you have survived every moment of your life
even the ones you swore you wouldn't
Some things never change, and for Harper that means something far sadder these days. He’d thought that perhaps his past, the life he’d lived in his home world, would become a distant memory incapable of hurting or influencing him anymore. That Phoebe’s warmth and solidity would tether him to this world instead of the previous one.
But now she is gone, leaving him with an infant child and a gaping hole that cannot be filled, and Harper is no better than a ghost.
He goes where he is told. Performs his duties in Maeve’s name, exemplary council member as always. And he tends to his son. There is nothing more, nothing less. He struggles - Gods, how he struggles - but he lets nobody see it. Nobody remains who cares to look deeper, so it is laughably easy to do so.
Tonight is a night of wandering aimlessly. His son is bundled against his chest, barely any skin visible given the chill of the night. Only the soothing rock of Harper’s gait seems to get him to sleep these nights. Growing pains, he suspects. A hurt he can’t take away. It kills him. There seems to be no limit to the ways he can fail this small, budding life.
As they walk, Harper remains alert as his years of training forcefully ground into him. Even the exhaustion at the back of his mind cannot supersede it. So Maea’s pale figure in the twilight is both unmistakable and immediately spotted. Harper pauses for a moment, debating. Then the steady beat of his footsteps returns, and he draws even to Maea’s side. Not quite touching, but close. Staring at the clinic beside her. How many others know of this sin of hers now? Harper had never told another soul. “Thinking about the past?” Or was she contemplating amends for the future? His voice is a soft, hoarse rumble. Ill-used. Tired. But warm, always warm, as Harper will never learn not to be.
But now she is gone, leaving him with an infant child and a gaping hole that cannot be filled, and Harper is no better than a ghost.
He goes where he is told. Performs his duties in Maeve’s name, exemplary council member as always. And he tends to his son. There is nothing more, nothing less. He struggles - Gods, how he struggles - but he lets nobody see it. Nobody remains who cares to look deeper, so it is laughably easy to do so.
Tonight is a night of wandering aimlessly. His son is bundled against his chest, barely any skin visible given the chill of the night. Only the soothing rock of Harper’s gait seems to get him to sleep these nights. Growing pains, he suspects. A hurt he can’t take away. It kills him. There seems to be no limit to the ways he can fail this small, budding life.
As they walk, Harper remains alert as his years of training forcefully ground into him. Even the exhaustion at the back of his mind cannot supersede it. So Maea’s pale figure in the twilight is both unmistakable and immediately spotted. Harper pauses for a moment, debating. Then the steady beat of his footsteps returns, and he draws even to Maea’s side. Not quite touching, but close. Staring at the clinic beside her. How many others know of this sin of hers now? Harper had never told another soul. “Thinking about the past?” Or was she contemplating amends for the future? His voice is a soft, hoarse rumble. Ill-used. Tired. But warm, always warm, as Harper will never learn not to be.
this time is no different
you will last
