How Long Can I Stay Lost?

Everything ached. Absolutely everything ached. As one who had grown up on his mother's medical attention during illnesses, Oliver had immediately gone to Muggle solutions, and they had done absolutely nothing. In fact, things just seemed to be getting worse. In the past twelve hours, he had gone from seemingly normal and comfortable, to falling-over sick. By the time he registered just how ill he was, it was too late to get in touch with anyone. Both of his roommates were with family, and he hadn't actually mentioned filling in for Thalia at the vaccine trial, so it wasn't like anyone would be checking in on him.

Of course, as soon as the thought registered, he started to wonder if perhaps he was allergic to whatever was in the medicine. He couldn't have known, though, that it wasn't a vaccine at all, but instead a setup. Frankly, he couldn't even tell which way was up anymore, and had been curled up on the couch for hours. Eric was off with Ariel, thankfully, so he didn't have to worry about neglect, or anything outside of himself. It was just a shame that Oliver couldn't even determine how to take care of himself right then.

His thought process was not actually feeling normal or 'right.' He was starting to wonder, after a couple hours of being unable to move, if he was dying. He had never been so sick that he couldn't stand, nonetheless focus. And the shaking was dreadful. Perhaps it was just an unbelievably high fever that made his body feel weak and useless. At one point, Oliver imagined a tap at the window, and desperately wanted to get up and check. But he just couldn't. Breathing was difficult - perhaps more so even than thinking.

Delusional though he was, sleep eventually took him, and Oliver was finally able to get in a few hours of rest before he would be woken by a complete stranger.

Such was the misery of the youngest daughter’s homecoming that those who lived and worked within the Rousseau household began to wonder whether they would ever behold the infectious smile upon her face again or whether her melancholy and weariness was now a permanent fixture upon her features. No amount of indulgence could see even a twitch change the downturn of her lips and in a way she became part of the furniture, tucked up on the sofa in one of the little parlours towards the front of the house. There was only a small portion that the family actually lived in, the rest being shut up, and that particular parlour was one that rarely saw the light of day but for the sake of the young woman the staff opened it up again and brought some light an air into the room though within a few days it was covered in brightly coloured blankets, the girl herself in amongst it somewhere.

Returning home from the town with a few groceries in hand, Marie-Elise Rousseau hopped up the steps onto the veranda that was teaming, still, with the flowers she’d spent the previous seasons cultivating. Much to her delight and to the utter ignorance of her husband who had grown preoccupied with his work once more, they were hanging on for dear life and the garden was still a bountiful kaleidoscope of colour that dazzled her gaze. She smiled at it wistfully, watching as a few lingering bees fluttered around for a few moments before venturing inside through the tall, latticed doors where in the warm, sweet wind the curtains were dancing lithely, dancing, almost, to the tune of the birds flying overhead. Inside, however, it had all of the permutations of sadness which she had thought, hoped, prayed had abandoned them. Alas, not.

“Alice?” Marie’s gentle voice called out through the tall, cavernous halls of the old building. She set down her bags and peered through into the parlour where she knew she’d find her daughter and frowned out over the mass of blankets and pillows. A blonde head emerged from in amongst it all and Marie dropped her hand down from the doorway where she’d set it, a soft smile crossing her pointed features as she caught sight of the woman who was still, with her animal pyjamas and fluffy, askew hair, her baby girl. Marie’s smile spread into a faint smirk and she stepped forward into the room, sliding out of her shoes before plopping herself down amidst the softness and immediately she understood the logic behind it.

“How do you feel, my flower?” Marie asked, reaching out to smooth back some of her daughter hair. The tears that rose to her eyes made Marie move her fingers to tickle underneath her daughter’s eyes, encouraging her to let them fall which they did with a sudden abundance that took both of them off-guard. Alice tumbled into Marie’s waiting arms and the woman sighed, pressing a kiss to the girl’s forehead. “I’m sorry, petal,” Marie whispered. “I wish I could take your hurt away. You know, though… it will all be alright in the end. You do know that, don’t you?” Marie’s hands found Alice’s upper arms and she eased her up to focus her gaze. “Hey, hey. It will be okay. Alright? Where is your optimism, hm?”

Alice shook her head, shrugging her shoulders pitifully up around her ears, and she heaved herself back against her mother, sobbing pitifully into Marie’s neck. It was good to cry, Marie had always encouraged her children. They had always been so serious, so moved by their experiences that they were hard and guarded before their time. Alice had always taken to it the easiest, Marie’s boys never having understood fully though time gave them the freedom to be able to express themselves easily. Alice had always seen the need to cry, to express just how hurt she was. So many years neglecting that right, that intrinsic need to vocalise suffering, had meant that when it finally came, it was a torrent of feeling that no one could dissuade her from – and why would they? Eventually she soothed herself, just as they all did, and returned to her nest somewhere within the mound of blankets, muttering that she wanted to be left alone.

To her dismay, Marie could do nothing but retire and she did so to her office. It was a bright room, as were all of the rooms within the house that were open, and it was into hr arm chair that she sank, wondering what in the world she could do for the girl that, since the nightmare that her set her screaming the first night she’d arrived, had called the parlour home. Shrugging herself out of her cardigan, Marie decided the best way to deal with it was to write a letter. Often she’d post things to her in-laws that weren’t strictly appropriate, particularly when they’d annoyed her, and so by that logic Paul-Henri received more than his fair share of post from his wife throughout the week. This letter though was slightly different as she wasn’t sure what the address was – or to whom she was really writing. Nevertheless, she cured her short fingers around her quill and began to write, bringing her hand down onto her chin as she thought.

To Alice’s Oliver,

In case you decide to emotionally damage my daughter and send her home to us again, could you please make sure you give at least a week’s notice so I can properly establish the freezer with enough ice cream to console her with? That would be agreeable. Though, for a start I cannot for the life of me make sense of why you would want to hurt her like this in the first place anyway. That is not to say that she hasn’t had some part in this. I hope she has left you significantly emotionally damaged, also. Not that I want you to be emotionally damaged, Oliver, but I can’t help but think it would be fair given that my daughter is buried somewhere between a mound of pillows and an avalanche of blankets, never to be found again. I don’t want you to be unhappy, though. Frankly I’d rather both of you were deliriously happy but clearly that is a long way off for even becoming close to happening. As her mother, though, I have to at least ask for you to write to her. I know that it would brighten her day. You are well within your rights to feel whichever way you do but please, extend her a small courtesy. I think she needs you rather more than she realises – I shan’t speak for you in regards to her but I hope you need her, too. Anyway, I must sign off here. I hope this letter doesn’t reach you at an inopportune time.

Thank you,

Marie-Elise Rousseau (Alice’s mother).

The letter did not reach him at an inopportune time. In fact it returned a few hours after it had been sent – unopened. Marie was not entirely sure whether this was a slight of sorts though upon inspecting the front of it there was no sign that it was from her. She supposed for a moment that he might have recognised the owl but Marie rationalised that she never used her personal owl to send post to her daughter, anyway. So it couldn’t be that. It took a moment but the woman devised that there must have been something wrong. She decided to send another, just to check, and sent a nonsensical picture of a pair of amorous dog which was really rather good but that wasn’t truly the point at hand. That, too, returned and that was when Marie decided she had to do something.

After checking on her daughter who was, by that point in time, bundled up watching Disney films with her nephews and her brother who had returned home, his wife somewhere around in another part of the house. After alerting them both to her going, Marie apparated from the house and took the long trip bouncing across France back up towards England whereupon arriving there she apparated to the address she knew her daughter lived at. It was a pretty place, she decided upon first inspection, but it wasn’t the aesthetics that she’d come for. Putting her hands into her pockets, Marie moved up along the path and let herself inside the building, hopping up the stairs gingerly before making her way down the hall once she was on the right level and onto the doorstep of the flat in question. Immediately, she rose her hand to rap her knuckles upon the door front but no sound emerged from inside, making her wonder whether she’d gotten the right number at all. She tried the handle and to her astounded surprise it came open in her grasp and before she knew it, Marie was inside the flat – breaking and entering, sort of.

Marie took off her coat and hung it up on the hook by the door, recognising one of Alice’s coats with a sigh of relief. She let the door close with a soft click and then after removing her shoes she stepped through carefully, unsure what she’d find inside. She tried the kitchen first after walking through the living room and then went down the hall after the bedrooms – first stumbling into Alice’s, then into Ariel’s and then finally she opened the door to Ollie’s room whereupon she laid eyes on the man in question looking far more upset than she would have imagined. Though this, she felt sure, had nothing to do with her daughter.

“You poor little love!” She exclaimed, flying to the bedside to lay her hand upon his forehead. She stole her fingers back with a gasp, her red brows furrowing deeply over her vibrant blue gaze. She drew up the covers around him more closely and reached briefly for the pendant hanging from a chain around her neck and she fumbled it through her fingers thoughtfully before hopping away from the bed, going in search of provisions which through a combination of what she found in the kitchen and what she sourced from her bag turned out to be quite the spread.

A pot of hot tea and a few potions later, some magic was getting soup underway and Marie returned to the bedroom, setting all of the things down onto Ollie’s desk before taking a seat on the bed again. She sighed a little, forgiving him for not replying to her, and she reached to take back a few bits of sodden hair, wrought to dampness by the fever sweat.

“I’m Alice’s mother,” she introduced herself, bobbing him on the nose with the tip of her index finger. “Marie,” she clarified, getting up to retrieve a cup of tea and a potion to help with the fever which was her first worry. She found the bedside again and took a seat, setting the things down on the table for looking to him, asking, “Can you manage to sit up, dear? I’ve got something to help with fevers and headaches and all that rotten stuff but I’m going to need for you to sit up so we don’t spill it. I have tea for you, to clean out the bad taste, and I don’t want you to burn yourself on top of it all. I’ve had lots of sick babies in my time but none as sick as you, eh?” She smiled a little and reached for his hand, curling her fingers around his. “But you’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time, I promise, because I’m going to sort you out. Let’s just get you feeling less rubbish - enough so you can have a shower and then you can have some soup and we can watch some terrible films – how does that sound, poppet?”

Had the world gone mad? Oliver was in the middle of a terribly bizarre dream when the blankets were drawn up around him, startling him into wakefulness. It wasn't much of a change, sure, but it was different enough that his confused state brought up the alert and put him on the defensive. Bleary eyes opened to find a woman he had never met looking down at him in concern. How she had found him - nonetheless made it into his flat - was beyond him, but Oliver didn't have the energy to question her.

Besides, as soon as he decided he wanted to try and find his voice, the woman had gone, off to Merlin knew where, leaving Oliver alone again. It took only a moment for the panic to set in, setting his pulse at something of a gallop. He didn't want to be on his own - did know how to handle it when he was like this. But he couldn't very well get up and follow her when he couldn't even call out to the woman, nonetheless move. His head did turn, however, towards the door she had left through, listening desperately for sign of her return. His senses seemed dulled, though. Everything seemed quieter, he couldn't have smelled anything even if he wanted to, and every breath came it little gasps, accompanied by parting lips and and the lifting of his chin as though it would help scoop up the air for him.

He visibly relaxed when she returned, even without having a clue what he was getting into with this woman. But as she sat back down, his silent question was answered immediately. Oliver supposed he would have looked incredibly guilty were it not for his general inability to get his body to do what he wanted it to. Guilty and ashamed. What the hell was she doing at his place, anyway? It wasn't like Alice thought they wanted her to go forever, was it? He wasn't even sure he remembered why she had left. There was no reason for her mother to come around and get anything, was there?

His brows furrowed as he tried to work it out, but the thoughts just jumbled in his head, coming together in the wrong order and giving him nonsensical solutions. Ridiculous explanations. He wanted to do as the woman - Oliver was sure she'd said her name - asked, and he did give it a go, but frankly it was useless. Under the impression that it looked like he was just lying there, contemplating sleep, Oliver gave his best attempt at a frustrated look.

Fix him? Oliver wasn't counting on it. "I.. it's okay, you know," he began, voice almost gravelly from lack of use and general weakness. "If you.. if you don't, I mean." His eyelids closed seemingly of their own accord, and Oliver let out a little sigh as he forced them open again. "...Just getting worse."

Pulling in a breath, he swallowed and tried to focus on the woman, subconsciously looking for a visible tie to the blonde he was missing so badly. Why couldn't it have been Alice there? Why her mother? It didn't make sense. Nothing at all seemed to be making sense, actually. Nothing. He just wanted Alice. But he definitely couldn't go about asking her mother about her. Not after all that he had done. Not when he was pretty sure...

"I-... I think I'm dying..."

The room was dim, hot and oppressive, no doubt adding to the ill feelings in the very skin of the boy curled into the sheets upon his bed. Marie’s fingers lingered upon his forehead, smoothing away his hair with gentle flicks of the tips. She found herself leaning down to kiss his temple, the pressure of the touch increasing slightly as her brows furrowed upon registering the true, intolerable heat of his body. She sighed softly and sat up straight, bringing her hand down to squeeze at his shoulder briefly before rising up from the bed, finding the need to relieve the room in the hope that perhaps his health would follow suit.

Spreading wide the curtains, Marie let in the daylight which streamed greedily into the room, liberating it of its darkness. After tying back the heavy cloth she reached behind the nets and pulled up the handle before thrusting her hand forward and opening up the window. A gush of cool breeze reached in to brush over her cheeks and she closed her eyes, breathing in the blessed air, before turning and stepping back over towards Oliver’s bedside. She sank down beside him once more and brought her hand to his shoulder.

His fear struck a chord within her that she hadn’t herself coveted since her family had laid abed paralysed by the mutant dragon pox that some vengeful creature had wrought down upon their world. Staving it off and defeating it had given Marie a strange sense that she could deal with any obstacle, particularly one regarding health. While she did not think her resolve stood to be defeated here, she did not want to deny him his fear. Rather, she wanted to ease it from his grasp and let him believe that it was an end that was the least likely to be realised; and it would be if she had her way.

“I did not give you permission to do that,” she replied gently, her voice firm and resolute despite the motherly tone that lingered on, warming the lilting sounds as they left her throat. “So there will be no death today – or any other day for that matter. Not in this house, hm?”

She tapped his shoulder and then began to apply a little bit of pressure to ease him onto his back. She then took his hands and helped him up into a sitting position which looked horribly clunky to her careful, studious eye. Reaching back into the pocket of her cardigan, Marie produced her wand and from nothing, seemingly, conjured a mountain of pillows upon which to rest Ollie so he was comfortable but sat up enough to drink. Marie then drew up the covers around him, determined to keep him warm despite renewing the air of the room with cooler gusts. Her hands then took the tea and she sat down, holding the cup between them questioningly, unwilling to patronise him more by offering it to his mouth without first seeing if he had the strength to take the tea on his own.

“Some tender loving care will set you right,” she promised him. “Now come on, you shan’t die. Have a drink of this,” she took the vial of potion off of the bedside table and carefully swirled in the bright purple contents into the tea. “And then once your fever is down, we’ll set about getting you something to eat. I have some soup going but it will take a little while yet. After, though, you might sleep a little more easily, eh?” She held up the tea, raising her red brows hopefully. “Please give it a try, little love. A great many people need you yet – understandably they’re quite unwilling to even so much as think about letting you go.”

"But if-if I do, though," Oliver countered, surprisingly stubborn for one so exhausted. "I gotta... tell her. She-she needs to know," he added, giving little coughs and gasps in between the attempts at explaining.

Despite his attempts at conversation, Oliver wasn't much help when Marie moved him. In fact, he was so affected by his need to get the words out that his head ended up falling back into the pillows as soon as they were provided for him to do so. His eyes, no longer searching Marie's desperately, fell to the blankets that surrounded him. The fever felt worse somehow, like he was being stifled and surrounded. His hand started shaking, and the rest of Oliver was close behind.

He should have been worried about his parents, probably, after they had gone and lost Thalia only a couple weeks before. But Oliver couldn't focus on anything, really, except for how he had a lot to apologize for. A lot to make up for. And he wouldn't be able to if he died from whatever the so-called vaccine had caused. A little wave of despair and panic kicked in belatedly, and Oliver was quite sure that he felt embarrassing tears stinging in his eyes.

Tilting his head towards Marie again, he caught her gaze as she held out the tea and started mixing in the potion. "I can't go yet," he implored, as though the woman could do anything about it when things came down to it. Even Oliver was surprised with how straightforward his words were when they came out. "I'm not done."

Her promise soothed him, perhaps somewhat irrationally, and Oliver slowly felt his breathing even out again. He couldn't think who she meant - outside of his family, of course - considering he was too focused on getting hand up to take hold of the tea. He wanted his fever down as quickly as possible. Perhaps it would put his thoughts back in order, and make him start considering things more sensibly. Because right then, he was getting desperate - even reckless in his discourse. He needed to think properly so he could speak less stupidly.

Shaking though he was, the cup made it to his lips, and Oliver took in as big of a drink as he could manage in one go, giving a nod in Marie's direction. Glancing at the now-open window, Oliver was reminded of his earlier imagining of a tap. What if someone really had tried to get in touch with him? His parents could be worried out of their minds for al he knew. A more immediately relevant question, though, was how Alice's mother knew to come find him.

He didn't really want to know, but he had to ask: "Did... did Allie send you for something? I could, um... direct you to whatever she wants," he offered, feeling bad for not having thanked her or asked before. Taking another drink, Oliver focused on Marie, once again trying to find that genetic connection and failing. It wasn't really something he could ask after, though, so he just kept any curiosity to himself, instead doing as Marie asked of him and peering over the rim of his cup at her.

Since she had been small, precociously chasing her siblings around the house, mithering them in a mock-parental manner, Marie-Elise had always been a mother. Though it had been a contentious issue amongst the Rousseau family members who did not believe Marie would be suitable for Paul-Henri or for Alice, the redhead had taken to the little girl immediately upon meeting her. She was behind Alice gaining siblings and once they settled in their little suburb of Avignon she worried over the local children. It was natural for her, like breathing cool, crisp air. Ollie was another. Another little lost boy who needed a mother to love him. Of course he had his own but in that moment, Marie chose to do what she did best and that was to fall into mothering him – the easiest thing in the world.

She held the cup as best she could for him and watched intently as he drank some of the tea, keen to ensure that the boy was hydrated. Once he was finished for the moment, Marie set the cup down and readjusted the covers once more out of habit rather than necessity. Marie looked up and smiled a little bit, reaching to tuck a fuzzy red curl behind her ear. She cleared her throat and fixed him with a small frown before venturing to try and reassure the boy, brandishing some temperature soothing potion as an added bonus of it. She wanted that to come down preferably before anything else. At least once he stopped feeling so hot and bothered she could get a bit more into him. That was her plan, at least.

“You are not dying,” she told him gently, uncorking the vial and offering it to him. “Swallow all of that, little one. It’ll make you feel better I promise you.”

Once he did so, Marie took the vial away and vanished it with a wave of her fingers, reaching back for the cup of tea not a moment later. She held it in her grasp carefully, mindful to let him choose when he wanted to drink. She imagined that his stomach possibly wasn’t as settled as either would have preferred. The important thing was hydration, though, because it always made sure her patient recuperated quickly. If he could hold down the tea, they could think about the soup and some bread.

“I wrote but you didn’t reply.” Marie replied with a concerned look. “I see why now. I wanted you to write to Alice because I want you two to talk again. She’s not very happy, you see. But that can wait of course. I just wish,” she let Ollie take the cup, “she hadn’t come home quite like she did. She doesn’t want to be with us, you see.” Marie shook her head and reached for a smile. “It doesn’t matter at the moment, actually. We need to worry about you. Do you fancy a shower to brighten you up a bit? Then some food? Only soup. It’s light. But we need to get you fed and snuggled up on the sofa so you get a fighting chance, don’t we? You’re not a well baby, are you?”

Impulse saw her lift up to press a kiss to his forehead and she smiled a little before pinching his cheek gently, fond of him already.

“We’ll get you better,” she promised.

Oliver shot Marie an almost imploring look as she continued to insist he would be just fine. He was often too forthcoming, too straightforward, and almost always preferred the people around him to be the same. Unless, of course, it was Alice. He didn't think he actually wanted her to be honest with him all of the time. Only when it wouldn't hurt him. That sounded good.

He couldn't ask the woman to stop, though, when she was just trying to comfort him. She wouldn't understand that being serious was better than false hope. Or, even if she did, he didn't want to insult her. So he just kept quiet until she answered his question. He couldn't get a word in before she tried to change the subject, but he wasn't interested in moving past what she'd started to explain.

"No, ...wait," he started, trying to shift his weight and sit up straighter. "It matters. Of course it matters," he insisted, lifting his arm so he could clear his throat. "It's my fault... So it matters."

His attempt to sit up fully was a failed one, so he deflated, staring down at the foot of the bed and trying to decide if he was willing to explain what Alice seemed to have kept quiet. In the end, he could feel himself growing all the more tempted to just turn away from Marie, not least to just sleep. But the topic had been breached, so he felt an obligation to finish the discussion before he tried to close the woman out again. "She wasn't supposed to find out."

Oliver pulled in a slow breath, trying to tell himself to look at Marie, but he found he wasn't quite brave enough. "I was never going to say anything... But then I lost my sister, and Alice... I don't know. She was just really good about it. So I messed up.... and Alice ran away. And, of course," he continued, finding his footing enough to speak around his coughs and labored breathing, "I had to go and make it plain again. I didn't... The things I said weren't meant to hurt her. I was trying to hurt myself... To remind myself where my place was. But then Alice and Ariel were arrested, so I sold the boat and went to post bail." He endeavored to lift a shoulder in a pathetic half-shrug, but he was starting to let his vision blur, and let his muscles just relax. "I got Ariel out first. Not because I care for him more, necessarily. But... I can tell that he cares for her. If he did, he wouldn't say anything, so I just supposed... I don't know. But I gave him the money to get her out, and... I left. I don't know what he told her, really, since she didn't say anything to me about it.... Then, of course, her father showed up and I tried to defend her but I might have made it worse."

Oliver swallowed hard, his lips thinning into a line before he blinked, finally focusing on what was actually in front of him. He didn't bother to answer her other questions, instead wrestling with the covers for a bit before he had turned away, and burrowed into the warmth there. Fever or not, it felt safer. "She doesn't want to hear from me. She won't come back."

In the lives of one’s children, all was rarely what it seemed. The lives of Marie Rousseau’s children were never simplistic and often were fraught with far more upset than they deserved. As a result of having such conflicted and difficult young people out in the world she often found herself in the company of their equally conflicted, difficult, but no less brilliant kith and kin. They attracted the vibrant and creative to them like moths to a dancing flame. He was much of the same, the forlorn young boy whom Marie appraised with her grass green eyes. She wanted to smooth back his hair and take endless kisses to his forehead and preserve a flicker of happiness within him and to help him. For he spoke, like her other sons and in his words he seemed, or so she believed, to look for that all important guidance her girls would not allow her to give until far, far too late and the decisions had been done and made.

“Keep what little strength you have,” Marie admonished, the words lifting from her lips unconsciously, her hands coming to ease him back against the pillows. Despite her assertion his words found the air and she knitted her amber brows together expressively, her brow crinkling and her eyes creasing at the sides as she fought to comprehend what he meant. She could not understand how it was anyone’s fault in the matter at hand. Alice had as much of a self-destruct button as perhaps Ollie had the ability to press it. They could do all of the destruction equally without laying the blame at any door. They were human beings. They could not be blamed. They were just people, trying to find their way in the world. They weren’t meant to have the omniscience time gave in drips and drabs. They were to make mistakes yet you could not fault them from it. It made them human.

“What do you mean?” She asked, her lips turning down at the sides as confusion riddled into her expression. “What do you mean about her not finding out – finding out what?”

He went on in a good, hearty fashion and Marie sat back, her hands falling to rest on her knees as the story unfolded itself before her by way of his narration. It all began to make sense now. All of it. Yet, she hadn’t realised what kind of role he’d played in all of the proceedings and her heart as much ached for him as it did fill with bursting pride. Her face fell when he turned away finally and Marie got up a little to lift both legs onto the bed, slipping off her shoes so she didn’t get any muck on the sheets. She moved around a little, navigating as best she could, and she was sure at one point she could smell Alice’s shampoo muddled in with Ollie’s scent but that was preposterous, she told herself. She couldn’t help but covet that little seed of doubt, though. Her daughter was, after all, notorious for her interesting decisions.

“Come now,” Marie murmured, turning some of his hair away from his face. “I am so very sorry about your sister, Ollie,” Marie offered compassionately. “But, clichéd though it is, she is always with you. I lost my own sister when we were small and since I have never truly felt without her even though she has not palpably been with me. We are always with the ones we love even when they are not beside us. You must remember that.” She smoothed her knuckles across his cheek affectionately and pressed her lips together thoughtfully, trying to gather what she wanted to tack onto next. Of course, there was one thing that took precedence before everything else. The boat.

“You paid her bail,” she repeated softly, looking down at the bedspread before glancing over at Ollie. “You didn’t have to,” she pointed out, not to rebuff him but for her own sake. He didn’t have to. Yet he did. “You saved my little girl.” That burst of pride returned once more and Marie gathered herself up, trying to stave off the smile. “Oliver, now you listen to me. She needs to hear from you. It was why I wrote in the first place. I apologise but not all that you have said makes complete sense to me and Alice has been less than forthcoming with information but she misses you and she needs you. She doesn’t want to be with us anymore. She is only there, I know this much, because she thinks you do not want her here. She needs you, she really does. She also needs to know what you did for her.”

Marie took back her hand and got up from the bed, turning back to fetch her shoes once more. She stepped away from the bed and made her way out down the hall into the living room and entrance where she put her shoes before returning into the kitchen to check on the soup which, to her joy, was finished off. With some magic she set about mashing it up so that it was liquefied but still suitably lumpy to be interesting and she returned to the bedroom once that was sorted out, intent on getting the poor boy out of the bed.

“Come on,” she whispered, bringing a hand to his shoulder. “Up, get up. You’re going to make yourself more ill by languishing here. Let me change your duvet cover and get you some more blankets and get you warm and snuggled on the sofa, okay? The soup is nearly done. I want to get some strength in you, Ollie. You need to look a little less like you’re on deaths door for when you get your girl home, don’t you? Now up!”

Oliver wanted to groan at her repeated request that he write to Alice, but he just ended up sending Marie a little pout instead. He had kept his actions to himself for a reason; why was she expecting him to go ahead and tell Alice? Oliver didn’t understand. His head was getting fuzzy, even though his temperature did concede several degrees, getting closer to a more typically feverish level. As she moved into the other room, Oliver rustled about until he was facing her side again, deciding that he was rather pleased with the idea that Marie did not, in fact, hate him for what he had done. And as far as the redheaded woman knew, Alice didn’t either. He couldn’t say that it made sense to him, but there it was. The supposed proof that he didn’t need to worry because all would be well.

He wasn’t entirely convinced that standing up would be a good plan, considering he was rapidly growing more interested in sleeping, but Marie had asked several times now. He wasn’t going to switch about her mood by saying no. It would definitely not win him any points. So he did what he could to move himself, but relied too much on Marie’s assistance. It took far more effort than he cared to register in his mind to get him over to the couch, but when he was there, Oliver collapsed, feeling as though he had just run for hours. Days, even. It was too much, really, and he let out a displeased huff when he hit the couch cushions. It felt much larger now, the couch, than when he had sat there trying to console Alice.

His forehead crinkled with the effort as well as the memory that prodded at him, so Oliver turned sideways, pulling his feet up onto the other seat cushion, leaning against the tall arm of the couch opposite. His hands clutched at his knees to keep them from shaking and stuttering as he waited for Marie to decide what to do next. He supposed that he would be wrapped in blankets or propped with pillows, so he had to stay alert long enough to move for her when she approached.

Oh. That letter to Alice. He really had to do that, didn’t he? Damn.

Looking over at the low coffee table, Oliver was suddenly reminded that he had been working on something before the fever kicked in. Spare papers littered the wooden top, and Oliver picked himself up one as well as a thin book upon which to write. He had a feeling that it might not come out quite right, though he didn’t think he could bring himself to ask Marie to check it. Not if he said all he intended to. But he would give it a go, and if it was dreadful and Alice ignored him, at least he had the excuse that he was nearly falling asleep while writing it because he thought he might not make it. That was a good one, right? Good enough, anyway?

Allie, he started, hoping that the nickname would be a sign of goodwill and not that he was teasing or in any way amused by their current situation. Why couldn’t Ariel have been there to tell him he was being stupid?

I apologize if my letter doesn’t make complete sense. I’m quite tired, but we don’t need to get into that. My points are these:

1. First, I’m sorry for all of those things that I did wrong. I don’t doubt that you remember them all, but people typically list things they’ve done in this sort of thing, don’t they? So I’m sorry I argued with your father, and that I didn’t realize you didn’t want to go. Or, well, your mum said you didn’t want to, I think. But I’m mostly for the other things, and for what I said outside of my parents’ house. I was saying it for me, not for you. I thought that you felt I had done wrong by you, so I needed to accept the blame before you decided to accuse me. Or, at least, before Ariel figured it out and did so himself. Because I think he might have. He cares a great deal about you, you know. But that’s true of both of us, and brings me to my other point:

2. I’ve been a right bastard. I wish I could explain my reasoning for it, but it seemed like I needed to do so in order to keep my distance. I think it’s painfully obvious why that’s the case, but I need to respect your space, and I intend to. So, if you came back I wouldn’t do anything again. I swear. I never wanted to scare you, or make you think you had to leave in order to handle it. Or me. Or for me to get over it. I promise I will do that, but I just think you should come home.

Ariel and Eric are gone for the week, so he wouldn’t be here to ask questions if you didn’t want him to right away, and I won’t, either. Just, I mean… I don’t know, exactly.

I miss you.

Please come home, Allie.

Staring down at his page, Oliver tilted his head to the side but just ended up rolling the page into a tube that he offered to Marie when she returned, a sheepish expression taking over his features. He had every reason to be embarrassed, he felt, and the proof was right there if she cared to find it. His chin dropped onto his knees as he tried to reconcile everything in the letter with what was going on in his head. It was all true, he supposed, except he didn’t know for sure that he could truly get past it like he promised her that he would. It would take time, to be sure, and her return would hinder his attempt to get past it, but Oliver was determined to do so for Alice. If she would just come back, he would.

Please come home, Allie.

The owl shot the blonde woman a terse look through its bright, golden eyes. She swallowed, hesitance showing, and the owl hooted, reaching forward to bite at her fingers. She batted the bird away and thankfully it flew out the window – though not before taking leave with a glare beforehand. She didn’t think she’d ever get on with owls; especially not ones that seemed to be guilt-tripping her into action. She knew she needed to move. She wanted to. Yet, her fingers kept passing over the writing, feeling the grooves where his pen had dug into the page. He wanted her home. After all of the anxiety and the tears and the upset he wanted her home. Once that had finally set in, Alice moved like someone had lit her hair on fire, darting out of one of the entrance rooms she’d taken over with her blankets and pillows and thundered up the stairs to get her bags together.

“Alice!” A shout came from downstairs and in amongst throwing her clothes back into a purple duffle she hurried out of her room and looked over the banister, down the stairs at her brother who was looking up at her quizzically, his dark eyebrows knitting together, exhibiting his confusion. “Kid, what’re you doing?” Jean-Jacques asked. He jumped up onto the staircase, coins jingling in his pockets, and he trailed up as Alice darted back into her room to continue packing. “Little one,” Jean-Jacques repeated wryly, smiling a little. “What’s going on?”

“I’m going home, Jean,” Alice replied brightly, tossing her duffle to him which he caught awkwardly in his ropey arms. He was quite a tall man and broad shouldered as well as stocky. He had been a defensive midfielder when he’d played but a broken leg had wiped him out for good. He’d made a career for himself, though – against plenty of odds, too. Here in this moment, Jean-Jacques’ brows rose again curiously as he looked at his sister, wondering rightly what she was going on about given that since she’d been eight years old the house they’d all called home was the one they were stood in now.

“Back to your flatmates’ house, hm?” Jean-Jacques asked, sitting down on her bed as she buzzed about the room. “So that’s home for you now, is it?” He looked almost sad at the idea and it made Alice pause, guilt passing over her features. Jean-Jacques broke form and grinned at her, causing the blonde to hurl her clothes at him grumpily. “Oh, come on, little one,” he protested with a laugh. “I am only joking. It’s perfectly alright. After all, given how you’ve been pining over your flatmate I should think that it would be home – or is it he who is home now?”

Alice was going to protest further or perhaps throw her hairbrush at his head but before she could do so, a call from downstairs alerted them both and they squabbled their way out of the room, pushing and shoving along the hall before half-falling down the stairs back into the foyer where Marie was stood. Jean-Jacques immediately shrunk a little when he fell into his mother’s glare and opened his arms only to have his sons deposited into them from where they’d been held by their grandmother by their t-shirts. Jean-Jacques apologised and hurried off with them, uttering to them about playing football outside, and Marie rolled her eyes, wrapping her arm around Alice.

“I have a surprise for you, baby,” Marie informed her, leading Alice back to the room she’d acquired. “Someone I think you’ll be very happy to see. But be a bit careful with him. He’s not very well.”

Marie opened up the double doors and Alice stepped inside, hopping onto the pillows. Her mouth fell open when she caught sight of who was in there burrowed deeply into the cushions, buried beneath a duvet and some blankets. She turned to look at her mother who merely grinned in response before leaving, shutting the doors to behind her. Alice was almost convinced that he wasn’t real. She didn’t want to rationale that for some reason or another her mother had gone to see Ollie because that would mean something had been said in some capacity and Alice didn’t want to have to imagine what. But here he was.

Sinking down onto the cushions, Alice crawled forward so that she was nose to nose with the man. His breath slowly ghosted across her features and though she giggled a little he showed no signs of waking, exhaustion and restlessness written across his forehead. Alice frowned a little herself and leaned up, her hand reaching to cup his cheek, to kiss away the frown lines. She leaned back down, her head on the cushion beside his, and she leaned in, breathing in the smell of the man that couldn’t be anyone else but Ollie. But that of course did mean that her mother had abducted him – which disconcerted Alice to no end. But he did look ill. Beyond that, in fact, and Alice felt the blood drain from her face.

Impulse sent her forward and she gently pressed her lips to his – a quick, chaste kiss that she wished she could have kept and used to coax him into wakefulness but he needed to sleep. He needed rest. When she pulled away she brushed her thumb over his lower lip and nodded to herself before getting up and moving behind him. Grabbing some more duvets she pulled them over and snuggled in against his back, looping a leg over his and wiggling her arm beneath his top one before committing herself to staying there for as long as he needed her to.

“Please be okay, Ollie,” she whispered into his skin. “I need you. I need you to come home with me.”