Chapter 1: give me something i can handle
Chapter Text
They’re watching a movie late one night—far too late, and the shitty sci-fi flick isn’t worth keeping her eyes open so Ava dozes against his shoulder—when John pops the question.
“Do you want to come with me to Georgia?”
A few blinks don’t necessarily help her process his words any quicker. “Do I—?” She groggily replies, her head still resting on him. The brightness of the screen makes her squint and low level of ringing mixed with the movie’s audio disrupts her hearing. “What?”
“I asked for time off. I’m going back home for a few days.” Something settles in Ava’s throat as she listens; home has never been anywhere besides her body, not the orphanage, not Argentina, not whatever she had before, not even the hideaway house with Bill post-SHIELD. Nowhere’s felt enough like hers to call it that, but, she supposes most aren’t like her. John certainly isn’t. He can’t sense her quiet withdrawal and simply continues, “Do you want to come with me?”
“To Georgia?” She questions, not fully understanding. Why the hell—?
“Custer’s Grove. I grew up there, my mom and sister still live on the family property.” John’s arm around her tightens as he rubs her side, voice still soft in volume. It’s late and there’s no one else in the common area but he whispers all the same. “I haven’t seen them in while. A year, maybe. Two. Probably three.” He doesn’t sound all that eager. Though Ava knows it’s difficult, and not everyone’s lives are rosy, she can’t help a nasty flare of resentment for his apparent ease in ignoring family that’s still living when she’d give anything — He continues and quiets her thoughts. “But, I talked to Val and got her to agree to let us go down there from Friday through Sunday. Long weekend.”
Ava repeats him, a little hollow with something she can’t place. “Us.”
“Well, I don’t want the first time my mom sees her son with his new girlfriend to be on a 60 Minutes segment.”
She places it. A new fear Ava’s never considered has been unlocked. Meeting the family . It’s never once crossed her mind; why should it? The concept is foreign. Something out of the sappy romcoms Yelena pretends to hate when they all watch movies in the evenings, and Ava’s far from a Bridget Jones. Still facing ahead at the TV in from of them, she begins, “I’m sure she’ll be fine with it—” and with a raise of John’s eyebrow as he gently turns her cheek towards him, Ava’s made quite aware that no, Mrs. Walker will not be fine with a bombshell dropped through network TV.
“You don’t know my mother.”
“I’m not sure I want to.”
“She’s not that bad.”
“She made you ,” Ava replies, and the insult’s only half-meant. Searching though his eyes in the glow of the TV, she’s afraid for a moment that he actually believes her. A brush of her nose against his cheek—lazily morphing into a kiss—counteracts any offense.
John speaks as he pulls away. “She made my sister too, and Louella’s the better of us.”
“I believe that.”
“You don’t even know—”
“And still, I believe you.”
Ava deflects with each teasing jab, pushing away from the core of his proposition to her. Why John wants her to tag along. They both know what’s starting soon; the two of them dragged through interviews all last week and the Vanity Fair photoshoot from this morning is still fresh in her mind. The red circle in Sharpie on the kitchen calendar’s been mocking her for the last few weeks.
COUPLE ANNOUNCEMENT :)
Mel’s bubble letters don’t make the message any less negative. Their Good Morning America segment is scheduled bright and early on Tuesday. The Seth Meyers interview is Wednesday night. Rolling Stone’s cover story on “Romance for the Heroic Age” hits newsstands next week, after all the suspense has built up. There’s more in between and after that Ava can’t recall on the spot; it’s easier to block it all out, anyway. Forget it, if she can. She was trained to evade notice and yet Val’s shoved her into the spotlight and scrutiny.
Yes, Ava and John are going public .
“The first joint interview is scheduled for the 3rd. We’ll have a round of press, mostly daytime and evening talk shows with some print and digital spreads mixed in. Rolling Stone , the New York Times, Variety , among others. I got you two the Buzzfeed puppy interview. You should be thanking me.” Val doesn’t waste time as Ava and John walk into the conference room on one of the tower’s lower levels. The look on their faces doesn’t put her off either. “Seriously, that was a difficult string to pull.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” John reaches the table first and pulls a chair out for Ava, letting her sit before he does so himself. The gesture widens Val’s smile.
“Oh that’s perfect. Charming. Make sure you do that when you’re on GMA .”
While John is frustratingly, angrily confused by what they’ve walked into, the tight coil of anxiety continues spiraling in Ava’s stomach. She was quiet on the walk down here after dinner and doesn’t say a word now. She knew this was coming. Inevitably. From the day Yelena let it slip that Val knew about the miscarriage, and therefore the relationship by association, Ava was aware this moment would come—Valentina Allegra de Fontaine never turned down an opportunity to use one of her assets for personal gain. This was too good. Too perfect. Too wonderful a publicity stunt to pass up.
Ava had worried before whether she and John could stand to last under the rest of the team’s gaze. Forget the judgement of Yelena or Bob—they’re going to face the burning light of the general public, too.
She brings her hands to rest awkwardly at the edge of the table, fingers tapping against the wood as she looks up and out. Away from Val’s gaze. Away from John, who she can feel interrogating her silence with his eyes. “You wanted to see us?” She asks. It’s not a question, it’s already answered, but she needs to say something and can’t bring herself to agree with their boss.
“Let’s discuss ground rules.”
With those words, it feels like they’ve been sent to the principal’s office. John blurts out, “For what?”
“Your relationship,” Val replies firmly. Both Ava and John are silent—shock, in his case, Ava assumes. She’s not so much shocked as she is simply quieted to hear it confirmed aloud. The knife twists deeper as Val continues. “You are in a relationship, do I have that correct? Or did he just get you pregnant as friends , Ava?”
John begins to stand but Ava catches the motion out of the corner of her eye and grabs his wrist to stop him. Doesn’t stop his mouth, though. “You fucking bitch, don’t—”
“Yes. We are.” Diplomatic but icy, Ava nods as she looks to Valentina. She can see John slowly lower himself back down but doesn’t take her hand off him. “We’ve been for quite a while now.”
“And you didn’t think to say anything?”
Why the fuck would we say anything; it almost escapes her mouth but unfortunately, Ava’s stuck being a good example for the hotheaded manchild next to her. She speaks carefully before John can dig their graves any further. “We didn’t know we needed to disclose it.”
“Your little unsanctioned office romance?” Val laughs. Her walk from around the table to sit on the surface of it next to John is unnerving and from the self-assured tilt of her chin as he shifts away, it’s clear that was the intention. She leans towards the two of them, hands on her thighs like a primary school teacher. “Yes, you should’ve told me. There’s protocol that has to be followed, and contracts to sign, and paperwork, God, Mel’s going to hate you two for all the paperwork she’ll be filing.”
It’s the flippancy that boils the couple’s blood. Val’s nonchalance has long been a problem—treating everything with the same unaffected lilt, as if ordering a murder like a drive-thru meal. Ava finds it degrading. John, as she’s been made well-aware in their conversations before drifting off to sleep, doesn’t let him affect him as much. Mission assignments given with cold detachment is old (military) hat. It’s when their boss’s carelessness bleeds into anything besides the job at hand that the scales tip.
“This is personal,” John says. “You can send us on jobs, you can make us smile for the cameras when it’s done but you can’t just regulate our private lives, that’s not fair—”
“Well, you started this affair in this tower? You fucked in the beds I bought you? Kissed during missions I sent you on?” A protestation dies in Ava’s mouth as Val raises a brow. The woman hops down from the table like she owns the place, reaching for a tablet nearby. “Don’t act like you haven’t. That baby came from somewhere.”
Not a baby, Ava thinks. Calling it that only dredges up thoughts that have taken weeks to silence. John shifts in his seat, sucking his cheek in; Ava clocks the motion in their reflection in the windows across the room, coated by the evening black. He turns his head to look at her. Maybe he catches the forced unresponsive stare ahead and tension in her grasp on him. It hurts, a little, to hold on. It always does but between the pounding anxiety and shame, her fingers loosen and phase. Pins and needles: that’s how phasing feels outside of the confines of her suit. She’s sure he feels her slightly slipping in and out of his wrist but neither of them say a word to draw any attention downwards.
Satisfied with the silence, Val says, “Then this is mine to regulate.”
“You’re a sick bitch.” She only laughs at John’s hurled insult and doesn’t even look up from whatever has her tapping away.
“Call me what you want. Publicly cementing you two as a couple will continue to save your reputations. Ava may not need that, but Walker, well, it’d do you well to lean into the boy-next-door charm. Maybe if you can be America’s boyfriend they’ll forget your bloody stint as America’s Captain.”
His fingers curl into a fist but Ava brings her hand down into his, interlacing tightly as she focuses her solidity. She squeezes. He squeezes, his a little harder. Normally John’s quite gentle with her—afraid in some strange way that she’ll break, as if she’s not broken already—but all his frustration is streamlined into the simple motion. Silver linings, that here he’s too preoccupied to treat her like a porcelain doll.
“Bob and Yelena are together,” he says. “You don’t make them do this!”
“ Bob isn’t an outward-facing member of the New Avengers. Bob’s pretty face doesn’t make me an estimated million annually in sponsorship deals. No one would care if Bob and Yelena were in a relationship, but you two?” The ‘if’ Val hits is hard and Ava can’t help the face she makes. Is the woman blind? But she doesn’t protest, no, it’s not the time to interrupt. The pause for effect isn’t one that’s intended to be broken. “I’m not saying this could redeem the team’s public image but… You’re both awfully popular and the focus groups loved the branding of you two together.”
Slightly softer, but no less furious than John, Ava looks Val in the eyes as she asks, “You focus grouped us?” Again, not a question. More a statement, an indictment, a plea of disbelief. Val’s Freudian slip leaves a nasty taste in Ava’s mouth and begs the question of whether or not she and John would have a choice in this even if they weren’t together.
Val doesn’t back down. In fact, she doubles down with a smile. “I’m nothing if not prepared.” Ava almost gags. “Besides, better to get ahead of the rumors now before People snaps a picture of you two holding hands down 5th Avenue.”
She and John can only be so careful. Ava knows that too well; the miscarriage was an ugly misstep and who’s to say something else won’t come up in the future? It pains her to think of some worse accident. This time in public, this time far more lethal. She knows she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from running to John if something should happen to his stupid, sacrificial ass. She doesn’t doubt he’d have any restraint either if the tables were turned.
Ava gives him a glance, a small nod. He’s unreadable in return but doesn’t open his mouth. John’s always willing to follow orders from those he trusts. He’d follow her into a burning building, and the devotion utterly terrifies Ava, though she’s silently grateful he’s following her lead here.
Again, the silence pleases Val. “Perfect!” she says while the flatscreen to their left clicks to life. PowerPoint pulled up, their boss is as chipper as ever as she continues. “So, let’s talk interview etiquette.”
John squeezes Ava’s hand—a message, one she knows from long mission briefings means ‘we need to talk after this’—but with that, they both turn their attention to ten-point plan of their impending demise.
They’ve fallen back into watching the movie again. Ava’s arm is wrapped around John’s torso, her cheek on his shoulder. Both of them should’ve wandered to bed by now. Neither is clamoring to get up. The unanswered question of ‘going home’ hangs between them and it keeps at least Ava’s mind away from the convoluted, ridiculous plot.
“I can’t say no, can I?” she softly asks, cracking under John’s uncharacteristic silence.
He lets it hold a little longer. “Of course you can. I’m not—I don’t want to force you to do anything, Ava.” A dejected sort of sigh punctuates his point. “It’s selfish of me to want to make all this easy for myself and drag you in.”
From the reluctance that’s permeated John’s tone from the moment Georgia was brought up, Ava thinks it seems awfully arduous for a supposed ‘selfish’ want. She still feels resentment that John even has family to avoid but part of her recognizes he must be avoiding them for some reason. She’s important enough to break that protective habit. “It’s not selfish. It’s…right. What’s normally done, isn’t it? Meeting the parents?”
“Parent,” he corrects. Ava made that assumption when the whole conversation begun but it still quiets her, for a moment, to hear it confirmed.
“Still one more than me.”
John shakes his head and Ava catches the way he looks off to the side, the small sigh hidden between words. “She’s not much better than dead.”
Anything’s better than dead , she thinks, but knows better than to say it. This trip is far from her idea but somehow, Ava fears it might be possible he’s hesitant about this weekend, too. Maybe home is just as intangible for him as it is for her. Maybe he needs her for moral support through this as much as she needs him.
Ava brings her hand to his cheek. “I’ll be the judge of that,” she replies, infusing some levity with a touch of her forehead to his. He smiles, halfway, something keeping it from really reaching his eyes but she matches in kind all the same.
It only dawns on her later, laying in John’s bed before drifting off to sleep, that she really has no clue what she signed up for.
Chapter 2: what a good job that your mother did
Summary:
everyone's got an opinion on ava starr, john's sister and mother included.
Notes:
hey divas! i just wrote some bullshitttttttt aka the beautiful intro to my original characters. i know it's a bit contentious to diverge from 'canon' (well, comics canon but *some* people treat that like mcu canon) but i hope my portrayals of john's mother and sister are so good you can't help but fall in love with them.
also. btw. i picture abby elliott (esp. her in the bear) as louella, and 2000s jane fonda as audrey aka mrs. walker. but you're free to imagine whoever you'd like!
not sure when i'll update again but trust i have this whole thing plotted out ;)
chapter title from the same song as the fic title! multitasking queen.
enjoy! - xoxo aj
Chapter Text
It’s so Americana it hurts. The rolling fields, the empty blue sky above them, driving in through a sea of nothingness like a paddle boat on the Atlantic. Today marks Ava’s first time further south than Tennessee (and she doesn’t remember much of that, stationed at a SHIELD base for a few days before transit). One half of her finds it underwhelming. Not as underwhelming as the American West, but well, at least they had cliffs and mesas to break the monotony. The only break from sky and grass is the occasional farmhouse, clad in stars and stripes well past Independence Day. Fields of cows. Horses. Animals blurring as the black SUV, awfully out of place, zips by. She and John have been going at this drive for ages. Ava looks across at the clock—the screen on the dashboard displays 17:09 . They landed at the airfield half past three. There’s no way it hasn’t been two hours.
His eyes have been on the road for most of the drive, but she looks away from the clock to catch him glancing at her. “We should be there soon,” John says. There’s a nonchalant lilt to his words but Ava doesn’t let the white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel evade her notice. Driving like it’s taking every ounce of his being to avoid swerving off the road.
“Sounds good.” She flits away, looking to her reflection in the wing mirror. Ava can recognize the worry hiding in the tense corners of her mouth. Whether it’s visible outside of herself is still to be determined.
But maybe John does see it, or sense it. He asks her, “Are you ready for all this…?”
Are you? Ava’d like to shoot back but for once lacks the confidence of a sharp tongue. Instead, her voice comes out shaky and quiet, exhaling a “yeah.” She’s not sure he can even hear her. The windows on either side of Ava and John are rolled down, wind seeping in with a dull roar as they cruise down State Road 22. Her hair would be knotted, tangled into a mess, if it weren’t for hasty tie-up job from earlier this morning.
She feels alive in a way she’s rarely experienced before. It’s possibly the fear of the unknown, something—not as strong as adrenaline—running through her veins. But the wind on her cheeks, sun on her skin, the constant reminder that she is here in this moment is a far sweeter breath of life. They say every day on Earth is a blessing; Ava would prefer to be more specific. Every day she’s solid enough to fully enjoy is a blessing. To feel is to live. Even the pain, the crackling burn of the hot car door on her arm perched on the open window is welcome.
John’s hand comes to rest on her thigh and punctuates the silence with a sigh.
Not exasperation. Not frustration. It’s the sigh of relief when you set down your bag after walking through the front door, the quiet delight of coming home. The sort that says, yes, this is it, I’m back where I belong.
Ava rests her hand over his.
Mindful of the silence, she quietly speaks with a little levity in her voice. “I’m surprised there was no chauffeur waiting when we landed.”
He misses her point completely. “It’s a miracle Val gave us a car for the day. I wasn’t holding my breath for someone to dr—”
“I meant, maybe,” Ava starts but drops the words off with better judgement before she can continue the thought. Eyes briefly off the road again—a hard look, eyebrows raised—John presses until she caves. “I thought your sister would’ve come. Or your mother, but I don’t know. A stupid assumption.”
It’s too quiet after she speaks. His hand stays on her thigh but the grip feels weaker, his hand on the wheel whiter, strength transferred from one to the other. The thought of him breaking the rental car half-crosses Ava’s mind. Given his enhancement, she’s fairly certain he could rip the thing in two with enough anger or anxiety behind his palms. They’d really have to pick us up then.
“They don’t know,” John finally says, words muffled by the wind.
“Come again?”
“They, um”—John shakes his head like a reset, eyes trained ahead—“they don’t know we’re coming.”
She could smack him upside the head. She should smack him upside the head, if he wasn’t driving down a winding road with too many hills and turns for Ava’s liking. I could always phase out of the crash. Leave him to wallow in his own consequences. The only thing stopping her from doing that is the lack of a suit and she’s not too keen to trigger days’ worth of muscle aches and bedrest over a petty argument.
“Ava?”
His gaze is heavy—even focusing on her reflection to the side rather than forward, she can feel it—but Ava doesn’t let the threat of puppy dog eyes guilt her. John repeats himself. She continues to ignore. “My mother doesn’t drive.” Silence. “Louella would have to take the car out for almost five hours, it’d raise questions.” Again, silence. “I didn’t want to tell them.”
“Why?” She says nothing more, nothing less.
John doesn’t answer the question, instead speaking tentatively while flexing his fingers around the wheel. “Louella will like you, hell, she’ll probably like you more than she likes me.” Ava’s not sure if that’s meant to be reassuring. It’s not.
There’s a but. She can sense it coming.
“But,” he starts, and Ava holds her breath, “I don’t know how my mother will react. You’re not—”
“Olivia?”
“—some ‘girl next door’.”
“ Olivia ,” she repeats, knowing damn well that’s what he means. His gaze is back on her but she refuses to look his way; she’s not sure she could keep up the nonchalant facade, like the idea that she’s too broken in every way—emotionally, socially, physically—to be standing beside him doesn’t eat away at her conscience.
“She wasn’t—no, well,” John softly corrects, “you’re too perfect to fit in her head.” Ava, chin perched against her arm on the window and eyes absently scanning the trees passing by, pretends not to hear him with the wind blowing in.
It’s unfair, she thinks, that John doesn’t have to go through this on the receiving end. It’s not exactly same, not like she has some ex-lover whose shoes he can’t fill. But still. He should have to meet someone of hers. She’s got no mother, no father; maybe Bill would count, if she was still in contact with him after all that went down. She’d like to think he’d like John. Entertaining the thought for a second, she imagines the two of them in conversation. Her mansion near Mill Valley’s long gone, probably desolate now, but she mentally places the two of them there anyway. Bill at his desk. John sitting across from him in the office she knows all too well, seated in the blue armchair she often curled up on. Swapping stories. Bill regaling about his time during the eighties. John’s the attentive type, always asking questions (or really, simply striving to impress) and Ava can see him indulging Bill down every quantum rabbit hole so vividly. Too vividly. She hears Bill’s laugh as plain as day, like no time’s passed at all. It pains Ava that this could never be real and she reminds herself it’s all just delusions in her mind. Wishful thinking. It definitely is , Ava silently remarks as she watches telephone poles come into focus while they slow down the winding country road, finding it easier to assume it’s for the best the two men will never meet. Bill would probably disapprove. At best, John’s an acquired taste. She’s grown to love him—but love is strange. Ava loves Yelena and Bob and the rest of their team (Mel included). She loved Bill. Even to a degree loved Scott and Hope for the help they gave her. Nothing about the love she has for John feels remotely close to any of that. It’s the kind that makes her brave enough to face the things that keep her up at night.
One of which happens to be the farmhouse they’re pulling up to right now.
The Walker homestead spans a few acres; when John told her the size during his spiel on the way here, she didn’t quite know how to picture it. Seeing it in person, she didn’t expect the land to be so flat. Empty. The house on the property can’t possibly be that small but it looks like a dollhouse swamped by the sea of grass around it. Barren. It never was a farm , John said earlier. My dad wanted it to be some family business to pass on, but it never got on its feet so my sister’s been selling off sections over the past few years. Developers circle the place like vultures.
The SUV stops on what’s vaguely the front lawn, if it can even be described that way. There’s no indication of where a yard would stop or end; there’s only a stone path from the front steps that leads all the way down to the dirt driveway a good thirty feet away. Planting beds in front of the raised porch sit filled with some sort of wildflower-esque mess. It doesn’t look tamed in the slightest. Maybe there was no farm since there’s no green thumbs around. John’s wilting plants in the corner of his room back at the tower corroborate her hunch.
“ John?! ”
Ava’s eyes snap up to the porch itself and the woman standing in the doorway.
Louella Walker is simultaneously everything Ava expected and everything but. Blonde, round-faced and rosy-cheeked with a crooked nose just like John, she certainly looks like her brother. They could be twins if you didn’t know any better. Ava does; apparently John was older by a barely year. Irish twins , he remarked after bringing her up earlier in the car. I was the planned one. She was my father’s favorite mistake.
Mistake or not, she seems perfect.
Stepping down from the porch, the blonde woman approaches the two of them with arms crossed over her floral blouse-clad chest. Not a second of attention is turned towards her brother, no, her eyes are on Ava as she pads down the uneven stone path with lips pursed like she’s expecting catastrophe. Despite that, the look isn’t necessarily judging—in fact, Ava’s almost comforted by the muted confusion on her face—but her closed-off posture still registers as defensive. Understandable. John did show up unannounced with a strange and presumably dangerous woman. She’s fairly certain that’s not a regular occurrence. Ava wonders if Louella recognizes her, but absentmindedly answers herself, she’d probably run the other direction if she did.
“Well,” Louella starts, taking a moment to shake off the bewildered look in her eye and meet Ava with a smile. Her Southern accent is like John’s, though much thicker and more pronounced. “I watch the news from time to time. I see him”—she points to her brother but doesn’t look his way—“and his team every now and then. You must be Miss Ghost? The one with the glowing helmet?”
Ava holds a hand out. Instead, she’s pulled arm-first into a hug. Her head comes to rest on Louella’s shoulder, the embrace tight but not too constricting. The first solid thought that crosses her mind since exiting the car is she and John hug in the exact same way. The final squeeze before letting go seals the comparison.
“Ava,” she says after Louella finally pulls away, still keeping a gentle hand on Ava’s forearm. “I’d prefer that.”
“Then Ava it is.” The hand drops and Louella gestures to the house behind her. It’s performative; Ava’s only known her for less than a minute and she can still tell the discomfort in the corner of her smile, the slight tremor in her hand. Could very well be from fear of me if she didn’t hug like I’m a long-lost sister. No, it’s the too-tight itch of a role that’s forced. Val’s galas and ‘undercover missions’ cross Ava’s mind. She knows this routine, too. Sympathy doesn’t make it any easier to watch as John’s sister contorts herself into something small and proper. “I’m Louella and it’s very nice to meet you. We weren’t prepared for guests, so I apologize, but welcome to the Walker home. It’s just me and our mother, but we’ll—”
“Is it such a burden for me to stop by?” John asks and the air shifts with his live-wire tone. The prodigal son’s returned home for just a moment and already Ava sees a more severe version of his anxiety. He’s always desperate for approval. Here he’s utterly dependent on it.
The bitterness in Louella’s voice is unmistakable, tinging the slight rise of her chin as she finally acknowledges her brother with something bordering on a glare. “Mama will be happy. Well”—with a bite of her lip, she casts an uneasy, almost empathetic glance to Ava before looking back up to her brother—“she’ll be happy to see you .”
She turns on her heels and heads back up the stairs. Ava doesn’t move until John swoops behind her, arm snug around her back, and guides her inside. Fingers tapping at her side make it apparent the touch isn’t solely for her own good.
“Mama? I have a surprise,” Louella yells as they enter into the front room. She mutters under her breath, “a complete surprise,” before continuing, louder, “all the way from New York City!”
Creaking comes from above and the stairs besides them, hardwood floors giving way as someone walks down. Stridently, the woman descending speaks, “Louella Marie, don’t get smart with me—”
Ava sees Mrs. Walker before the woman can see her. Blonde just like her children, she’s dressed in a green shirtdress straight out of a period piece with short hair styled neatly to frame the irate expression on her face. Trapped in the past, Ava realizes. Something off settles in her gut but there’s no time to name it.
It’s like the flip of a switch, the light on her face washing away any irritation with her daughter into utter joy. She freezes. Mouth agape. There’s almost disbelief in her voice as she asks, “ Jonathan? Sweetheart? That’s really you?”
John just sheepishly nods. He starts to move closer and let go of Ava but she firmly presses her hand over his at her hip, unwilling to let him leave her side. His mother hasn’t noticed her yet. Ava doesn’t want him even a step away from her when she does. But the light of the sun, her son , blocks every other thing out. Louella and Ava seem to have faded into obscurity like the mother and her child are the only ones in the room. Mrs. Walker steps off the landing and approaches, hands reaching for her son’s cheeks like he’ll disappear right in front of her. “Oh, sweetheart, I know you’re doing bigger and better things out there but it’s been so lonely here without you. So, so lonely; ask Louella and she’ll tell you. I’ve started contemplating joining the bridge group with the ladies at church but they just say the most awful , untrue things about you—”
“Mom. Hi.” He stutters over the words, reverted back to a child under his mother’s touch. Ava’s briefly jealous—how could she not be; here was everything she could never have, a homecoming—but it isn’t right. This doesn’t feel right. Something bordering on devotion lies behind Mrs. Walker’s eyes and there’s nothing but distress in John’s. She’s no expert on mothers but they shouldn’t elicit this.
“It’s wonderful to see you off the television screen.” She cups his face in her palm, fingers brushing the scruff of his beard as she softly remarks, “You’ve grown into such a handsome man, John. Those cameras don’t do you justice. Not in the slightest.”
Ava can’t help herself any longer. She interlaces her fingers with John’s, giving an encouraging squeeze. She adds a kiss to his shoulder for good measure. He speaks, “That’s—actually, Mom. I came to visit because, well.” John squeezes Ava’s side in response and she braces for impact. “I want you to meet Ava.”
The switch flips back. Icy blue eyes meet Ava’s for the first time, slowly scanning her up and down without so much as a word. Only after she’s been thoroughly sized up does Mrs. Walker say, “Who?”
“Ava. My girlfriend.”
Determined not to crack under the weight, Ava gives the woman a small smile as she tries to not let her voice waver. “Hello, Mrs. Walker. John’s told me all about you, and it’s nice to finally meet you in person.” I’ve faced assassins and ant people and the fucking Void, and she’s somehow the most frightening person I’ve encountered yet.
“Girlfriend? John…” The woman trails off with a shake of her head, bracing a hand on the banged-up railing beside her like the news threatens to knock her over.
“Yes, Mom. We’ve been together for”—John glances down to Ava for confirmation—“four, five months now?”
She nods, her smile turning a little more genuine, heart pounding a little less as she looks at him. “Longer if you count before we really made it official.”
“It’s pretty convenient when you already live together, you know,” he laughs.
One interjecting “hm” out of his mother and Ava’s knocked down a peg again.
“We work together. I know you’ve seen the news, the team the CIA Director put together in New York?” John offers with a smile. “Ava, she’s Ghost.”
Recognition flickers behind Mrs. Walker’s eyes—something else too, disgust—and the woman softly says “ ohhhhh ” with a curl of her lip like identifying a bug at the bottom of her shoe. “You’re the one with that god awful helmet, aren’t you?”
Insult me straight to my face, why don’t you? Ava only nods with a plastered smile.
“Would’ve thought there’d be something wrong with you underneath all that, since they keep you covered up.”
Backhanded compliment? At least I’m not hideous to her.
Face flushed red, John quickly jumps in. “The suit helps her phase through things, Mom, and it’s actually really fascinating how she defies physics and manipulates objects—”
For once she pays her son no mind. “So can I shake your hand or will you go right through me?”
Bitch. “No, Mrs. Walker, I’m quite in control of my abilities.” Ava firmly takes the woman’s bony hand into hers, all effort concentrated on keeping solid. She prays it doesn’t show on her face.
“Good. It’d be a racket if you fell through the floors with your disappearing act.”
“I can assure you that to phase—or, in your words, disappear—without my proper suit would be incredibly painful and the last place I’d want to be uncomfortable is somewhere so far away from home.”
“This is home, Ava.” John squeezes her side and kisses the top of her head, and Ava tries to enjoy it even under the watchful eyes ahead of them. “So long as you’re here with me it is.”
Mrs. Walker makes a vague noise of displeasure at her son’s reassurance. Announcing to no one in particular, she says, “Well, she’s certainly no—”
“ Mama .” Louella tersely cuts into the conversation, bringing a light hand to Ava’s forearm. She finally steps out of the shadows and it’s soothing, but strange, for Ava to know someone else here has her back. The realization distracts enough from the path Mrs. Walker was inevitably heading down. “Would you like me to give our guest a tour of the property? Give you some time to settle and cook?”
Her mother just waves her off with an eye roll. “Why give a tour? It’s just her.”
“Show them to their room, then, Mama?”
“ Rooms .”
John opens his mouth in protest but it’s Louella that speaks first. “Don’t put John in his bedroom, please. Look at him. His legs’ll dangle off the bed.” It’s silent a little longer, a glare instead of words from her mother, and so she continues, “Mama. Please.”
“John gets his childhood room, and she gets the guest room. End of story.”
Taking his hands off Ava and raising them up, John tries to joke, “We’re not gonna do any—”
“Are you married?”
Mrs. Walker sends a hush over the room. Seconds pass and John shakes his head; the quiet holds a little longer until it dawns that the woman’s waiting on Ava to deny the statement. It takes a moment but with a sigh, she admits, “No.”
“Then it’s settled. Separate beds like the Lord intended.” Heavy steps and a head held high, the older woman walks past Ava and the siblings and travels through the entryway behind them. The creaking of floors stops abruptly, then slightly louder, she says, “Louella, show her the guest room. Jonathan should know his way around. Supper will be promptly at 6:30. Do not be late.”
Creaking resumes until it fades with distance, but Mrs. Walker’s presence is still very much felt in the room. Stifling; Ava feels her throat closing and the all-too familiar buzzing ache flare up. She may as well be allergic to whatever poison’s in the woman’s words. Any more of it—any more focusing on it, the insults and ignorance—and Ava’s afraid she might lose her grip. Not here. Please, not here.
She’s not fully aware that she closed her eyes and begun breathing exercises until John’s lips are on her head again, voice soft like it’s just them. “Ava?” He asks, and breathes out an apology before she can respond. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have brought you into this.”
“Mhm, no, don’t…” Ava nestles her face against his chest. She denies anything’s wrong yet still curls into him, desperate to be held. “I’ve faced worse.”
Maybe, but she’s a different sort. A kick or a punch is short-lived. This bitch has staying power.
Arms around her, John cups her cheek and tilts up her head. He doesn’t speak. She can’t read what he’s thinking; he’s gotten easier to read through the months of time together but with the blank gaze, lips pursed into a thin line, Ava really has no clue. She’d like to think there’s a hint of guilt (probable, given his apology). Love, maybe, in the dilation of his pupils. But even if there’s both, there’s something else too. That distress from earlier at the touch of his mother hasn’t gone away. It sits in the corners of his eyes.
Ava puts her hand over his and shifts to kiss his palm, never once breaking away from his gaze. The smallest comfort I can give.
“Hey. Y’all?”
Ava whips around to see Louella, in the same place she’s been with her hands on her hips. Awkward. Clearly unused to her brother in such a soft way. John slowly peels himself away from Ava and stands at attention. Slightly less tense, Ava also follows suit.
With a breath in and the eerie, fake-forced smile from before, Louella says, “Grab your bags from the car out front. I’ll take you to your rooms.”
Ava can’t help but feel sorry for her. The empathy from before still baked in Louella’s expression says the same thing in kind: I’m sorry for you, too.
Chapter 3: a terrible curse to be under
Summary:
hollow word after hollow word; the walker family dinner on the first night
Notes:
i would apologize for this update coming so late, however—this is over 5k words of pure unsettling angst that can only be produced with plenty of time and ethel cain's drone album simmering in my ears. please enjoy all moments (the familial rot, generous southern gothic energy, brief mention of lemar) equally and be thoroughly disturbed alongside ava!
update coming whenever i have a moment to breathe.
chapter title from maggie rogers and del water gap's 'new song'.
enjoy! - xoxo aj
Chapter Text
Ava’s allotted time before dinner is spent unpacking her things in the guest room. Just like the rest of the house, it’s quite dated. She’s willing to bet the room hasn’t been updated since before John was born. Yellow wallpaper. Venetian blinds. Floral bedding so unpleasant to the touch that Ava’s not sure how she’ll sleep. At the very least, it’s a queen sized bed instead of whatever child-sized one is awaiting John, so she’ll take the small wins where she can get them.
It only takes a few minutes and she’s done—there’s not much to do, what, pull out her leggings and spare pair of sweats and put them atop the dresser? Ava does the same with her thin sweatshirt and tank, and everything else stays at the bottom of her bag. A small pile meant for the bathroom down the hall sits by the door but there’s no urgency for her to leave the room. If Ava stays put, it’s like she never intruded in the first place. Never disrupted Mrs. Walker’s iron grip of perfection; John slips right back in like a cog in a machine but she’s a wedge stopping the gears, bringing normal life to a shuddering halt. Cocooned in yellow wallpaper, she’s invisible. Hidden. With the tentative feeling at the edge of her limbs and the nausea rolling in her stomach, her sitting on the bed with her knees to her chest feels oh-so similar to the moments in between phasing where she’s weightless, formless, untethered from the expectations of the world before she’s agonizingly dragged back into it again. Sometimes she feels like that’s where she’s always meant to be.
This dim, small guest room is the closest she’ll get to feeling that on Earth.
As far as places she’s stayed the night go, it’s not the worst. Though, not the best. Maybe the loneliest. John’s down the hall but he’s never felt so far away.
The isolation thrums in her chest and she can feel it all the way up to her ears. A buzzing and the rippling of cells; Ava’s always resented the fact that her hearing doesn’t work right half the time but she can sense every internal shift in her being by its frequency. Silence is only golden when she’s balanced out. She’d do anything to have John talk her ear off right now regardless of her desperate wish to be imperceptible.
Ava gets up so quickly she almost trips and falls, before her better judgement stops her hand from pulling open the door. Her path down the hallway is a stab in the dark. Each chipped paint wooden door looks the same, cracked slightly ajar to reveal a sliver of darkness. Only two doors are fully shut. One stares her down at the end of the hall as she approaches and gut instinct tells her that’s not it. Directly to its right, though, with its yellow stripe painted on top—there it is. There’s no proof besides the light seeping out from under its edge but that’s enough.
She knocks on the door and it opens to reveal something Ava can only assess as museum display, a meticulous diorama of a boy that no longer exists. Action figures—nameless soldiers, as far as she can tell—posed and model planes hanging from the ceiling. Trophies crowding a shelf, glittering under the overhead light as if freshly polished. Navy blue bedspread and plaid pillowcases on a four poster bed.
“Hey,” John says as he takes her hand, and Ava’s attention turns to him standing in front of her. The way he searches her expression for any bit of discomfort isn’t lost on her, but something unsettled sits beneath his own. He’s not fully here, she thinks. Ava and her years of desperate escapism can sense disassociation from a mile away. “You settled in okay?”
“Yeah, I’m all good. There wasn’t much to do.”
“I can show you where the bathroom is if you—”
Ava pushes past him, fully stepping into John’s childhood bedroom though keeping his hand in hers and effectively dragging him with her. It’s double her closet-sized guest room. Certainly adequate (and then some) for a growing boy. “How many years has it been since you last…?”
“Stayed here?” Ava nods in response to his faraway look. With a quirk of his head, John answers, “A good seven years. I’ve stopped by since but I can’t—”
“It’s weird, isn’t it? Like it’s frozen in time.” She can’t help jumping at the end of his sentences and cutting him off. It’s a nervous bad habit; poor social skills , she’d been told by the child psychologist once assigned to her so long ago that the years blur. The indictment stuck and she can hear the doctor’s thick accent even now. You never wait for anyone , he said with the authority of a near-gallery of framed diplomas behind him. In a small, protesting voice, her nine year old self had replied, But I do . That’s all I do . Ava knows that’s not what he meant; still, that’s what she said back then and she mouths it now while facing away from John. Words sit on the tip of her tongue but Ava forces them back as she slowly walks around the room, drinking it all in. Every little detail catches her eye like clues, puzzle pieces, revealing themselves as she tries to put together the version of John she never could’ve known. The mural of the solar system seemingly handpainted on his closet door; a little boy once fascinated by space. Academic decathlon plaques on the wall; a bright student and Ava smiles, pleasantly surprised by that particular revelation. Books on military history lining the bottom of the carved-out shelves of a window seat built into the wall; a hopeful cog in a different machine. Hindsight is a bitch .
She gets to the picture frames on his dresser and one glance of a young girl in a fancy gown brings her inquisitive mood to a grinding halt. Ava recognizes the face far quicker than she should. Her fingers trace down the side of the frame, taking it in. John’s arms around Olivia—the both of them so young trapped in a twenty year old memory—like he was never meant to hold anyone else. It fractures something small inside but Ava can’t look away. In fact, she moves onto the next one, and another, and another , repeating the cycle because she needs to see every bit of him including what she’d rather never existed in the first place.
“A shrine,” John says. Ava parts her lips, about to speak, but he continues to reply to her previous statement. She doesn’t turn around. “I don’t think my mother’s let dust collect on the surfaces in here for the past twenty-plus years.”
Taking a frame into her hand, she remarks, “How dutiful. Waiting for you to come back?”
“Something like that.”
Ava puts the picture in hand down and picks up another, one of John in a football uniform side by side with someone she vaguely recognizes. The name evades her until it dawns on second glance. Lemar . She sets the frame down with more reverence than she spared the ones with Olivia.
A glint of light catches her scanning gaze and Ava’s eyes fall on a small mental band tucked behind a frame. It’s a familiar sight even in a wholly new place; back in New York, Ava’s well aware John still holds onto his wedding ring. Val begged him to take it off— that ship has sailed, Walker, and I don’t want any assumptions that I’ve married off my agents already —but he couldn’t get rid of it completely. Hell, he still nervously runs his thumb over the empty, pale space on his finger. She’s clocked the habit during briefings, on the jet, everywhere he has a moment and a free hand. Looping her own fingers through his isn’t enough. The anxious glint in John’s eyes that always accompanies the action is one she assumes is leftover from his military days, wondering if the ring slipped off in combat, and typically results in him excusing himself to his room for a moment, a peek in of his head just to check. If Ava remembers correctly, it’s on his desk in the tower—behind a picture of Olivia in the hospital, presumably after giving birth to their son. She’s studied that frame more times than she’d like to admit. Each time’s as painful as the last but looking at it post-miscarriage, his broken promise of forever sitting right behind the photographic proof of the most permanent sort of love—the kind Ava could never give him—is altogether worse. At least here, Ava thinks, it’s just hidden by some dumb picture of him in a crown and sash with her on his arm . She frees up the space, rearranging the pictures on his childhood dresser and reaching down to grasp the ring between her fingers. It could barely fit on her own hand from the looks of it, the circumference unusually small, and she squints to read the tarnished engraving hidden on the inside. AJW .
“Why the hell did you bring your wedd—”
It’s Ava that’s cut off this time, not by words but a sharp breath from John. His hand goes to her shoulder, a little stronger than she expects, and she lets the gold ring clatter on the wood after falling from her fingers. She half-turns around to face him and he’s sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s not,” he says.
“Then what is it? You don’t typically have more than one, no? Unless it’s hers.” She quickly flits between a frame and John’s eyes. He follows the line of sight and she sees the impact on noticing Olivia clear all over his face.
“It’s not hers.” An uncomfortable silence sits between them; it’s entirely his fault when all Ava’s feeling is confusion, not reluctance. Inside she’s dying to know but doesn’t press any harder than a disbelieving nod. Another sharp breath gives way to a quiet, guilty response more befitting a small child. “My mom, she’s the one who gave it to me.”
Her mouth falls; not a full jaw drop but something a few centimeters shy. There aren’t any words. Not immediately. John’s barely hidden mortification keeps any thoughts from fully forming and what eventually spills from Ava’s lips is a simple statement. “Your mother gave you a wedding ring.”
It’s clear to the both of them how that sounds, between Ava’s raised brows and John’s dismissive backtracking. “No, well, not exactly—it’s a promise ring. I don’t know. I was ten, it was a stupid thing she did to be nice.”
“And what was the promise?”
“What?”
“You said it was a promise ring, whatever that means.” Ava swallows, nods, doubling down on the question despite the growing pit in her stomach. “What was the promise?”
He doesn’t look up, doesn’t even acknowledge her for a moment as he looks blankly at the dresser and its graveyard of photo frames. “I don’t remember,” John replies.
It’s the kind of lie Ava’s inclined to let slide.
“Let’s head down for dinner.” She fully turns towards him, taking his hand in hers as she clears the air. John’s up before she even finishes the words.
Ava’s seen him in the throes of missions—government offices, shelled-out labs, burning buildings on the brink of explosion—but never so keen to get out of somewhere with his quick steps into the darkened hallway, even before her.
Louella’s already seated at the table when the couple arrives in the dining room. Food’s set out in big bowls—one with some sort of concoction of green beans, potatoes, and bacon all mixed together and the other brimming with mac ‘n cheese—but Mrs. Walker is nowhere to be found.
“Washin’ up,” Louella whispers, casting a glance towards the archway leading to the kitchen before looking at Ava. “She’ll be here in a moment.”
John slips into a seat, taking the place setting in front of his sister without a word. Nothing’s spoken louder than a few decibels and the animated glances between the siblings clue Ava into a habit much deeper than one-off silence today. They’re practically holding a conversation without a single word between them. The tilt of John’s head, a sideways eye roll from Louella. It’s a language that an only child could never understand. Ava tries her best anyway.
The grandfather clock across the room reads 6:35. Late to her own dinner, Ava thinks, and opens her mouth to let out the shitty remark but is stopped by the arrival of the lady of the hour. “I apologize, I apologize,” Mrs. Walker announces, walking with her hands out, fingers splayed like she doesn’t take up enough space by voice alone. She takes the seat across from Ava. Louella’s to her right and Mrs. Walker casts a glance to her daughter before pursing her lips with guilt towards John. “I don’t mind taking my time when it’s just us two eating dinner but I’m sorry for making you wait, sweetheart.”
With a smile, he replies, “It’s no trouble at all.”
A moment passes. Silence. Two pairs of hands sit folded across the table, one next to her resting on the edge while her own lay painfully solid on her lap. Pins and needles. Pain’s not enough to distract her from the stifling air and eyes roaming the room and Ava reaches for the bowl in front of her only to be stopped by a firm hand grabbing the other side, setting it down.
“You don’t say grace over there in New York?” Ava’s hand shrinks away at Mrs. Walker’s glaring accusation, one she doesn’t even understand. Icy blue eyes stare back at her. There’s a glimpse of John and his baby blues deep inside his mother’s leering gaze, and the recognition unsettles something in Ava’s stomach enough to make the dinner look unappetizing. Mrs. Walker pulls the bowl across towards herself and Ava doesn’t put up a fight. “Surrounded by godless heathens, John, I hope she’s not rubbing off on you.”
His submissive silence and nod sink through Ava like an anchor at sea, chaining her up with something too weak to be disappointment. It still stings. Less than a few hours into their relationship gone truly and fully ‘public’ and the smallest bit of fear takes root in the depths of her mind. Ava doesn’t know much about this very different world she’s stepped into, though, she knows one thing. Historically, John’s run to his reputation’s defense before anyone else.
She wonders if Olivia ever sat in this very seat. Side by side with her boyfriend, fiancé, husband; perfectly slotted into the family unit. Did he defer to his mother over your honor, too?
“Louella?” Mrs. Walker snaps, and a monotone prayer spills from the woman’s lips like a command. A dog told to speak—Louella is nothing if not obedient. Ava’s not religious in the slightest but she does believe there should be some feeling behind sacred words. There’s nothing here. Hollow syllable after hollow syllable professes gratefulness for food and family and ‘His Will’. If there was once any sincerity in Louella’s words, it’s long gone now.
This phases neither John nor his mother. Oddly, Ava’s the only one disturbed.
Louella concludes the moment with an equally as unenthusiastic ‘Amen.’
Seemingly pleased, Mrs. Walker squeezes her clasped hands together before reaching for the same bowl pulled from Ava’s grasp. She speaks while spooning the green bean dish onto her plate. “Liv was always so good at saying grace. Knew what to say off the top of her head, always so creative. Really grateful.”
John chokes on his lemonade. Louella runs whiter than the tablecloth in front of them. In the silence, Ava waits for either of them to say a word. Something. Anything. John, please, you never shut up—
No one’s coming to save her. Offering a smile, Ava replies, “I’m sure she was, Mrs. Walker.”
“She was .”
All Ava can do in the wake of the emphasis is swallow and nod. There’s no way I can win, is there? To argue is to question her authority. To agree isn’t satisfactory either. For once in her life, Ava actually yearns for her invisibility. What’s the adage, women should be seen and not heard? That’s what the Walker matriarch wants out of her at this point. She doesn’t even want me here at all.
John hands Ava one of the bowls and helps her gingerly spoon out the mac ‘n cheese, shortly followed by the green bean concoction. The siblings both follow suit once she’s done.
“Thank you, Mama, for the wonderful food,” Louella quietly says before taking a bite. John quickly gives a nod of agreement in his mother’s direction.
Ignoring her daughter’s thanks, Mrs. Walker only says, “Louella didn’t take me to the Kroger today like she was s’posed to, so John, honey, I apologize all we’ve got are sides for dinner.”
“Mama—”
“No need to make excuses, Louella Marie, nothing’s gonna undo the fact that there’s no meat on your brother’s plate,” she curtly replies, stabbing into the green beans on her plate.
John gives his sister a glance, a shake of his head so tiny to evade his mother’s notice. “It’s fine, Lou,” he says. She’s not the object of his attention for long before he turns to his mother, a reassuring smile on his face. “I could fill up on your mac ‘n cheese anyway.” The ‘perfect son’ act rolls off him so naturally that it’s hard for Ava to see the blood on his hands as he spoons the pasta onto his plate. He’s stripped of any fight. New York John, her John, agent and Avenger John is blurred by an imposter’s halo. Dimmed by the black hole sitting across the dinner table.
In a family of facades, Ava’s the only real one here.
She just sits, mouth agape with her fork extended in front of it, watching the car crash conversation in real-time. Each passing moment makes the air grow heavier with Mrs. Walker’s matriarchal dissatisfaction. Her children attempt damage control—Ava registers the exhaustion in Louella’s efforts, the sighs of someone doing this for years on end. The practised, perfunctory pass of the salt when the palm beside her lays outstretched and expectant. But from the peace that occasionally sweeps Mrs. Walker’s face when her eyes cross the table—a mother looking at her son like she birthed the sun, moon, and stars—John seems to be the more effective of the two despite his silent smiles and time away.
“Did you tell anyone in town you were dropping in or will they all be as surprised as you made the two of us?”
“No, Mom, no one knew.” John gives a sideways glance to Ava; a needed boost before continuing. She’d like to grab his hand, yet stops herself. Maybe too much? “But I don’t think we’ll really be seeing anyone this weekend.”
Mrs. Walker takes a breath of displeasure and allows her fork to hit the side of her plate with a sharp scraping sound. The sudden intrusion causes Ava to flinch but John and Louella, eyes focused on the food, don’t give their mother’s controlled outburst a second thought. “You oughta stop by the Hoskinses’ place,” she says. It doesn’t come off as a suggestion. Ava’s mind is quick with the image of the boy in the football jersey so fresh in her memory; her stomach clenches and she bypasses all fear to take John’s free hand in hers under the table. “I pass by Marla’s flower booth at the farmers’ market every week and she asks about you and I’ve got nothin’ to say. Not a peep from you to pass along, mother to mother. And Jonathan, you know that family loves you like another son. Just like we loved Lemar. You know that.”
Louella’s eyes flit down and avoid her brother’s line of sight.
“Not sure how much his sister’d like to see me, Mom,” is all he replies. He doesn’t away from the clock straight ahead. Doesn’t acknowledge Ava’s hand in his even after a squeeze.
Still, his mother will not let up. “Marla does.”
“She’s just being polite. Small talk.”
Before Mrs. Walker can continue, Louella cuts in, voice ringing like a tightly coiled spring gone loose. “What else would there be for you to talk about? You make me sneak out and pull the car around before Sunday service even ends so the ladies don’t corner you to speak. You walk through the Kroger like you’ve got wings for feet. You don’t knit for the women’s group anymore, you don’t go to the community events at the library. You cycle through the same three topics of conversation: the weather, the governor, and your grandson.”
“And I thank the Lord above every day for that darling, sweet boy,” Mrs. Walker insists with the scrape of the knife on the porcelain. “Guess it’s a good thing I got a grandchild out of Olivia since I don’t think…” Ava’s heart falls as she processes the words; the dull, tarnished steak knife may as well be through her stomach. Her hand shakes, buzzes, around John’s and she can feel him try to grasp onto empty air. Mrs. Walker continues with the smallest smirk. “A baby would fall right through you, wouldn’t it?”
Words just as hollow, meaningless, forced to be free from any belief like the prayer before, Ava responds simply, “I wouldn’t know.”
John’s still silent beside her.
“Never mind.” His mother waves it off, pushing her picked-at plate away from her already. “I s’pose now I can chat about you and this”—Mrs. Walker shakes her head, pointing her fork across the table at Ava—“I’m sorry, sweetheart, what did you say your name was, again?”
Through a painful smile, she replies, “Ava,” and the back-and-forth volley between women begins.
“Ava. Ava.” It rolls off her tongue like she’s attempting to get a bad taste out of her mouth. “Just so dang similar to Olivia.”
“Can we please not bring her up?” Ava begs. Her voice nearly breaks. She’s too dignified to fall apart but her will to go on decently is wearing thin.
“I think I have a right to speak on my daughter-in-law.”
“ Ex -daughter-in-law.”
“Long as there’s no ring on your finger, she’s as good as my daughter still.”
“And I’ll be too, just, well—” The raise of the woman’s eyebrows makes Ava back down and reevaluate through the growing ringing in her ears. What am I even saying? I’m not implying—I shouldn’t imply that. I can’t . “I’d just like you to see me in the same light as Olivia. I’m on as equal ground as her.”
“As some state-assigned girlfriend?”
“We fell in love quite independent of any outside influence.” Proximity is hell of an influence, but what does she have to know?
Mrs. Walker just laughs. “Love? You think whatever you have with my son compares to forty years of love?”
Forty ; the math is off. Twenty years off. John, who brushed away every raised voice and clattered fork through the evening, finally flinches at that. His sister’s uncomfortable gaze and absentminded pushing around of food on her plate only adds to the unease. Despite the unsettled air, something here feels practised. Rehearsed. Both children fall swiftly into roles of quiet acceptance, Ava opens her mouth to question the math but the overwhelming fear that comes on the cusp of discovery steals the words from her mouth.
Mrs. Walker capitalizes on the silence. She turns her head to address John, grabbing her son’s left hand from across the table. “There’s always something defective with a woman so old and unmarried. She’s not right in the head. She’s certainly not right in the body.” It’s Louella who flinches this time—eyes closed, shoulders tense. Shame ; Ava watches it drip down on a slow exhale and freeze Louella from the inside out. She retreats into a shell of herself for the rest of dinner as her mother continues. “There is something wrong with her. It’s plain as day, she advertised it to you as some ‘power’ but it’s the devil’s work. A curse in the flesh. God bent her backwards and you’re perfectly straight. A broken thing will only bend you out of shape, too.”
“Mom—”
Ignoring his half-hearted protest, she leans across the table and brings her hand to John’s cheek. Wrinkled and bony; she grips with fingers under his jaw and presses her thumb to his lips. “Shhh, sweetheart. Just listen to me. Listen to Mommy. You’re going to call up Olivia and you’re going to tell her I want her and Henry out of Oregon and back here, now. Let me talk to Liv, from a mother to daughter, and we’ll get this sorted out—”
It cracks. Small at first, just a single sentence slipped out from the thrumming, pounding, angry well of hatred because it’s one thing for me to repeat that over and over in my mind, that I’m broken and cursed and defective but she has no right to say it. It’s the truth and it shouldn’t spill from any other lips than mine. “I’m not a curse,” Ava quietly says. A little louder—Mrs. Walker’s sharp eyes on hers now—she continues, “I’m just a woman, ma’am.”
“A sorry excuse for one.”
John’s hand drops from around hers at his mother’s spurning statement and the absence of touch is something Ava’s certain she’ll never get used to, no matter how often the it greets her like an old friend. She keeps her head facing forward but can see John in her periphery. His gaze stays firm, tormented, on the woman caressing his face. Ava prays the way he leans into her grasp is a figment of her sick imagination.
With a quivering lip, it takes Ava as much effort to stave off tears as it does to simply exist. “Do I have to justify every ounce of my existence to you? It’s exhausting, Mrs. Walker,” she quickly tacks on at the end, fearful of being snapped at again. “I didn’t want this life, I can assure you that. Poked and prodded like a freak of nature. Weaponized by scientists and strategists, and now the state. Constant pain, a ringing in my ears at anything louder than a yell, an unshakeable fear that any touch could possibly be my last. Motherless. Fatherless. Lost them both in the very way that made me like this, though”—Ava glances between the three of them; fury, shame, dread across mother, daughter, son in that order—“maybe family’s not much to miss out on.”
For the first time this evening, John’s silence feels like a token of support instead of mere filial submission.
Dinner can’t possibly end soon enough. Ava’s out of the room before the plates are even cleared by Louella’s shaky hands.
Footsteps on the creaky hardwood make her heart pound and she speeds up, anything to avoid another round of humiliation. But John grabs onto Ava’s arm before she can free herself from the main floor. If it weren’t for the thrumming pain on her left side from the involuntary slip-up under the table, she’d phase out of his grasp and make a mad dash up the stairs. The safety of the guest room is calling her name. Instead, she allows him to pull her close, tight, wrapping his arms and cradling her in the middle of the front room. From the feel of his touch and the lack of tension, she can tell her John is back. Whatever made him disappear earlier is clearly gone now.
“I don’t want to keep apologizing,” he whispers.
“Then don’t.”
“I can’t help it.”
Then do something that proves you’re sorry for all this mess. Bitterness sours her mouth even while she keeps the plea to herself. Seeing the version of him she knows and loves, Ava wants to absolve him of it all. But there are limits to forgiveness. Hers have always been high.
“I want tomorrow to be better.” John cups Ava’s cheek, tilting her head towards his. “Let’s wake up early and go to the farmers’ market. Drive around and look at the cows, pick up lunch, something. Anything. Get out of this house, away from her.”
Masochism and self-hatred takes hold for a moment and she can no longer withhold spite. Soft and reluctant, she says of his mother, “She only wants what’s best for you.” Whether that’s the truth, half-truth, or something more sinister isn’t the point; the self-inflicted punch to the gut is her intended effect. It’s easily achieved.
“Ava…” He presses into the small of her back, as if he can quiet her thoughts the harder her holds her.
“No, she does. That’s what a mother does, I think. But we all have an opinion. Val thinks what’s best is the two of us together for the whole world to see. Your mother thinks what’s best is if you never looked my way again.”
“And what do you think?”
She’s not sure she hears him correctly, ears muffled by the fabric of his shirt and the sound of his irregular heartbeat through his ches. “Hm?” Ava asks.
“What do you think is best for me?”
John’s silence at the table sits at the forefront of her mind. The deference to his mother’s opinion.
I will not beg you to put me first. I will not let myself be thrown to the dogs.
“I think you should decide for yourself,” she replies and breaks from his arms—her own strength, no slipping through his cells—to quickly head up the stairs.
Hours tick away. Ava wrestles with an old enemy; in the scratchy, too-soft bed, she tosses and turns while sleep dangles in front of her like forbidden fruit. An ache or pain pulls her back each time she gets close to fully falling. The intermittent tears prevent it, too.
She tried to suppress them for the first few hours but lost the strength once it passed midnight. Thin walls don’t stop her from sobbing. Ava simply adjusts, muffling the wounded sounds with the guest room’s flat excuse for a pillow. It’s thoroughly soaked the longer she goes on; she wakes to wet, sticky cheeks in between bouts of restless sleep.
The 2AM battle is won for only roughly forty minutes before it’s the opening of her door that wakes her up this time. She jolts and reflexively reaches to the nightstand beside her only to grab empty air. Remembering she’s not back in her room in the tower isn’t any less panicking. Ava sits straight up, pulls her legs to the edge of the bed—
“Babe, it’s just me.”
Vision no longer clouded by fight-or-flight, just the dark, John appears in the corner of the guest room. He closes the door behind him and steps towards Ava, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“What are you still doing up?”
His voice is rough even in a whisper and reminds her of their frequent conversations in the dead of night: head on his chest, eyes closed, speaking until drifting off. Part of her yearns for it now but to do it anywhere outside of the safety of her room in New York feels like a betrayal. “Couldn’t sleep. Hard when I don’t have you next to me.” Any other circumstance and she would’ve responded with something sappy coated in sarcasm—she’s still touched, though, beneath the all the misery and disappointment—but Ava merely nods, settling back against the sandpaper pillow. His hand comes to her back in a gentle touch. She stays rolled facing the wall and doesn’t move even after he moves away.
He sleeps soundly for the rest of the night; the warm presence of her body beside him is enough for John to rest despite the circumstances. Ava keeps her crying at a minimum out of respect. It’s not easy to hide choked sobs, the rustling of movement as her shoulders heave and shake from hours of pent-up hatred finally forced to break loose. She lives suspended in a limbo between exhaustion and energy—sleep’s all she wants but her body won’t have it until every ounce of feeling’s been wrung out. Spiraling. The opposite of whatever the come-up is; you can’t manage the scrutiny of a single woman and you expect to stand the test of the media? The public? You’ve got a man by your side who would take a bullet for you in battle, who’d lay down his life if it meant you could live, and still he’s just a man. A soldier concerned with following orders. A little boy who wants his mother’s affection. Something guides his heart in front of a crowd but it’s not love. Not love for you. That would never be enough. You’ll never be enough. You are cursed and defective, and you will never be enough for him.
It runs on loop until words slur into one vague sense of misery, as if even thinking each individual one is too much effort.
John doesn’t stir once. Ava’s quite good, it seems, at hiding her breakdowns in plain sight. She should be—it’s all she’s ever done for a good twenty-five years. There’s no reason to think the habit’s stopping anytime soon.
As far as evenings spent in agonizing pain—both physical and emotional—it’s not the worst. Though, far from the best. Maybe the hardest to shake. John’s right beside her all night but he’s never felt so far away.
Chapter 4: witness to such agony
Summary:
part one // louella and ava clearing the air
Notes:
this is part one of the louella/ava conversation for the ages. i needed to break it up because i realized if i didn't, this chapter was going to easily be 8k words and for the writing style (extremely dialogue heavy because the playwright in me jumped out here) that would be a Lot. however! if you are a fan of miss louella walker, you are bound to have a ball up in this bitch like me during this chapter and the next. apologies if this is a lot of ava just taking it all in. i promise it's worth it if you let the tale seduce you...
updates may be more spaced out in the future! i'll be back into the semester again.
chapter title from the louella anthem itself, ethel cain's 'onanist'.
enjoy! - xoxo aj
Chapter Text
“Rough first night?” Soft, southern drawl fills the early morning air as Ava sits on the porch. She’d snuck out here an hour ago when first light broke, red dawn on the precipice of flooding the rest of the eastern sky. John didn’t stir when she rolled out of bed. Didn’t move when the door creaked more than she would’ve liked as she walked into the darkness of the hallway. Maybe his heart will stop for a moment when he eventually wakes and realizes he’s alone; spiteful, but the thought makes Ava smile until the voice continues. “I hope you managed at least a few hours of sleep.”
The screen door closes with a snap, and Louella steps onto the wraparound porch in a pale purple nightgown and robe.
“It’s pretty.” Ava nods, looking the blonde woman up and down. A flash of surprise crosses Louella’s face and she looks down as if something’s wrong. As if she’s never been complimented before. Ava’s too familiar with the feeling; that’s why the words spill so effortlessly from her lips. That, and the reluctance to address anything else. She gives Louella a small smile. “The color. It suits you.”
“Oh, well,” Louella speaks after a slight pause, a smile growing to match as she keeps her eyes on Ava’s. “If it were up to me, I’d be in an old shirt and shorts. But, we have guests…”
“I’m not much of a guest; I don’t think it counts if you show up uninvited.”
“I don’t mind ya.”
“Your mother does.”
“My mother minds everyone who isn’t her son.” Louella finally breaks from hovering by the door on the welcome mat, now pacing at the white banister railing. The fields in front of them sway in the wind, clouds moving overheard in the orangey glow. If not for the circumstances, Ava would find it captivating. I’m not often afforded the luxury to watch the clouds pass by, literally. Louella continuing, a tinge of bitterness, pulls her away. “It’s just the nature of it.”
Ava sighs and as she shifts, the wicker of the chair brushes against her legs through the fabric of her sweats. Stray pieces of wood that escaped the weave poke her skin. Changing her distribution of weight doesn’t give much relief; it’s simply an unpleasant material all around. She’s found that most of the things in this house seem to be designed for discomfort. Flat pillows. Itchy bedspreads. Even the dining room chairs from the night before had no cushion to soften their hard bottoms. To feel good in this house is a punishable offense. All Mrs. Walker seeks to produce is suffering, and Ava can admit the woman’s effective in achieving that goal.
“You want a blanket?”
The gesture brings Ava to pause, caught off guard by the hospitality. It’s second nature to refuse— it’s fine, really, I should go in soon —but the quick steps across the uneven wooden boards, a preemptive hand on the screen door, Louella nearly turned away already is enough to push Ava over the edge. Reluctant, she nods. When the woman returns with a gray crochet blanket, she rattles off a quiet “thanks” while tucking it around her legs and waist.
Louella settles down in the wicker chair right beside her. “By all means, hon. It’s no trouble.”
“I run cold.” Ava blurts some kind of white-lie justification for needing help. She can’t place why she does it but the thought of criticizing anything in the house she’s so abruptly upended doesn’t sit right in her gut. Though, the air whipping around them, chilling the already cool morning makes the life half-true at best. Ava’s sensitive to everything, temperature included. “Mostly, it’s not a problem but with the wind…”
“It’s because of all that, isn’t it? The, uh—phasing? That’s what you call it?”
“ La posesión .”
“Come again?”
Ava blinks and shakes her head, the feeling of Spanish rolling off her tongue so old it may as well be completely foreign. It’s not a word she’s used in a long while. Not aloud, at least. “That’s what I first called it. Scientists at SHIELD gave the technical name of ‘quantum phasing’ but before that, in Córdoba…” Ava trails off, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. She feels physically smaller, if that’s possible, like her atoms are more closely stuck to one another. Shrinking. Reverting back to those days. “The nuns at the orphanage said I was possessed, and I adopted their wording. Some days it feels more fitting. Or hopeful. Possession implies it’s not me, but something else causing this. That it’s not natural to my being.”
“And implies it can be undone,” Louella quietly remarks.
“It can’t.” If an exorcism could fix this, I’d have been cured in my first days at the hands of the Catholics. “There are temporary fixes but nothing lasts. Quantum energy was the closest thing I had to a cure, and that fell apart as quickly as it came. Eventually it leaves my system and I’m back at the beginning.”
Though she’s been listening intently the entire time, Louella lights up with a nod. “Like refrigerant leaking out of a car’s air conditioning.”
Huh. Ava pauses, lips parted then pursed as she tries to understand. Embarrassment flushes down Louella’s face so Ava nods too, too eager, hoping for an explanation.
“In a car, when there’s a hole in the condenser, all the stuff that should keep the air cool just leaks out. Slowly, depending on the hole and how big it is. You can keep puttin’ refrigerant in and maybe the AC’ll work for a few days, maybe a month. But eventually it wanes and wanes and wanes ‘til it’s hotter than a sinner in church. Nothin’ll fix it unless you get in there and replace the condenser but if the model’s too old? Good luck finding the part.”
“My model’s obsolete, then.”
A hush falls over the two of them; guilt twists in Ava’s gut for so swiftly shutting Louella down. There’s no malice in her questions and attempts to understand you. The rationalization of her burn-through of quantum energy—Louella obviously equating it to something she knows well—brings back the memory of Bill, coming up with creative ways to get Ava to make sense of herself. No matter the theory, or equation, or endless questioning of ‘why’, he always found a way to make her understand. That changed as she grew up; simple analogies for a little girl through the years eventually made way to practicing lectures more for Ava’s own interest than his benefit. There was an altruistic kindness in him she could never quite emulate.
Look how his legacy lives through you now.
The scathing voice and memory makes discussing the night before a much more preferable reality instead.
“Was yesterday the first time you’ve seen him since…”
Louella sighs. “The press conference? The hearing? The whole ‘Captain America’ fuss?”
“Either, any.”
“We spoke on the phone a few days after that televised thing, with the CIA director introducing y’all. Wasn’t long. I asked him why he was working for her, he explained it was both willingly and unwillingly. Not sure how it could be both those at once.”
“I don’t know how he was initially recruited, but if Valentina”—the closeness in using name rather than title disgusts Ava that she’s far too amicable with such a despicable woman—“Director de Fontaine, if she came to him like she did me, he had a choice. Wasn’t much of one, but still.”
“Coercion?”
“A sort. Flattery and high praise of my work and skill. I’m sure she said something similar to John, touching on his Captain America stint, his military history. An achievement few would’ve know about thrown in there to make it clear she’s well-read. She brought up a personal mission I did a few years before when I was a free agent. Flattering, but unsettling.” It’s simpler to assume Val knows something unspoken than to operate like otherwise.
“I hope it took more than a few kind words to make you and him sign the dotted line.”
“She offered new technology to help keep myself together. Coming into a world where I lost everything was difficult; everyone I knew, the small lot of them, were gone and I didn’t—”
“The blip?”
What else? The low, hallowed tone of voice catches Ava off guard. She nods, finding something tender in Louella’s eyes. Sympathy and empathy blur to a point where Ava can’t tell. “I didn’t know what to do. She showed up one evening with a containment suit—the one with the godawful helmet, in your mother’s words—to replace my damaged one from SHIELD. Valentina gave me a ticket to a life of mobility again and a contract in the same breath. If I worked for her, she would help me maintain my stability.” It washes over her again, the desperation. The fear. Shaking beneath the suit, staring at the heeled, sleek woman through her cracked mask and agreeing to jump back into this line of work, because what else have I ever known? Ava shakes here and now; it’s not the wind. “I’d done worse, for worse people. At least she wasn’t testing on me this time around.”
The admission sits between them, Louella only slowly nodding as the wind chimes—metal, with a stained glass dove hanging beneath them—clink together in the breeze. “So she probably offered somethin’ similar,” is the conclusion she comes to, looking off at the field as she speaks. “I can see it, with what Liv said once about some flashy, city lady coming in after he was discharged and lost all his benefits. Must’ve been her.”
“There’s no doubt in my mind.”
Silence falls. Ava gazes back at the chimes and loses herself in the dissonant tones, eyes fluttering closed as she tries to blur the buzzing and really hear. Maybe not everything elicits punishment here.
Louella moves—just a quick brush of stray hair—and speaks, and Ava’s attention snaps back beside her. “The last time I saw him in person, though, was a week after the hearing. He was in town to see the Hoskins family, pay his respects and everything even though the service had passed, and he swung down the road to the house. I think he wanted to talk to someone. But even before all that, we weren’t really speakin’, so he went to Mama and I could hear a bit through the walls, and he’d riled her up and something happened, I don’t know. I didn’t wanna know. So I told him to leave. Don’t come back. That he already stranded me with our mess of a mother and I didn’t need his mess now, too.”
It feels almost wrong, offensive, to hear Louella expand on a time Ava would never know on her own. What John would never say—not because he refuses to acknowledge his shortcomings but simply because he cannot say them himself. He has no problem in opening up once the door’s unlocked. Though, this one’s a difficult key to find. The realization dawns on her like the sun coming up in front of them. There’s no other way Ava would come to know the truth; Louella’s truth, a subjective truth, because there’s nothing really objective in this world, but still a version of events not as skewed by trauma and grief. Ava’s probed before, trying to know what happened beyond the breakdown and Val’s fairy godmother intervention. John’s more willing to speak on Olivia than this.
“He listened,” Louella continues. “My mama complained to high Heaven that all she ever saw was her grandson—Liv too, but less she was thrilled ‘bout her—and not her darlin’ boy. She’d yell at me when her…separation anxiety or whatever you’d call it was bad. I didn’t care that she blamed me for his distance. I’ve lived my entire life with her blaming me for everything.” The mask slips for a second with the resignation in each word. It’s genuine, the hurt. Ava feels it pulsing in the slight, self-soothing turn of Louella’s head. I wonder who picked up that habit first: her or him.
“They lived over here, then? He and Olivia?”
“No, no, an hour north in Atlanta. Liv’s out of the state now, but before, they kept a house nearby in town, the one they bought out of high school with Liv’s daddy’s money. Then the two of ‘em moved up to Atlanta permanently ten years ago after she got promoted at Mays Printing. When John was still just serving overseas and she was lonely, she’d come down here often.” The wind picks up, then stops, and the change in pressure around Ava’s ears almost obscures Louella’s quiet admittance. “She was here the week everything came crashing down. Reporters flocked the house like chickens fleein’ a storm for the coop. None of us left for two days.”
Ava catches the faraway gleam in the other woman’s eyes, like being looked through , rather than at. As if people, crowds, are lining the porch and she can feel their presence now even years in the future. It’s a different fear than the kind permanently lining Louella’s features.
“By the third, we had to break the crowds to get to the airport and head to DC. My mama stayed behind; she couldn’t fathom it. She didn’t understand why he was punished for doing nothin’ wrong.”
John’s words at their first meeting ring in the back of Ava’s mind. “Your mother is one of those ‘define innocent’ types,” she quietly remarks.
“Maybe. I don’t know, I think she knows it was wrong. She really does, because I was with her when we watched the video on Baier’s nightly program. I saw horror in her eyes, there in the corner, while John was just—” Louella turns away and gasps, almost gags. A moment passes before she composes herself. “I know he was in pain but he was representing the country. Moreso than he ever did as a regular captain. And you, you can’t do that. You can’t do something like that with that shield in your hand, you can’t. Not unless that’s the image you want to send of this country.” With shaky breath in, she quietly says, “I hope to God that’s not what he wanted.”
A loss for words is what Ava’s at; in a way, she wasn’t expecting this. She’s got strong convictions of her own, stronger than his , she thinks as she watches Louella rhythmically rub the edges of her sleeves, eyes cast down. “He wasn’t thinking like that in the moment,” Ava offers. It’s true. From the little she knows, only one thing was on his mind that day and Ava’s haunted by the youthful, naïve image of the boy who died too soon on the dresser in John’s room.
“Doesn’t matter now. Most of the country thinks he’s deranged and egotistical and dangerous. The other lot, not many but with quite a bit of ‘em here, think he’s some kind of slighted savior. That the shield still belongs to him. I’ve been in too many fights with those men, accusing me of hatin’ my own family.” Louella shrugs and meets Ava’s eyes with something shining in her waterline. “Maybe I do.”
Is it justified? A hatred for Mrs. Walker is due tenfold. Ava’s less inclined to pass judgment on John, but something in Louella’s voice feels unfinished. Bigger.
“The shame he brought on our family, God, you’d think there wouldn’t be a way to make us more ostracizable. We’ve been cursed. We have been, for years.”
You don’t know the meaning of cursed , Ava thinks, but diplomatically replies, “There’s no such thing.”
“Well you don’t really know us, then.”
The words don’t hang for a second before Louella shakes away the weight and smiles, too wide, like the curtain’s fallen for too long and she’s desperately pulling it back up. Her oscillation pulls at Ava; there’s no one around to witness the act besides me. Why perform? She opens her mouth to question but a thought, her mind still placing puzzle pieces from the conversation before, slips out before she can filter it. “You know, it was probably the serum that clouded his judgment, led him to go so far.”
Her heart stops for a moment and fear crawls up Ava’s spine. Can she know? Does she know? Given the oceans’ of distance between John and his family, Ava can only assume neither his mother nor Louella know he’s taken the serum. One stupid little remark and she’s possibly pushed them farther out.
Louella just nods with the same lopsided smile, the facade back up in full force as if the conversation prior never even begun. “Yeah, I know he has that super-soldier serum. Liv told me.” She confirms it so casually, as if it’s nothing and Ava’s wide eyes are an overreaction. “I didn’t necessarily want to know, or even suspected it, but, well, she let it slip in conversation. I think she assumed that we were still close enough that he would’ve told me.”
“She just…I don’t understand—how would that even come up? In conversation?” Ava’s never held a secret far from her chest, but she’s never been married, either. Or had a sister. The abrupt shift in tone sends her spinning even more.
“Oh. Well.” A sudden reservation falls over Louella and her voice turns tentative. “At first she was pretty pleased with its effects. All of them.”
Ava flushes bright red near immediately. She’s grateful Louella is looking down, more preoccupied with pulling a loose string at the edge of her sleeve, so she doesn’t have to meet her eyes and accidentally confirm that yes, I’m also pleased with its effects as well.
Forcing an affected, unembarrassed tone, Louella continues, “Apparently it really does enhance everything.”
“She told you that?” Shock slowly gives way to horror and it creeps into each word from Ava’s lips, the constant gut feeling that this family is fucked.
The blonde woman shrugs. “I s’pose it’s ‘girl talk,’ you know? Liv always roped me in on that, trying to get me to spill on guys from town while she gushed about John.”
“You’re his sister. ”
“Nobody in this family has any sorta boundaries.”
The admittance knocks Ava into silence, stomach turning, and the pattern plays out before her. The prying dinner table talk. The lingering hands; forceful on Louella and tender on John, but intruding all the same. The ring on his nightstand, initials AJW engraved inside. You think whatever you have with my son compares to forty years of love?
Unable to say anything, Ava simply nods. Tight lips hold back the very real threat of bile. A downcast gaze prevents her from catching anything more in Louella’s eyes. Both women sit in the silence, the moment heavier and heavier until it breaks.
“But it’s her loss now, ‘cause I don’t think any other man’s gonna please her the same way,” Louella says with a barely suppressed giggle, no strength left to take it seriously. The whole thing’s absurd. Why pretend it’s anything but? “Good luck to her. I ain’t confident in Oregon boys to size up to a super solider.”
It’s a second before Ava adjusts to the deflection. There are shades of the real Louella—fleeting shades, glimpses behind the Southern charm—but they’re gone just as quickly as they appear in each small confession. If deflection’s what she wants, she’ll have it. With a smile, Ava says, “And to think, that’s all I’ve ever known.”
“ Really? ”
She nods, slightly blushing as she looks down, and given all the other woman’s shared, for once she doesn’t feel any shame in admitting her inexperience.
With a shake of her head, Louella replies, “Fuck, he really spoiled you rotten.” The curse catches Ava off-guard but Louella brings her finger to her lips, playful smile still wide. “Shh, don’t tell my mama. I don’t particularly care for the taste of soap.”
“Consider my lips sealed, then.”
The two share a glance, hands almost touching while both use their armrests, and for a moment it’s the closest Ava’s felt to having a sister. Yelena’s close, sure. But there’s familiarity and warmth like no other in Louella’s demeanor. Maybe it’s the Southern hospitality. Maybe it’s something else entirely. Fate , Ava thinks, but that can’t be right. It’s only worked in her favor once before. Though, then it was John. Only fair his sister as her sister (in law) would come as a package deal.
“So you’re not gonna tell me? Not gonna spill all the intimate details?” Louella laughs as she says it, wisps of hair blowing in the wind as she moves. “What kinda girl are you?”
Ava rolls her eyes with a joking lilt to her words. “Not a girl. Ghost.”
“Ghosts were once girls, at some point. Not even a little morsel? Not gonna hold my brother’s competency over my head?”
“ Competency— ?”
“—that’s how Liv would put it, describin’ how efficient he was in the bedroom.” Louella can’t keep a straight face and laughs until it dies out with quiet sigh. “She loved what that serum did to him ‘til she had to deal with the nasty underbelly to it.”
It’s a punch to the gut. For the briefest moment Ava’s met with the idea of a stressed, burdened woman and a very angry man, and the natural conclusion one would come to when met with those variables. He’s strong; he can push me around and I know how to hold my own. But someone like Olivia— Guilt washes over her for thinking such a thing when Louella finally speaks again.
“Liv wasn’t exactly the ideal woman to carry a superpowered baby. She always knew she wasn’t really cut out for that sort of thing. A miscarriage early on and later advice from her gynecologist confirmed having a baby of any sort wasn’t gonna end well. But John thought if he could give her the one thing they couldn’t have, it’d magically fix all their marital problems...”
“It didn’t,” Ava replies bluntly.
“No shit.” Neither one of them acknowledges the curse this time around. “They were doomed before Henry but the whole process was ill-fated from the start. Imagine carrying all the power of an enhanced human inside someone who’s anything but. Morning sickness. Migraines. Always hungry, but vomiting it all up. Bruises on her belly from the kicking inside. I remember Liv telling me that after the first miscarriage that second time around, she was acutely aware of every time she conceived ‘cause she could feel the life nearly drain out of her. It almost killed her five times over.”
Five ; the math is off. He’d told her it was three the second time around. Ava could swear he told her it was three. She remembers the moment in her darkened bedroom, and John’s voice, clear as day: Three while we were trying for Henry . Her stomach turns as it dawns on her, three that he knows of . The question of what else Liv hid for the sake of his mental health binds a tightness in her chest. It loosens enough for her to consider the rest of what Louella said.
“It wasn’t easy?” Louella raises a brow at the inflection in Ava’s voice. The confusion. That wasn’t my experience , Ava thinks. Far from it . Silence between the two women prompts her to over-explain. “I just—I don’t know, I assumed that with the serum’s effects on the baby, it’d make the pregnancy smoother. Safer.” More likely to live for someone other than me.
With a slow, thoughtful nod before turning to watch the clouds over the field, Louella remarks, “I’m guessing the two of you didn’t share the same experience, then.”
Every cell in her body ripples. A shimmer that runs bone-deep; a defensive restructuring, as if she could reform into a different person with no memory of her experience . The wind blows and rattles the wind chimes between the ladies as Ava processes the simple statement to the point of paleness. “No, no, no—it’s an assumption is all,” she replies with a shake of her head. The assurance in her words desperately needs to outweigh the guilt washing over her. “A wrong one, I suppose. I wouldn’t know any—”
“It’s ok.” Louella laces her fingers through Ava’s, bringing her other hand around to cup the cold skin. “I didn’t wanna press on it. I’m sorry for pressin’ on it.”
Ava allows herself to melt into the touch. “Louella…”
“The four second silence after my mama made that smart comment about a baby falling through you was telling. “
Please don’t tell me your mother thought that, too.
“And,” she continues, “I’m well aware of my brother’s inability to keep it in his pants. Not sure if it’s leftover Vacation Bible School trauma that prevents him from using any sort of barrier , but his pullout method didn’t have a stellar track record. At least not with the Custer’s Grove cheerleading team, and the backdoor route didn’t have five stars, either. Ask Liv how she had that first miscarriage at 18. A stray drip down and a good few ignorant fingers was all she needed to become the supposed second-coming of Virgin Mary. But if you ask me, I don’t think she came once.”
Ava gives her an utterly mortified look. Louella just shrugs, still running her furnace-like fingers over Ava’s chilled hand. “I’m sorry about the miscarriage, honey.” She pauses for a second, head tilted. “Or happy. I know people can have conflicting feelings on that sorta thing, and even if you didn’t plan it, or maybe you did, it’s still so understandable to feel bad about—”
“I didn’t even know it was happening.” Ava lets it tumble out, a vomit of words she’s kept in for weeks now. Valentina and her grandiose press plans didn’t leave room for processing and she was far too numb to do it while still recovering. Everything pushed to the back of her mind makes its way violently forward. “To be fair—and to defend my John’s honor against your allegations—I didn’t think I could get pregnant. It had been out of the question for years and years of my life. I don’t know, I just assumed that if I could, it would’ve been discovered.”
“Discovered?”
“Well—I went through rigorous testing as a child. If I could’ve…” The silence says it all; Ava can’t vocalize the idea of a child carrying a child herself. ‘Pregnant’ dies in her throat. “...they would’ve utilized that. I hold no doubt in my mind.” Louella’s hand tightens. Ava doesn’t squeeze. “But they didn’t. They overlooked it, or something changed without giving me any warning. I really had no clue. You’d think there would’ve been something, a semblance of a normal menstrual cycle to indicate it was possible. I operated as if it wasn’t and at some point, it worked. I don’t know when; I couldn’t pinpoint…conception like her. For me, it wasn’t anything like you described. Nothing like Olivia—it wasn’t a burden. If anything, it was the opposite. I didn’t know it was a pregnancy, never would’ve guessed it if you put a gun to my head, but for the first time…I felt right. Painless. Eight weeks where I could move without the never-ending drag emanating out through my limbs, without the fog and migraines and dizziness. I was like a person for once. Alive. And when it all came crashing back in waves of pain, I assumed my brief bit of heaven—as strangely as it came and left—was over. Never once, not until someone looked me in the eyes and told me I was miscarrying, did I ever entertain that could be the case.”
She doesn’t realize there’s tears in her eyes until the final bit is vomited up and the glassy view obscures Louella’s tight expression. “Sounds like you two fit together like a lock and key,” the woman softly says, reaching over to wipe the water from Ava’s cheeks with the edge of her sleeve. The gesture is so unexpectedly tender that it pauses her tears completely. “Made for one another.”
The crying doesn’t resume, but from somewhere just as resigned—just as broken—Ava says, “I don’t think I’m cut out for it to work that way.” The same guilt over her insufficiency as before twists and turns, echoing loudly like the ringing of her ears. She shouldn’t care this much; Ava repeats that over and over as if the litany could make it any more true. There’s nothing she wants more than to believe the loss didn’t affect her.
She lets out a breath of relief as Louella simply nods without argument. “You both are living a mighty peculiar life.”
“ New York’s Hottest Heroic Couple ,” Ava states, quoting off the impending Variety article hanging over her head. Louella quirks a brow but doesn’t question it. “Not much room for a child in the Avengers picture.”
“Not in New York City, either. Y’all got too many problems, crazy people runnin’ around. Crime like it’s going outta style.” Louella shakes her head, flexing her fingers as if to keep her hands busy. “I don’t know if I fancy getting caught up in some endless trauma spiral tryin’ to go visit my niece. Or nephew.”
“The shame rooms?” Ava breathes in at the thought—not a laugh, but slightly startled. “I don’t think we have a problem with those again. Not now, at least.” Yelena’s keeping Bob content enough.
With widened eyes, Louella says, “I don’t know. Too risky.”
“They weren’t that bad,” Ava replies. They were , but she doesn’t need to know that. The day it happened comes back to her often, mostly tangled in the bouts of insomnia she gets when John’s away. How everything changed at a moment’s notice—she’s never not thinking of her permanently-terrified expression burned into that press conference—but what she saw in those rooms before that. The hells each of them went through. Things Ava had only heard of in leaked mission reports or hushed rumors, personal horrors no one else was supposed to know. Her own. The orphanage. The hours immediately post-accident. She tries to remember John’s rooms but all that can come to her is a fight with Olivia, Lemar’s death, and a girl crowded by men in a locker room and there’s something familiar Ava can’t quite place. She hopes the memories of that day crossing her mind doesn’t show up in her expression now. The fear doesn’t last long, at least not that fear, as the blonde woman speaks so matter-of-factly it freezes Ava on the spot.
“If I wanted to relive being beat ‘n called a dyke by the entire football team, and my gym teacher tellin’ me maybe fucking my brother would fix me, ‘cause everybody knew my mama did it too, well, I’d just reread my diaries.”
Chapter 5: a cautionary tale
Summary:
part two // an understanding of mrs. audrey walker
Notes:
well. hi! this is the second half of louella and ava's morning conversation, and from the bottom of my heart—i am apologizing to these lovely ladies and to you. and also to john. lots of apologies to john. this backstory for him is so so so firmly what i believe as to why he is the way he is, for better or worse. marvel will Never Ever make this canon, ever, but if you so happen to be an marvel exec in any capacity + want to retcon his comic story/make some bullshittttt for the mcu and you're here...hit me up.
also—added to the chapter count for this fic because breaking this chapter in two means i have two more chapters plus an epilogue left.
chapter title from laufey's 'a cautionary tale', which is a very very ghostwalker song. listened to that while writing the very end of this chapter (you'll see why) and then a Lot of ethel cain for the rest of it. as will also be evident.
enjoy! and mind the tags! - xoxo aj
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s like Ava’s been paralyzed. Shock. It freezes her body and locks her features in an open-mouthed stare. She phases through Louella’s hand. This sort of loss of control hasn’t happened in weeks. Stable personal life, stable job, stable mental health: it all contributes to a stable body. Two, if not three of those have been suddenly knocked away. Her tangibility pays the price. The sensation rolls over like a ripple, the scales of a fish flipped violently upward and the motion suppressed as if submerged under water. Louella jerks away and the fear—fleeting, yes, but very much a gut reaction—that flickers through her eyes scatters the edges of Ava’s fingers farther out. Mrs. Walker may have done it like second nature but this is the first time Ava’s felt ‘othered’ by Louella instead. There will always be a wall no matter how close you get; the painful reminder comes to the forefront of her mind as Louella slowly speaks.
“Are you…?”
“Okay? Momentarily,” Ava replies, eyes squeezed shut. The loss of touch requires her to filter out the other senses to get it back; sight’s the first to go. Her hearing’s fucked enough that it may as well be counted out. Smell and taste are minimal already. But the wind picking up with its entanglement of wispy hairs pushed every which way, and the grating, dissonant chimes echoing, accentuating the occasional creak of the house settling into the earth—Ava’s caught in feeling. Feeling every aspect of living but the one she wants at the moment.
Her eyelids flutter with concentration sent in disarray at the sharp intake of breath beside her. “Should I get John?” Louella asks.
Yes. “No.” The tension’s so strong, Ava’s in danger of passing out. Maybe. It’s been a while; she’s better at keeping herself together than she was before. At least I thought I was. “What’s he able to do about this?”
Ava knows. She’s unwilling to say. She’s unwilling to let him touch her after the events of last night. It may be for her benefit but he’s currently undeserving of the honor.
Louella must silently concede, from the lack of any response. But against her better judgement, Ava speaks anyway. “You can touch me. Please.” Her voice cracks at the end—a byproduct of the throbbing pain pooling in the center of her wrist.
Seconds pass before she feels a warm hand above her elbow. The contact, even muffled through fabric, is immediately soothing and the clanking and gushing and every sound in between begins to fall away. She flexes a pinky. That’s all she’s got so far.
“Can you do that outside your suit?”
Exasperated, though trying so very hard not to be, Ava replies, “I’m doing it now, aren’t I?”
“But you didn’t mean to.”
“It’s a stress reaction.”
“This is what it took to stress you out enough to glitch?” There’s an undercurrent of disbelief in Louella’s voice. Not accusatory. If anything, surprise. Me too. “Not dinner last night with John leaving you to the wolves?”
“I’m sorry if finding out my boyfriend has had sex with his mother is my body’s last straw,” Ava snaps, eyes opening but still directed away from meeting Louella’s gaze. She hasn’t quite processed the words she’s said and they tumble out meaningless. Too easy. Even Louella can’t respond right away.
“That’s not what I meant—”
“It’s what you said.”
“I wouldn’t call it sex anyway.” Ava glances to her instantly. Hope dies with the next words out of the Southern woman’s mouth. “They, uh, don’t usually categorize this kinda relationship between blood relatives alongside consensual sexual acts.”
The insinuation rolls Ava’s stomach into knots. Her pinky’s not been compromised but the rest of her hand flickers in and out in time with her lurching behind closed lips, unable to solidify quite yet. A heart rate still fast enough to rival the adrenaline rush of combat stands in her way. She’s not sure it’ll ever calm down. She’s not sure how John functions with this, firsthand memory of this, hanging over his head.
With a whispered breath, Ava quietly speaks. “Forty years of love.”
“Huh?” The confusion snaps Louella to look into her eyes.
“Your mother called it forty years of love, something I couldn’t compare to John and I. At dinner, I thought equating the romantic to the familial was a mistake but clearly she meant it that way.”
“Those lines have always been blurred by my mama.”
How early. How early on have they been blurred. Ava would prefer not to know the answer; the fear of a number so small she’d actually hurl right here, right now, grips her mind. The whole affair is like a car crash. She can’t look away. She’s glued to every revelation, one after the other, the fact that this is likely the only chance she’ll ever get to peek behind the curtain of John’s past ringing loud in the back of her mind.
If learning his family’s reaction to his fall from grace felt like a betrayal, then knowing something as shameful as this is unforgivable.
“There’s something you have to understand about Audrey Walker.” The wind chimes’ soft dissonance fades out as Louella speaks. Ava tries to meet her eyes—concern growing in the edges; please, don’t tell me more—but the other woman’s locked straight ahead. The only movement is that of her fingers, pinching, anxiously rolling at the hem of her sleeve. When Louella begins again, Ava simply closes her eyes. The buzzing of her ears and hand dies away as everything plays out before her. “My mama came from Colorado, a ranch out in the middle of nowhere and her own mama ran a diner on the side of Route 70. My daddy met her in ‘85 when he was thirty-one and travelin’ through the Southwest. He took up a fencing company after serving in the Army to escape his corpse of a mama and his killer of a daddy, and my own mama’s family was one of his clients. And he saw a bright-eyed, petite waitress working a shift at that diner one evening and fell head over heels. My mama did too; hell, he was the first guy outside of her family she managed to have a conversation with that went longer than a hello-n-goodbye before she was snatched away.
“They eloped. He dragged my teenage mama all across the country. They spent an evenin’ in Los Angeles, got married on the Vegas Strip, went all the way up to the Canadian border just to say they did it. Promised her they’d always be like this. ‘Wild and free.’ But eventually he wanted her to settle down and, against her wishes, they did. Got a plot of land right outside of Custer’s Grove, put a farmhouse down smack in the middle. And my mama didn’t drive—she still doesn’t drive—so she was marooned out here, chained to a thirty minute walk if she wanted to reach even the edge of town. Trapped. Reliant on her husband’s will to move ‘freely,’ and she was startin’ to understand why her older sisters begged her to think things through before leaving with a stranger. My daddy clipped her wings into a perfect housewife shape and got her pregnant at twenty-one, but at least with darling, baby Jonathan, she had somethin’ to do all day. That’s what she told herself.”
“And then you came along?” Ava asks softly, the silence that follows Louella’s words too empty and ripe. Maybe if I cut in, she thinks, I can derail it all. It’s a naïve hope. It’s better to cling to than the dread building in the mounting wind.
Louella laughs, and that’s somehow worse. “That’s too nice a way to put it. I was an accident in every sense of the word, and the more I think about it now, I question why she got pregnant with me so quickly in the first place. She had no business getting into any sorta situation that’d lead to another baby only months after having John. And I doubt she wanted be in that sorta situation, if you get my meaning.”
Rape. She was raped. Ava finds the way Louella dances around words unsettling, a squirming sensation under her skin that doesn’t originate organically. The omission is one of complacency. As if to speak on such things is simply not part of a proper woman’s vocabulary, too ugly to even say. Louella may not mean it that way but, it’s unwitting sanitization, Ava thinks. Upholding the system that forces the unaffected smile on your face. She herself has been an unwilling executioner—literally—for a system that killed her from the inside out. Different, but no less harmful. The same burdens Ava once wore on her SHIELD suit-clad shoulders are as plain as day in Louella’s simple choice of words.
“Mama could deal with one baby. But two small children, close in age? Stuck without any mobility of her own? She was regretting this life already and my advent only furthered her unhappiness. So she did what any respectable woman would do.”
Confused, Ava waits for a continuation. Clearly I’m no respectable woman.
The lack of recognition prompts Louella out of her daze. “The coat hanger, you know.”
“...I don’t.”
The blonde woman’s entire posture stiffens, her jaw tense as if holding herself back. “Your mama never told you about how to handle an unwanted pregnancy?”
“My mother died when I was a child,” Ava replies, and the nuns never covered this.
On the exhale, quiet, like the words aren’t her own as she lets them out with a breath, Louella explains, “A self-inflicted abortion.” A quick glance to the door after she speaks reminds Ava what a nasty word that is here, the town with a church on every corner and no Planned Parenthood in sight. The act is forced to fall at some points. Ava notes that in the back of her mind. “What our mamas used to do in the privacy of our homes, as soon as they found out they were pregnant but before they were showin’. It was too late if you were already big enough that people could speculate, but if it was just the first few months, you could untwist a wire coat hanger and just sorta—” The upward jerk of her wrist is more graphic than words could be. “And it was s’posed to open you up, mess with the baby inside, and you’d miscarry. Bleed it all out. Dangerous, yes, but it was the best and quietest option.”
“Obviously that didn’t work.”
“Here I am,” Louella concedes.
“She changed her mind?”
Something akin to heartbreak crosses Louella’s features. She almost shakes her head but stops midway, the same tilt as John. Again. The usual comfort doesn’t seem to follow this time. “The wire didn’t get deep enough by the time my daddy got home. She attempted that method a few more times, to no avail, and whether it was fear of the pain or fear of the Lord that stopped her, I don’t know. But even with a husband away for most of the day, she was still interrupted by taking care of John and tending to the house. And it was near impossible to do it in secret when Daddy was around. Drinking bleach, though—that’s when she got caught.
“He stopped her before she got a sip in. Saved her life and mine, too. And through all her cryin’ and breakin’ down, it came out that she was pregnant again. Mama begged him to take her to the big clinic up in Atlanta. What he should’ve done was takin’ her to a hospital, not because of me but because clearly she was distressed. Depressed. Enough so that she was ready to take herself out along with me. He did neither.”
Louella takes a breath, eyes down. Her voice goes softer and the wind chimes accommodate as they slow their song in the deaccelerating breeze.
“The solution, in my daddy’s eyes, was to lock Mama in the guest room for the next five months ‘til she birthed me on the bed.”
Ava’s heart rate, no longer stabilizing, resumes its thrumming pace. It’s impossible to stop the images from flooding her mind; she knows the room too well from just the night before, laid in its very same bed staring at the yellow wallpaper. Insanity creeped into the edge of her mind after ten minutes alone in its small space. Five months could easily bring someone to the brink of collapse.
Suddenly the claw-like indentations on the wood of the dresser, and door, and windowsill make a lot more sense.
“She hated me before I was born and once she saw the little baby that took fourteen torturous hours to produce, she hated me still.”
“How the hell do you know all this?” It’s safe to assume your mother wouldn’t willingly share any of this with you, Ava thinks as she looks to Louella. She places her hand on the armrest and the bumpy ridges of the wicker are soothing, for once, despite the anxiety still simmering beneath her skin. It’s uncomfortable but at least she can finally feel it.
“My mama’s only friend was Marla Hoskins, because she lived ten minutes down the road and had a son in John’s class. Mama confided in Marla, who spoke with her husband over dinner, and then her daughter Talia relayed the information back to me when we’d see each other ‘cause of our brothers.” Louella sighs and the wooden porch creaks beneath her feet as she pushes up and pulls her legs onto the chair, curling into herself. “The lifelong resentment, though, I’ve felt that before I even knew what it was to hate someone.”
Faint recognition of her own pain reflected in Louella’s words tightens Ava’s chest as she’s captive to the history laid out between the two women.
“She hated my existence, hated the fact that Daddy wanted me so badly that he made her suffer. But I’ve spent the better part of my life coming to terms with the fact that my daddy didn’t necessarily want me as much as he wanted to control my mama. He wanted a wife that was pliable and weak. All the fight dulled out of her, and all her anger and mental illness directed somewhere else. There was no better way to break her than the opportunity I presented.
“He only got worse as John and I grew. Never once did he lay his hands on us; Mama was the only one he was interested in hurting. People knew, I think. But it wasn’t the sorta thing you came out and said louder than a whisper. The Walker family’s awful good at bein’ the town gossip.”
“Apparently.” Ava sighs. She opens her mouth to speak but pauses as she catches Louella’s eyes. “Small miracle, that your father didn’t…outright hurt you or John.”
“His abuse of our mama was still damage to us all the same. He hit her, so she hit me and then turned around for John to ice her bruises the moment she was finished.” Fingers covering her mouth, Louella rests her chin in her palm as she gazes down at the weathered wooden porch. “She always said there was something inherently wrong with me, that was why she did it. When she realized I was gay, it became a lot easier for her to ‘excuse’ her actions—that wasn’t ‘til I was thirteen or fourteen, but even before then I think she had an inkling that there was something different ‘bout me. Other kids at school could sense it too, like I didn’t belong no matter where I was.
“For what it’s worth, John really did try to shield me from it. God, in the beginning—” She chokes on her words and struggles to continue. “He figured out from a young age that I was gonna deal with a helluva life. And I remember, I couldn’t’ve been more than seven years old, and he sat me down on the landing to the upstairs and told me ‘Lulu, I’m gonna make sure they never, ever bother you like Mama does.’ ‘Cause, I dunno, I’ve always been more comfortable in—”
“—the shadows?”
“Yeah.” Louella snaps up, a breath caught in her chest. A glimpse of recognition floats through the way she looks to Ava and a bittersweet smile quirks to the right across her face. “Would’ve loved to be like you back in the day.”
Ava blurs through the armrest once under her hand. “Really?” She asks it with her own sort of sentimental look, trying to soften the sharp undertone; be careful what you wish for. Louella follows her line of sight to the distorted air around the wicker and slowly nods.
“Maybe not. You know better than me.”
She shrugs, small, still willing her hand from immateriality in the back of her mind as she concedes, “It is quite useful for hiding.”
“Well, the blinding light of the Walker family’s golden child was bright enough attract everyone’s gaze and leave me in the darkness. John’s solution was to take up every ounce of attention so I could exist, undisturbed, in the periphery. It worked for a long while. The utterly charmed ladies at church who passed him between their tables at Sunday brunch called him a darling boy. Every guy workin’ in tiling or construction or fencing stopped by Appell Hardware, Liv’s daddy’s store, late on weeknights to chat him up while he checked them out. All-star, all-American athlete with four state championships on his shoulders; the face of our high school’s fundraising campaign to completely redo the football field because his winning smile and winning passes were the quickest way to get old money families in town to open their pocketbooks. He was as radiant as the sun, even for transplant trash.”
Ava tilts her head with the turn of her chin and Louella quickly continues. Bitterness seeps into every word. “Being Western strangers intrudin’ a tight-knit community didn’t give us the best reputation from the start. Nothing’s been really done to make it any better; John did what he could. He always did what he could to make everyone love him.”
John the charmer. John the people pleaser. John, Valentina’s most loyal asset.
“People stopped believin’ in my brother when he murdered that man in Latvia but I saw the light long ago. His worrying with how everyone saw him began out of love for me but it didn’t stay that way. No, once it wasn’t profitable, he turned a blind eye and let the town have their way with me like Mama.”
The gears turn before Louella even finishes speaking—the locker room, the blonde girl, the teenage boys hurling insults her way and shoving her between them while a young version of John stood silently by. Ava recalls the way John, her John, pushed through the room with a grimace on his face, desperately trying to find the crack in the wall to move onto the next horror while the boys continued. Bitch. Dyke. Should’ve killed yourself like your fucking girlfriend. There were stomach-turning glimpses in many, if not all, of those rooms they trudged through that day but it was the stoic acceptance and betrayed expression of the girl that stuck with Ava long after they left the Void. Now recognizing that very same face beaten with age and stress carves a hollow feeling in her gut. Part of her wants to say something; give an apology for something Louella has not admitted, one that’s not Ava’s to dole out. She lets it live and die on her lips instead.
“Everyone talked about Audrey the shut-in and Louella the dyke, but he well-preserved his reputation before he set off for New York. Anything possibly scandalous rolled off him. The Appells spun his shotgun wedding to Liv as some puppy-love, high school sweethearts story to cover up the baby. All his various flings with cheerleaders under the bleachers were dismissed as girls lyin’ for attention. ‘John wouldn’t. John’s on the straight and narrow path. John’s the only good thing to come outta that house.’ Only the best about the pride and joy of the Grove.
“It was the whisperin’ about him and Mama that stuck.”
A chill—both the wind and her own disequilibrium reacting—rips Ava in two. Dread fills in the cracks between her cells.
“Mama’s fondness for John was no secret. I knew it early on, from the way she’d run to him for comfort and not the other way ‘round. Treated him as an adult while really, he could barely tie his shoes. She consulted him like he was the man of the house—like I saw the mamas of my classmates act with their husbands—and if she had her way, he would’ve been. Her behavior wasn’t just confined in private. Acting like this in front of the whole congregation made her talk of the town.”
Ava’s grateful she can’t picture this; she’s not sure if it’s willful or an inherent self-defense mechanism that prevents the image of John, too young and too burdened, from appearing in her mind. How I’ll be able to look his mother in the eyes now, I don’t know.
“How the actual—” Louella stops herself, frozen in thought. “—rumors of escalation originated, I’m not sure. John would’ve never said a thing. Not that we were exceedingly close but if he didn’t tell me, and if gossipy Liv never brought it up in conversation, I doubt it. Shame probably kept it in. That’s usually how it goes.”
If we kept going, Ava thinks, would we have stumbled on this room? Or is his own mind’s protection so strong he’s blocked it in the first place? There’s no definitive answer. It’s not her place to ask.
“I only knew people’s hearsay, I never saw it firsthand. Heard things, though. The creak of the hallway floors in the middle of the night, three quick steps from the master bedroom to John’s nearby. She painted a yellow stripe on his door so she could find him in the dark.
“There was his protestin’ too, in the beginning before he took it quietly. Back when he was still confused. Walls here are thin and I could hear him questioning Mama about what she was doing, asking her to stop. But Jonathan Francis, always the people pleaser…”
Revulsion crawls up Ava’s windpipe, the bile burning the back of her throat. “How young?”
She holds her breath through Louella’s pause.
“Sixteen. Wasn’t ‘til after Daddy died,” the blonde woman says on the exhale. “As far as I know, at least, but sixteen. That’s when I remember first hearing him.”
The memory of last night re-enters Ava’s mind and again, again, she’s jumping to realizations with the full picture in front of her. John’s discomfort at being relegated back to his childhood room. Disassociation. His arrival at her door takes on a different meaning now.
She’s not alone in silence with her thoughts for long. “Before you ask why I didn’t do anything, I dunno. Didn’t piece it together ‘til I thought back on it in my early twenties when one of the ladies at church asked me how my mama was holding up with her ‘vitamin D’ off servin’ our country.” Guilt permeates every syllable, dripping with regret that even Louella’s manicured front can’t hold back. Her leg bounces. It’s a pace that Ava couldn’t keep up with if she tried—but she can match the ugly, strained quality that creeps into the woman’s Southern drawl with each successive word. “I suspected it back then but didn’t believe it could be true,” Louella clarifies, correcting the half-truth before with a choked breath as she wipes her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. “Maybe I just wanted to think that she wasn’t capable of doing something like that, and if it were happening then I really would’ve known, like real obvious—more than just cryin’ and moanin’, and that if there came a time where I needed to get someone to do something, I’d be brave enough. I wasn’t. It eats at me—every passing moment, it claws at the little goodness I got left. I thank God every day he was the one who got to leave this place and I was the one damned to Hell. It wasn’t gonna be any other way, but it keeps me up at night, picturing the nuclear family re-do she’d have done with him.”
There’s a horrific remorse in the watery corners of Louella’s eyes, the heartbreak of a little sister unable to protect her older brother like he once, once, did for her. They both failed each other. They’re both living with the consequences.
“I’m going to be sick—” Ava sways forward, hair falling in her face as the wind whips and chimes ring and everything is a little too much for her broken senses to process while she’s barely holding her body together. The tell-tale signs of an unwilling breakdown sit at the edges of her body. Buzzing. Thrumming. Her skin—a membrane too thinned out, waiting at any moment to burst.
It all falls away with the grasp of a hand around hers. Louella holds her firmly, squeezing, as if she could keep the fleeting pieces of Ava together herself.
“You love my brother?” Louella asks, holding captive Ava’s gaze.
“I do.” There’s not an ounce of hesitation in her voice and that’s what horrifies Ava. The subtle shift in Louella’s expression—eyes widened, mouth slightly open before closing with a press—indicates the same.
“You’d follow him to the ends of the Earth?”
She replies, “Already have,” with the memory of the rooms months ago clear as day.
“You’d give him a—”
“If I could, I would.” It’s a testament of will, how she forces back a quivering lip. Her hand on her lap itches to rest over stomach; she never got to do it then, and it feels wrong to do it now that there’s no longer anything there beneath her skin. Ava knows what Louella means but still replies, “Doesn’t matter what it is.”
“Then you listen to me closely.” Louella leans in, brushing a strand of hair from Ava’s face. She’s never looked as grave, not in the entirety of this morning, as she does now. “Our family is cursed. My granddaddy killed my grandma. Kitchen knife, pounded into the side of the table, sent my daddy spiraling into the service to get away. And he turned into the same sorta man; just ‘cause Mama outlived him doesn’t mean her spirit didn’t die long before he did. And John—” She shakes her head, the warning forming in real-time as she speaks after a pause. “Death follows Walker men and those they love. Lemar. Liv was smart to get up and leave before it got her, too, but I think I’d be lying if I said bein’ with him didn’t nearly kill her both ways. That serum destroyed her body and his neglect in favor of his reputation destroyed her soul.
“You need to evaluate how much you love my brother, and decide if it’s worth it. He will either lead you to death or leave you for dead. Make peace with it or get out while you can.”
“I’ve handled worse,” Ava replies. She omits the fact that she can’t necessarily get out, not with Valentina’s mandates. Liv’s departure was surely difficult, Ava doesn’t doubt it, though, well—she’s not chained to a round of press and photoshoots. Louella’s warning roots itself deep in Ava’s gut but the pragmatic, jaded voice in her mind is still stronger.
The Southern woman shakes her head, chest falling with a disappointment bordering on anxiety. “I like you a lot, Ava. You’ve suffered far too much in this life, far more than you deserve.” A sentence Ava’s heard often; for once she finally believes it, coming from Louella’s mouth. “And I love my brother, but believe me. Please. He will only make it worse.”
You don’t know me, Ava wants to say. You may know him but you don’t know me. I’ve lived through hell. I’ve faced an inevitable, slow death for nearly my entire life and nothing can be worse than that. “I’ll be fine.” Ava tries to console the woman beside her, infusing into her voice all the conviction she has left. It’s not much.
The expression on Louella’s face—the stoic acceptance of an undeserved fate—matches the very same one from a memory that’s not her own, burned in the back of Ava’s mind.
Notes:
john and bob are the abused-by-their-parents duo of the tb* team, To Me.
LeslyTaylorVersion on Chapter 1 Tue 15 Jul 2025 07:49PM UTC
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