Once, there was an island.... // MPHFPC one shots, imagines, and misc !

I will, I will, I will. { Alma Peregrine}

loosely based on canon backstory, i kinda just... made most of it up since so much of Miss. Peregrine's life is generally unexplored// 

Sleep never comes easy.

Sometimes Alma thinks it's because of all the people in her house. Despite living with the children for such a long time, she still hasn't grown comfortable with letting herself relax while other people aren't too far away. Truth be told, she can't remember a time when it was easy in the first place.

Maybe sleep wasn't built for people like her.

Maybe people like her just weren't built to sleep.

So once again, Alma Peregrine found herself seated by the window, a lukewarm cup of tea in her hands and her mind elsewhere. The rain was muted, racing down the window like the same planes that streaked the sky every night. Usually, she likes the calm silence that comes with the night. But tonight, a single phrase keeps replaying in her head.

" I will take good care of you."

Alma can't remember who said it to her first. Maybe her mother, maybe Miss. Avocet all those years ago, maybe those words were her own. She knew she had said them to each of her children. And when they'd look at her with those tired, wide eyes that every new peculiar child had, she'd smile like she was taught to, and say,

" I will."

Now, Alma whispered those words to the rain.

" I'll take good care of you. I will, I will, I will. I'll take very good care of all of you." 

Words make good promises, after all.

Soon, the dawn came, and she heard the first signs of her children coming to upstairs. Fiona rose with the sun, Hugh not long after. Then Horace at eight sharp, soon followed by Emma, Bronwyn, and the girls. Millard would drag himself downstairs by nine, usually half dressed and exhausted but brimming with whatever new knowledge he had learned the night before. If Enoch didn't wake up before noon, she would have to go retrieve him and make sure he ate something before disappearing again. 

Like a mother. Like a headmistress. Like a ymbryne. 

And like clockwork, Fiona came downstairs, her hair still tucked under a silk bonnet and sleep tugging at her eyes. Her nightgown was speckled with dirt, like all the rest of her clothes. No matter how many times Alma did laundry, there would always be some mess on the girl. Nature adored her more than Hugh did, and that's quite a broad statement in itself. She waved tiredly at her headmistress, then wandered over to the cupboard to make herself something small before Bronwyn made breakfast. Fiona took the long cold tea from Miss Peregrine with a small smile, setting it in the sink for later and continuing her usual silent routine. 

Alma offered a weak smile to the girls back. 

The rain had dribbled to a stop by the time Fiona left, with a mug in hand and her eyes still foggy. 

And so, the Headmistress slipped back into thought.

Not long ago, well before she was a ymbryne but after she discovered she was peculiar, Alma thought she knew who she was. Not a mother, no longer a daughter or a sister, but rather a poet. Her entire life, she had found comfort in the words. In what could be and the particular details of what was. As it is and as it should be, she would tell herself, writing away as if her life hadn't been thrown to the dogs only a few years before.

Her mother used to like her poetry. She'd pet Alma's hair at night, laying her daughter on her lap as she read from a big dusty book of fairy tales, and talk about how much she adored her and her brothers. 

" All I want is right here, my dear." She'd sometimes say, when Alma asked what she wanted for her birthday or an upcoming holiday. " Stay with me, Alma. It's good here. All I need are you, your brothers, and your father. All I want is right in front of me."

Somehow, Alma's mind would always wander back to the night everything clicked into place. She couldn't have been older than six at the time, possibly even younger, when her arm had poofed into a wing and she had been sobbing over Jack pulling out her feathers. He had been laughing, calling her the most terrible nicknames that could possibly come to an eight year old boys mind, and when their mother walked in, she screamed.

She screamed until her face was white as chalk and half the village was pounding at their door. Her oldest brother, Myron, had come running, and Alma remembered the way his eyes darkened. The way a still open book was hanging from his grasp.

The way he had swept her into his arms like her father would, and held her so close she felt like she was suffocating, and Jack was yelling at him. Jack liked to yell, but this time Myron yelled back.

" You've ruined everything! You always RUIN EVERYTHING!" Myron was furious, and all Alma could think at the time was how loud his heartbeat was. Myron never got angry. He was the logical one, the one who wanted to be a teacher when he was old enough. He taught his little sister how to read, and how to make birds out of napkins.

Big brother Myron, who ran as fast as his legs could take him with his brother in tow and his sister in his arms when their father got home. 

Alma dimly remembered the night following. She was so young, so frail, so terrified that she couldn't believe anything around her was even real. Myron had rubbed her back when she cried, cried for her mother because how could she ever sleep without her stories?, and cried because Jack was still mad at her and she couldn't figure out why. Cried the night away, and Myron just listened.

He was always best at listening.

Alma Peregrine, born Bentham, didn't remember what her oldest brother had said to her. But he did, and so did Jack, and oh, did Jack hate him for it.

" I'll take care of you, Alma. Don't worry, I'm here. Be brave, okay? I'll take good care of you."

Miss Peregrine flexed her fingers, suddenly aware of how long she had been staring out the window. Millard was standing in the kitchen, a waffle in hand and crumbs decorating his face. He waved at his headmistress with it.

She grimaced.

" Mr Nullings, manners." She scolded, standing. 

" Sorry," He said, with a full mouth.

Teenage boys. No matter how old they got, they all acted the same. 

" What were you thinking about? You had a far off look on your face. And I would know! I've mastered that look!" Millard moved out of the way as she entered the kitchen, making herself a second cup of tea. In the back of her mind, Alma knew she should eat something, but she couldn't muster the appetite. How annoying. 

" You can't master any look, Mr Nullings."

" Oh, low blow, headmistress." The Invisible boy leaned against the counter. " So? What occupies the untouchable mind of Miss. Peregrine on this dreary September morning?" 

" Nothing of importance. What did you read about last night, Mr Nullings? Your light was still on after everyone else." Alma set her cup down, turning her attention to the sink. Bronwyn hadn't gotten to the dishes yet, as it would seem. Well, since she had the time...

" Oh! Norway! Did you know there's an area of mountain nicknamed Jotunheimen, after the realm of the giants? It was made into a national park in 1980, and..."

I will take good care of you.
I will, I will, I will.