I broke my promise.”

“What promise?” I press, bewildered.

In response, Harry’s jaw clenches, but still as though he is waiting for me to blame him for some bogus, ridiculous reason, he doesn’t balk. “I wasn’t there for you when you needed me.” He sounds resigned, shameful. My gut twists excruciatingly, feeling every ounce of his pain.

“Harry, no,” I waver, the words broken, but I apply force to them. A confident force, because I cannot allow him to believe such silliness. “No. You didn’t even know I was there. Not until it was too late. I—”

I’m about to place the blame on myself, where it rightfully belongs in my mind, but he interrupts with equal fervor. “I should have protected you. And I failed. The one thing I swore I would always do, and I failed.”

“Listen to me,” I say, as firm as I can possibly be against him. God, it hurts now to look into his eyes. He believes every word he says, and for him to be in such turmoil causes me to share in it, too. I use the most authoritative tone I am capable of mustering, and this seems to make him finally pay attention. “Please, don’t believe that. No one could have predicted this. I was the one who willingly went over there, after you told me not to. Please. I can’t have you blaming yourself for something you had no control over. It wasn’t your fault—it wasn’t anyone’s.”

For a long moment he stares into my eyes, intensely, deeply, as if weighing the truthfulness in my heartfelt speech, deciding if he believes it, and I wonder what else could be running through his mind for his gaze to be so passionate. Eventually, he chews his bottom lip and presents a jarring statement of his own.

“It wasn’t yours, either.”

My breath catches for a split second. He knows what I’m thinking, which is similar to his own thoughts. Here we are, both blaming ourselves, and we won’t ever get past it if we keeping going in these circles. “If it isn’t my fault, it definitely isn’t yours either.”

“Alright,” he relents, on the verge of a small wondrous smile. “Neither of us are at fault, but we will learn from what happened today and be more careful in the future so something like this doesn’t happen again. How does that sound?”

What a catch. This is his way of making me admit I wasn’t to blame, either, but if it means that he’ll do the same and this issue will be put to rest, I am more than willing.

“Sounds perfect.” I end up breaking out in a grin. A grin that feels good on my mouth, a wry one at how stubborn we both are, one that we both desperately need.

Through all of this, we need to learn how to laugh. Or smile through the pain at the very least.

His blooming smile in response is beautiful, and instantly, I relax. All the muscles that grew tense during our weird little self-blaming argument loosen, and I allow myself to sink into the well-worn leather cushion, revel in the fact that I’ve got Harry literally wrapped around me, here, with the silent promise that he will be here for me no matter what.

Moments later, he reaches into his front pocket and pulls something out. Something small. My brows furrow at what it could be; relief floods me as soon as he opens his palm and I catch sight of Dad’s ring. I’d forgotten all about it, assumed that Alex still had it or it was dropped on the floor back at my house in the tussle. But Harry has it, Harry thought to take it despite being in such a rage, because he knew what comfort it would give me to just have one of them back.

“Harry…” I breathe, hesitantly taking the ring from his welcoming grasp. So unlike earlier, when Alex snatched it away before I could even get a good look at it. I feel a thousand times better just having it in my hand, knowing it isn’t lost forever. This was one Dad used to wear frequently, passed down from his father, the gold band has the Townsend family crest engraved on its large face. It’s very old, and incredibly precious to me.

“I will get the rest back. I promise you. The boys are already working on it.”

I imagine they can’t be any place good, or safe. “Oh, they don’t have to do that. God knows it’s probably dangerous, Harry. It isn’t worth it.”

“They can handle themselves, sweetheart. I promise. And they’ll have fun with it, too.” A little twisted, but if Harry’s friends really are capable and won’t take no for an answer, I suppose there isn’t much I can do. He sees the begrudged acceptance in my eyes and smiles again, shakes his head before gently closing my fingers over the ring. “How about we start getting ready to head out?”

This—this gets my attention. “We’re still going?” I ask eagerly. For a while, I just assumed that he would want to remain in Chicago in case he was needed. For whatever the boys might have up their sleeves in getting my rings back. All the same, I choose not to argue or mention any of these points. Knowing Harry he has already thought of them and more, but I really, really just want to get away for a few days.

“Of course we are,” he says, nonchalant, like there was never question anyway. Like up until now I haven’t been completely resigned to holing myself away here for the entirety of the weekend.

If he was trying to cheer me up, he succeeded. “Crap—okay. I’m just going to shower and pack a bag and then I’ll be good to go, okay?”

The sentences spill out a mile a minute in my rushed excitement, and Harry allows me to push him up so I can stand, an ear splitting grin having taken over my face.

“Take your time,” he catches my hand before I can dash off toward the bedroom where the clothes I’ve brought have been fit into one of his drawers and commandeered a tiny amount of hanger space. “There’s no hurry. I don’t want to rush our weekend, alright? And don’t worry about anything. I just want you to have fun and enjoy yourself.”

I know exactly what he means, and for once I don’t have a single issue with doing just as he asks. As best I can, I’ll try not to let today’s events affect me in the slightest. “That’s fine by me.”

Notes

Hi! I tried to be a little quicker with this update, so you might be surprised to see me back so soon! Haha. This chapter kind of acts as a bridge to the start of their weekend, and thankfully they settled their issues so they can have a (...hopefully) nice and relaxing holiday. I'd love to hear what you thought of this chapter! Were there any moments that you liked especially, favourite parts? Are you looking forward to their weekend?

I really just want to hear from you all, honestly! This is Inherent's fiftieth chapter, which is crazy and awesome and at the moment I'm feeling really thankful (happy Thanksgiving to my fellow Canadians too!) for all you've done for me and the story. You've stuck around through the droughts of my writer's block and put up with hundreds of thousands of my rambling words, and I love you for it. :)

If you have a moment to spare, leave a comment! I want to know how my lovely readers are doing. I hope you have a wonderful day/night!



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