Stalking Jack the Ripper Oneshots

I'm Proud

Thomas wasn't sure if he had heard his sister correctly or not at first. Their father was dead. He had been sick for months now and told no one.

Daciana was still travelling the world, only stopping to stay with their father for a few days before heading out once again. However, her arrival was much different than anticipated. Daci hadn't prepared herself for the news that her father had passed away in his sleep just hours prior to her entrance. That was why Thomas was going to visit his father's home in the first place, to visit his sister.

Thomas didn't cry. He had hugged Daciana as she sobbed on his shoulder, yet not a single tear fell from Thomas's own brown eyes at the news. Daci had verbalized that she didn't want to cry for their father, but she couldn't help but weep for that small part of him that deeply loved for her so long ago, back when their mother was still alive and healthy, back when Thomas was no more than an infant.

It wasn't until Thomas had gotten home after hours of comforting Daci that it finally began to sink in. His father, despite how awful he had been, was dead. Thomas was never close to his father, more distant than Daciana ever was, which was saying a lot due to how little Daciana and him had spoken. A part of Thomas felt guilty for not crying as his sister had been, but another part of him felt the opposite. Why did the man who emotionally ruined him, to the point of doubting anyone could truly love him, deserve his tears—being his father or not?

Thomas shook his head to clear his thoughts before making his way up to his and Audrey Rose's private chambers. Hovering in the doorway, he saw his wife sitting on their bed reading a book. She noticed his presence and smiled at him. Thomas didn't have the energy to properly smile back, only a ghost of one trailed at the corners of his lips. Audrey Rose immediately tensed and placed her book on the bedside table. "Thomas, love, are you alright?"

Thomas bit his lower lip as he reached a hand to scratch behind his ear due to anxiety. He sighed and brought his hand back down. "Daciana informed me that my father had passed away in the middle of the night. That is why I was out longer than anticipated."

Audrey Rose's mouth formed an "O" as her eyes went wide, silence filling the room.

"Thomas," was all she could eventually manage. Thomas watched her carefully as she reached out a hand, encouraging him to join her. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, right next to Audrey Rose's feet—staring at the floor, lost in his own thoughts. She covered his hand with her own, smoothing her thumb across his skin. "How are you doing?" Audrey Rose asked softly, but Thomas himself didn't know the answer to that question. He looked up at her and shrugged. "I'm still trying to figure that out."

Audrey Rose moved, planting herself in Thomas's lap so she straddled his waist. His hands moved to her thighs out of habit as hers gripped his shoulders. Thomas stared into her green eyes, the eyes that had become so familiar to him over the years—the eyes he had painted over a dozen times before. He always found comfort in those eyes—her eyes.

She moved her right hand up to cup his cheek, caressing his cheekbone softly. "When Nathaniel died, I didn't know what to feel. A part of me mourned the loving, kind, compassionate, brother I knew, yet I also felt guilty. I felt guilty for shedding tears over a monster who murdered so many innocent people. I know how it feels to lose someone when you have conflicted feelings, Thomas, but if there is one thing I have learned from it, it is that you don't owe anyone anything. You are entitled to your own mourning, whichever way it may be. You needn't sing a requiem if you do not want to, but it is your choice. And as your wife—someone who loves you very much—I will be here to support you in any way you need."

Thomas watched her intently. His wife rarely spoke of her late brother, considering the amount of trauma his death had put her through, but when she did speak of Nathaniel, she always pictured the brother who would play games with her as children, the boy who always had to comb his golden hair to make it look perfect, not the murderous man he had become—despite what she what she happened to be saying about.