A Designer Dress From Heaven and Your Dirty Wedding Ring

xv. won't forgive what you did (i've never hurt anyone, now it's time)

this chapter contains warnings for the following: self-harm, anxiety, blood, therapy denial

The first week takes its toll on you.

Everyone hovers around you, ready and waiting as you begin to formulate your plan to confront Graves and Makarov, but there's a hesitance in the way they interact with you that grinds on your gears. They float somewhere between too compliant and too afraid, like they're scared you may snap at any given moment. Whether they worry it'll be in anger or anguish, you don't know.

Price is the worst of them all.

He refuses to take back his bedroom, deciding to sleep in his office despite your objections. He follows your every move, keeping a respectful distance but never once letting his focus drift from you.

He's unnervingly attentive, often knowing what you need before you do.

If you clear your throat, an unopened bottle of water finds its way to you. A neatly folded stack of new, loose clothes appears in "your" room, all in a range of colors–suspiciously lacking in blue–and made from fabric soft enough to not irritate your wounds. You find the kitchen stocked with your favorite snacks, all untouched and tucked away where only you would know to find them.

Never once does he try to touch you, doing his best to stay out of your space despite the way his hands twitch when he sees you wince when the muscles in your abdomen pull uncomfortably.

He clings in the most frustratingly chivalrous way possible.

It makes your chest ache, your heart stirring something awful at having to watch him hold himself back from comforting you the way he so desperately wants to. Loathe you are to admit it, a small part of you wants to feel that comfort, to give in and surrender yourself to his gentle touch and soothing words.

It keeps you up at night, imagining what it'd be like to be back in his warmth, your unsteady heart held up by the solidness of his affection.

But then his visage is morphed into the two-toned gaze of hate and arrogance that is Makarov and your mind is flooded with unwanted reminders of your father's study, too-tight dresses, and locked bedroom doors. Too many hands ghost over your skin, leaving behind a layer of filth that only you can feel. Cold whispers promising a future of endless mistreatment slither into your ear, a mix of too many familiar voices all hissing you deserve it.

Your dreams are plagued with accusations and assumptions, and you're startled awake with traitor and liar burned into your head.

You think that for all of Price's efforts, apologizing seems to be low on his list of priorities.

The idea that he would think you'd so easily bend to this flood of sentiment in place of the responsibility and accountability he should be giving you...

Fury smothers out what little fondness is left in your heart as your appreciation is turned into irritation and annoyance.

He doesn't get to just go back to the way things were.

None of them do.

They had their chance to have the sweet, helpful Canary who was content to turn a blind eye to anything outside of the club or her family. They could've had the Canary they seem so desperate to have back had they only trusted you, but you don't want to be that Canary again. You won't let yourself be so easily walked over, so dependent on the idea that anyone would care about your side of things.