Multi-Fandom One Shots

Where We Go, We're Not Alone (Florence Zimmerman)

Before moving to Michigan, you had it all. You and your wife were happy with your daughter in Paris; then came the war, and it did what it does. The two of you tried to get on with your lives, find some other meaning, but your home was filled with reminders. So you sold your home, fully furnished, and moved next door to a warlock Florence had met a few times before. Jonathan Barnavelt and Isaac Izard had been practicing stage magic for a decade now and they'd come to Europe a few times. Of course, the magic population was more prominent in the old world rather than the new one and a few took offense to the act. Florence had gotten the pair, and Jonathan individually, out of a few scrapes and now it was his turn to return the favor. 

So, you moved to New Zebedee, into a bland, empty house. You could see the pained expression on Florence's face as you two stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the grey house. "We can paint it," you offered. 

Her light blue eyes cast sideways and found your own eyes. "Purple?" she asked optimistically. 

You almost cried at the question. Your daughter had loved purple, and while it was Florence's favorite color, since the funeral, it was all she wore. It seemed it would be a part of your new theme. You nodded once at her request, going inside. You both had brought a few things so you didn't have to completely stock the house. Mostly, Florence had her magic items and you had a few sentimental knickknacks. The rest of the house came from furniture stores or flea markets. The purple drapes, the tablecloth, and the bedding were all purple and all had been made by hand by someone with a stand in an outdoor space. The furniture had to be bought normal and Florence begged Jonathan to change its color. She still couldn't practice magic, no matter how hard she tried. And she tried. 

You tried too. Not to do magic because you'd never had an affinity for it, no matter how much Florence encouraged you. No, you tried to move on. You would never forget your daughter, the reminder in an urn and in your locket. You supposed that was part of the problem. You couldn't let go so you couldn't move on. Life was just missing a spark, that laughter and mischief you missed. 

You couldn't get out of bed. It was a lovely bed, in a lovely room, decorated by Florence as most of the house had been. But this house, this room, still reflected your memories, even if you never had any of your child in this home. So you laid there. You felt the numb wetness trickle down the side of your face. You felt it flow over the bridge of your nose from the puddle between your eye and that bridge. It soaked your sleeve, which was propped under your head. You missed her. 

Florence was still majorly affected, shown by her magical and decorative practices. Your daughter loved her mummy's magic. She did her best not to show it, though, quipping with Jonathan, helping Isaac with his own practices. But she still felt how you looked. She wanted to be upbeat so you could be as well, but that wasn't working. She saw you laid on the bed, crying silently. More like wallowing. Stepping into the room, she knocked on the door uselessly. It was her room as well. She slowly approached the bed when you didn't answer. "Darling?" she called out gently. She came to sit behind you, as you were facing the end of the bed and staring at nothing. She set her umbrella down and reached her hand to hold your shoulder. No reaction. She didn't know what to say. She felt as you did, but she was more experienced at pulling herself up by the bootstraps. Instead, she chose to lay behind you, holding you tight, and briefly joining you in your mourning. She wasn't sure how long it took, as long as you needed, of her holding you, but she soon felt your shoulders shake and more wetness flowed. You sobbed quietly but soulfully. Florence felt you grab onto her arm and she knew she'd made the right decision. Of course, she too was teary-eyed, seeing you feel everything so intensely. You couldn't seem to escape it. You were cursed to grieve for the rest of your life. "Oh, my darling," she cooed. "My little mommy." She nuzzled your temple.