SKYFALL, Johnny Kavanagh

Late night reflections

Johnny's Point of View

Maeve was asleep.

Properly asleep now – curled slightly on her side, half-tangled in the blanket, one hand resting lightly under her cheek.

I couldn't stop watching her.
Not in a creepy way.
I just couldn't stop looking.

Because no matter how still she was, my mind kept circling back to that moment when everything shifted.

That split second when I walked into my room without knocking, thinking I'd left my hoodie on the bed, and saw her instead.

Her back.
Her scars.
Those bruises.

Jesus Christ.

I could still see them if I closed my eyes.

So many fucking scars.
And then the bruises – angry and fresh, blooming dark across her ribs and lower back.

I'd known what they were the second I saw them.

Someone did that to her.
Someone hurt her.

And the worst part wasn't even the bruises.
It wasn't the rage that had boiled up in me so fast I thought my hands would snap from how tightly I'd clenched them.

No.
The worst part was her face.

The way her shoulders curled in.
The way her fingers trembled just slightly when she yanked her shirt down.
The way she didn't even look at me – because she already thought she knew what I saw when I looked at her.

Disgust.
Revulsion.
Pity, maybe.

She thought I looked at her like she was broken.
Like she was something ugly.
But she was wrong.
She was so fucking wrong.

What I felt in that moment wasn't disgust – it was fury.
Not at her.
But at the world, at the person who'd done that to her, at whatever hell she'd been surviving in silence this whole time.

And I still didn't know who it was.

She'd lied to me that day.
Tried to brush it off I slipped she'd said.
I ran into something. Like I was too thick to know the difference between a fall and a fist.

And yeah, I'd backed off in the end.
I'd left the room.
Because I saw it – how scared she was.
How tightly she'd pulled herself back behind her walls.

If I'd pushed any harder, I'd have lost her completely.

But ever since then I'd noticed.
I'd seen more.

The bruises on her collarbone the week after.
The ones on her arm the day she flinched when someone shoved past her in the hallway.
A new one above her hip that peeked out from under her shirt during practice when she'd been sitting on the sidelines.

And I hadn't said a word.

Because every time I tried to figure out how, I looked at her and knew she wouldn't let me in.
Not yet.
But fuck, I hated pretending I didn't see it.

I hated knowing someone had put those marks on her body and was probably sleeping soundly in their bed tonight while she was lying in mine like a storm trying to calm itself down.

I didn't know who it was.

Maybe it was someone from BCS.
That's what made the most sense.
Some bastard from her old school, someone who'd made her life hell and left their fingerprints on her skin.

It was the only thing that lined up in my head.

But then again – there were times I wasn't so sure.
Sometimes her silence ran deeper than just an old school grudge.
Sometimes it felt like there was something more, something buried so far down she didn't even know how to speak it.

I didn't know what she thought I thought.

Maybe she didn't care.
Maybe she didn't trust me enough to wonder.

But part of me hoped that maybe tonight was a start.

That maybe the fact she'd asked to stay here, with me, meant something.
Even if it was just a tiny crack in the wall she always kept between herself and the rest of the world.

She stirred a little in her sleep, brow twitching like a dream was catching hold.
I reached out, gentle and slow, and pulled the blanket up over her shoulder again.
She settled.

God, she looked young like this.
So much younger than she did when she was awake and full of fire and sarcasm and anger.
Awake Maeve was all sharp corners and barbed wire.
But asleep?

She looked like a girl who'd just needed somewhere safe.
Just for one night.

I exhaled, slow and quiet, pressing the heel of my hand to my chest like that would do anything about the way it hurt.

Because I didn't want to just give her one night.
I wanted more.

I didn't even know what kind of more – I just knew I wanted her to be okay.
I wanted her to be safe.
To feel safe.

I turned off the lamp beside my bed and laid back beside her, careful not to wake her.
Careful not to get too close.

I glanced over at her again, eyes softening without my permission.

She looked so small like that.

Not fragile – Maeve Connor was anything but fragile – but tired.
Bone-tired.
Like she'd spent years just holding herself upright.

Her hair had fallen slightly into her face, and I gently reached over to move it back without waking her.
My fingers barely brushed her cheek.
She didn't stir.

I swallowed around the lump forming in my throat.

What the fuck had happened to her?
Where had she come from before Tommen?
What kind of life leaves a person with scars like that and still has them walking into school with their chin up?

I didn't know.
Maybe if I knew, I could help.
I could fix something.

But I also knew that wasn't how this worked.
I wasn't going to push again.
Not yet.

I'd pushed too hard that day, and I'd seen what it cost her to even stand in the same room with me afterward.
So I'd wait.
I'd be here.

I'd keep the door open, and I'd let her come through it when she was ready.
I leaned back into the pillow, eyes still fixed on the curve of her shoulder beneath the blanket

Sookie let out a soft sigh from her spot on the rug near the bed.
I stared up at the ceiling, barely blinking, mind still racing, even as the room fell quiet again.

And eventually, somewhere between her steady breathing and the faint sound of the wind outside the window, my eyes drifted closed too.

But even in sleep, that one thought wouldn't let go.

If she ever lets me in, I'll never let anyone touch her like that again.