The Pacifist [COMPLETED]

How Dare I?

Joseph

Joseph didn't know how to take Rachel's silence. He couldn't blame her for being mad. Even though she hadn't replied, he still sat in his office's small reception room to wait for her arrival. If she felt an ounce of what he was trying not to feel, she would come.

That didn't stop him from constantly checking his watch. There were still four minutes until the time he had sent her. He wondered if he would have still waited with as much anticipation if he would have set the time a half hour sooner. It didn't matter, he decided, he would rather the waiting part be over now, even if it would have been the same shit with a different time. He took a deep breath. Five o'clock showed on his watch. And... nothing. Rachel had been nothing short of punctual so far. So, she wasn't coming then. Relief intermingled with his potent disappointment. Maybe it was for the best, but it didn't do much to sooth his inner monster that hungered desperately for her flesh.

His impending pity party was stopped dead in its tracks by a knock on the door. He checked his watch: Five o' two. He lumbered over to the door and when he opened it, found a flushed Rachel standing behind it, cheeks red from embarrassment and... was that contrition. It dawned on him then, that her tardiness was intentional. To punish him?

The thought had his monster chomping at the bit. The thought of someone so preoccupied with pleasing others and not making waves, intentionally doing something to cause discomfort had desire roiling in his chest. He wanted to return the favor.

"Hello Mr. Maxwell," she whispered, still wide-eyed.

"Hello." His voice was gravel in his throat. A growl threatened to follow when he noted a glimmer of satisfaction. "Come in," he eventually said and stepped to the side.

Rachel stepped into the waiting room, wiping her boots on the doormat.

Joseph closed the door and they stood in awkward silence. "How have you been?" He wanted to kick himself. All his training and that's what he came up with?

Rachel sighed. "Honestly, it's been a horrible week. Why didn't you text me sooner?" Again, that blush from doing something she didn't normally do. Joseph wanted to see just how many uncomfortable things she was willing to do. She raised an eyebrow, pointing out his continued silence.

"I was busy." God he was dense.

"I see. So it's not because... because you were... disappointed?"

Disappointed?! He wanted to laugh at the absurdity and tell her far from it, but self-preservation had him holding his tongue. "Why would you think I was disappointed?"

Another blush. "Because, I called Yellow."

Joseph shook his head, desperately trying to settle into his mentor and coach role. "Quite the opposite. I was proud."

A fuck, her smile and relief affected him just as nicely as fear and discomfort did.

"Tell me about your week?" prompted Joseph, motioning for her to go to the dimly lit meeting room. Two comfy chairs faced each other with a reclaimed wood coffee table between them. Rachel hesitated before choosing one of the chairs and got comfortable, sinking deep into the plush cushion. Joseph sat in the other and waited expectantly.

"Is this a session?" she asked. Worry flecked her eyes.

Joseph remembered the condition he had set, that he couldn't be her coach if they crossed that line. And they had. But he didn't know how to relate to anyone in any other way. He shook his head. "Tell me about your week."

Rachel bit her lip and offered an unwelcome distraction for Joseph. His gaze jumped down to her mouth then dragged back up to her eyes.

"Well... I almost went back to the garden shed."

Cryptic. He could sense her panic as she clearly was trying to find a way to broach the subject without telling him more than she wanted to.

"I'm a painter. Or at least, I used to be."

"How does someone lose that title?"

Rachel's eyebrows furrowed. "Well... don't you need to paint to be a painter?"

"You stopped?"

She bit her lip again and nodded.

"The shed was your studio?"

Another nod.

Joseph waited, knowing she would eventually elaborate on her own.

"It wasn't just my studio. It was my sister's as well."

Joseph immediately knew what she would say next: Her sister had died.

"She died eight years ago."

Survivor's guilt. It wasn't just the empath in him that had connected with the empath in her. They both suffered from survivor's guilt. Rachel didn't continue, but Joseph knew she needed to tell him everything. So he waited patiently.

"Cara was a photographer. And a really good one. I paint... painted... well actually it was mixed media. She taught me how to take pictures too so I could incorporate them into my canvasses. She wanted to capture this image of a train bridge. She was obsessed with perspectives and how they shifted with different lighting.

I went with her everyday for one week at dusk. She would lower herself through the slats and take her pictures. The last time we went out there, there was a seagull caught between rocks on the shore. Its wing was bent in a weird way and it flapped so miserably as it tried to get free." Rachel paused to take a trembling breath. "Cara wanted to just leave it but my stomach burned from the thought of leaving it to die slowly and afraid. I was always... sensitive. And she was always sensible. But she never made me fell bad for the way I was, and she climbed down the rocky shore with me to rescue the stupid bird. She was the one who went out onto the slippery rocks and wrapped it in her jacket. And she was the one who slipped when the bird panicked and startled her and it was her head that hit the rocks when she fell and was swept out by the current. Cara was a good swimmer, but unconscious people can't swim. Neither can sensitive people who are too afraid of drowning to learn how to swim."

The darkness that settled around them was stifling. The horror of Rachel's story shredded everything inside Joseph and he floated, untethered, along with her. They joined the ghost of Rachel's sister in the cold river's current and he instantly knew that this is where Rachel must have spent the last eight years.

"I'm so sorry." His apology jolted her to attention and she looked up at him, eyes still wide but utterly lost. He wanted to bring her back to shore.

"It should have been me."

Joseph shook his head. "No," he simply said.

Tears welled up in Rachel's eyes and she nodded vehemently. "It should have been."

"No." Joseph stood up and crouched in front of her, taking her hands in his. "No," he repeated.

Rachel continued to nod and he squeezed her hands tighter.

"No."

When she said, "yes," something snapped in Joseph and he grabbed her face, his large hand easily reaching from ear to ear.

"No," he growled. He stood, pulling her up with him. So delicate. So small. His beast wanted to show her exactly why it shouldn't have been her, but also wanted to punish her so severely that she would in fact, still wish for death for even thinking of ridding the world of her quiet grace. "No." This time, the word came out softer, and somehow, it made fear come alive in her pretty eyes.

Rachel wore and off-the -shoulder sweater, exposing her delicious skin to him. Still grasping her face, he slowly bent down to sink his teeth in it. The bite was gradual as he incrementally increased the pressure until she was panting from the pain. He brought his other hand up to her throat, and only let go of her face when he had a firm grasp, switching hands.

"I don't know if I deserve to feel good things," she whispered.

"Good, because I won't make you feel good things," promised Joseph. He almost groaned when he felt her tremble with fear.