it echoes through

one; caitlyn's interlude

     Winter turned into spring, with the help of flowerbeds and the frozen patch of ice that transformed back into a home for the swans. Birds sang and children danced and the sun came sprinkling through the clouds every morning. Time was like a string caught by the paw of a kitten; claws caught in it, pulling at it, keeping it as close as one can–as if it won't get away in the end. As if it won't just disappear like it always does. The changing of the seasons, the passing of the days, the ticking of the clocks–that was all to be taken for granted. Even injuries, ones thought to be life-altering, even those passed like all things do. Tom, at first in a coma, then in a wheelchair, and now walking with the help of a gold-embedded cane, knew not to take things for granted. He woke up every morning, appreciating the colour of clouds, the smell of the grass in his overly large backyard, small kisses from Tessa and her once annoying little yelps.

Tom knew he was given a second chance at life, at everything. The impending threat of the Gallows was no longer tingling at the back of his mind during every waking moment of his day. His soul was no longer half of a whole. His brother was no longer sad and empty, either. At least, that much could be said for only one of his younger twin brothers.

Sam was doing better, because he had Y/N with him by his side constantly. Taking care of him, helping him, fighting with him. It wasn't easy for Tom, at first, seeing his vulnerable brother and the love of his life fighting all his battles for him. But he knew, if he didn't rest now he could never get better–and if he never got better, he'd be bedridden for the rest of his life, for the first time getting used to relying on others. And it took a lot of getting used to.

Harrison offered to get a full time nurse around the house, to help Tom do simple chores. Tom insisted, with a violent rage, that he wasn't to be babied. Tom didn't ask for things twice.

Clarissa tried helping too, without making it too obvious. She spent most of her time in the house anyway, so she tried her best to help Tom. Saying things like, "Oh, I'm just making dinner, would you want any?" and, "I don't want to watch this film alone, will you join me?" and everything Ris could do to maintain her statues as the caregiver that she was.

At first, Tom almost managed to enjoy the time off. Not having to worry about shipments and payments and protection, knowing with a heart full of confidence that you and Harrison had it under control. But that was only fun for the first month or two, and after a while of not getting better–after hours and hours of the best physical therapy money could buy, Tom was still struggling to stay out of the chair for more than a few minutes at a time. He tried fighting through it, he tried staying on his feet for as long as he could–but it was different now, much different. Tom couldn't ignore his broken bones like he used to, he couldn't shrug and say he was fine, smile through the pain. Because now, his pain meant something else. Now, his suffering meant someone else's–someone he loved, someone he couldn't bear to even think about in pain. So he had to take it slow. Stick to his medication, follow doctor's orders, and stay put for as long as he could. What started as a fun few weeks off, turned to a scolding melting pot of frustration, anger, and more than anything; guilt. It was his fault, everything was always his fault–and although no one got hurt but Tom, it still felt like they lost the Battle of Harry's Phantom. Of course, Harry became a phantom himself.

The rest of the family managed to hide it from Tom for as long as they could, but after three straight days in the house with no ability to go anywhere else, Tom was growing suspicious.

"Where's Harry, then?" He finally asked, after being dragged by Harrison down the many stairs of the mansion towards the breakfast table.

A murmur of incoherent excuses were heard around the table, but Tom stopped all of them with a wave of his hand. "Just," he sighed, finally sick of the velvet gloves used to handle his fragile state, "tell me where my brother is."