PERVERSE - Apply Fic

14

Before her death, Lydia never would have described herself as clumsy. Other people might find such behaviour endearing, but not Lydia. She has always behaved with such purpose. Lately though, memories have been slipping through her fingers. Her hand-eye coordination is off. She died of a stroke. It must be the brain injury.

It has been several days and Lydia still feels as though she is walking on starlight. No thought has clung to her for so long.

Barry knows. He watches her, carefully. Este will glare at him if they notice him linger, so Barry has got cleverer. He shows Kaia his poetry occasionally, promises her he is giving Lydia space. He is. Billions of atoms are constantly between them. There is never skin contact. There is only so much space in Chelster. Still, he could be on the opposite side of the galaxy, and he would be sure she was thinking about it.

He sits in the pews on a Tuesday night staring at the ceiling. Catholic churches are prettier, richer. This place is nothing special. Yet, Barry hasn't thought about leaving since their little social in the forest. Toronto is just somewhere. He could be with Lydia anywhere.

She wonders if he's outside. Lydia can't help it. Not many people are around even though it is well past midnight. She hopes he is as close as he feels.

At the top of the steps, she is pleasantly unsurprised.

Barry twists his head to look at her. Those steps could only have been her. He gestures for her to follow him.

Then, he walks deeper into the church. She heads after him.

The inner doors of the church lock. Ambrose taught some of the others how to pick locks and Clare didn't say anything about it. They discovered more rooms. There are the choir stalls which you can see from the pews and the pulpit. There is a chapel for private prayer, although small. The pastor has a study. There is a room where different holy objects and robes are stored, and general storage room. There is also a small banquet hall and a kitchen attached. Ambrose says he attended funerals of the elderly there, where people laughed.

"You've been more quiet lately," Lydia says just as she manages to catch up to him.

Barry smirks at her. He wraps his hand around the door handle of the storage closet.

Before them stand large shelves filled with items from years passed. He digs through a bin and then the next.

"I'm surprised you don't have anything interesting to say," Lydia whispers, leaning in close. No one else is here. At least, only the dead are supposed to be here this late.

"I don't say, I do," Barry says. Lies, really. All he does is say.

He turns just to look at Lydia. Her heart thunders. Pitter-pattering in her chest. Barry gestures for her to tuck in closer. Her head brushes up against his side as she peers in the bin. Inside sits an old typewriter.

"It's not a record player, but it is vintage," his voice is hush. "I bet it still works."

Lydia bends her neck to get a look into the bin. Her cheek brushes against the sleeve of Barry's shirt. He thinks his heart might explode, looking at the softness of her skin. He misses the pearls she used to wear. He has her, but he also doesn't. It is strange to have parts of her.

"You aren't good at manipulating me," she whispers.

Then, he's with Lydia again.

A hair falls in front of her face. He tucks it behind her ear. Her cheeks burn red.

"Old habits," he manages.