aphelion { killian }

Ninety-eight, Billie confirmed, and the wheels in Killian's mind kept churning. 1998, so the end of the second wizarding war, so the battle of Hogwarts, so the reason his dorm had a weird draft in the winter, was also the year and reason Billie's family fell apart. Later that year Killian would walk into Diagon Alley for the first time, wide eyed, simultaneously awed, curious, and fearful. Killian wanted to know what had happened to her father -- was he at the castle that night, had they been walking by the spot where he died for years without knowing? -- but stayed his tongue again.

Maybe one of the girls would give him a prize for being able to shut up this long if he ever was able to tell them about this.

"You met," Killian repeated, one eyebrow rising up. It felt like there was something more there. "Did he get, like, assigned to you? Like a social worker?" His cheeks darkened a little bit -- course it was her aunt, stupid -- but in the dim light maybe Billie couldn't see the heat rising in his cheeks.

He almost felt like he should be taking notes, making a chart or a map of all the people and how they were important to Billie. This was surely more important than the rumoured lineages of King Arthur and Nimue or whatever the hell Binns had quizzed them on third year. This was something important to someone ALIVE and important to KILLIAN therefore it was imperative he didn't forget anything.

The sun was setting -- in the fading golden light, Killian twisted 'round in the swing seat again.

Met? Met? She just nodded, but she knew he’d ask more; she’d worded it so awkwardly. It felt important now, to separate Kendrick from her parents in Killian’s eyes. She thought she’d said something about him not knowing her family, but this, too, was murky and she was sure it hadn’t been the most important part of the conversation. Not at that point. Not for him. But now that they were in an entirely different conversational point, she wanted to make sure that he understood that Kendrick had nothing to do with any of the bad parts. Had come in fresh out of nowhere after everything else was lost already.

“Sort of,” Billie answered ambiguously. “I guess the ministry was kind of in shambles, then.” She wanted to give him more details, share, but at the same time… It sounded so traumatic. And, it was! But that fact didn't really feel relevant. She'd already dropped so many dramatic-sounding things on him today. Besides, it stressed her out – not knowing what his response would be. Just sadness? Disbelief again? That’s ridiculous, he’d said, and just because he was right didn’t mean that it’d be any less abrasive to hear again. It still felt awfully manipulative to bring up the parts she knew would make him sad for her.

Her gaze slipped from his. “And, um, when my father left,” she started, hoping that he understood which leaving she was referring to. “He left me with a someone.” She remembered saying goodbye to her papa, but she’d relived the moment so many times that the memory must be warped by now. “And that man left too, I guess once he knew what had happened at Hogwarts. Ran, I suppose.” She’d really hated being around that man. Hated the way he looked at her, stray comments he’d made about her body. He’d been so angry, too, and she understood why now, but at the time she was sure that he was angry at her. “Kendrick found me later. I think there must have been wards around the island, that faded? I don't know, maybe he asked if he could take me, when they couldn't find anyone. I don't think it was his job.” She shrugged, trying to be casual; it didn’t quite suit her.

Ah. Killian had forgotten how the Ministry was taken over as a puppet government -- it appeared to be a sore point with whoever designed the History curriculum, one that was skimmed over, presumably to maintain faith in the all-compassinging wizard bureaucracy. Killian nodded, spinning out from the last twist of the swing chain.

When her father left. There was another lurch in Killian's stomach -- he had already jumped to a conclusion here, it would be ridiculous to try and clarify what leaving it was. Her mention of Hogwarts a moment later confirmed it. So. Billie's dad had gone to the castle, to fight and murder children. Cool. Cool cool cool cool cool. That wasn't dark or disturbing at all!

And the mystery Death Eater -- he was sure the someone was a Death Eater, didn't even have to ask -- jumped ship after, and left Billie alone on the island? Killian's eyes were wet again. He turned away from Billie for a second, rubbing his face into the sleeve of his coat. "Jesus. How long were you there alone?" It felt terrible leaving his mouth -- "You don't have to say, if you don't want to," Killian added, his voice choked from the cold.

Not his job, hm? Killian added compassionate to the list of known things about Kendrick Silverman. "And then, after, they found your aunt." Killian said it almost but not quite like a question, waiting for confirmation. He wanted to hug Billie again, or something, to ground himself as much as to offer her comfort. He dropped his right hand, the one closest to Billie, in the space between the swings.

Billie had said a lot, just now, and it didn’t feel very comfortable.

It had occurred to her – many times over the years, but especially acutely over the past several minutes – that there were a lot of things she didn’t know about her life. It was her nature, or maybe her upbringing? Conditioning? Self-imposed sense of of what would or wouldn’t be burdensome? — That stopped her from asking, or pressing for answers. She didn’t need clarification on details the way that Killian seemed to. Or at least, she hadn’t needed it. Didn’t want to need it? Shouldn’t?

“Ah,” she said, lips parted to answer, feeling very self-conscious. It was really too much to hope he wouldn’t ask for details here, and even though he immediately clarified that she didn’t have to answer, it didn’t feel right not to. She’d already asserted that she didn’t want to speak about Phillip, and that had been difficult enough to ask for. This particular thing just cut in a very particular way – which didn’t seem quite right, next to other things that were far bigger and more impactful in other ways. Death, namely.

She wasn’t really swinging anymore, and without the movement she felt the chill of stagnancy settle on her shoulders. It occurred to her, as she let go of the chains momentarily to tug her sleeves over her fingers from under the thicker sleeves of her coat, that if Phillip was here, he would have performed a warming charm by now. It was impossible to avoid the pang that came with that thought. Billie smiled a brief, self-deprecating smile. Exhaled a tiny breath through her nose. An unspoken apology, or something, for pausing so long. Frustration with herself, maybe.

“A month,” she said. Soften it. “A little less?” Slightly better. She didn’t really want to, but she looked at him for his reaction, brow slightly furrowed with concern (pain, nerves, uncertainty) leaning his way just a touch.

A month, Billie said. Killian sucked in a sharp breath. "Jesus. Christ." The cold was biting at his eyes, his eyes were wet and stinging -- Killian bit down, hard, on his lower lip. "Jesus Christ," he repeated, voice low as he stared at the gravel ahead of them. Did Billie even know who Jesus was? Who Killian was invoking here in his desire to have misheard, for the horrific truth of Billie's childhood to stop horrifying him?

He shook his head, trying simultaneously to imagine and to not imagine a ten-year-old little blonde, wandering around a big house on her own. "That's too long. Jesus." That was the third time Killian had invoked a god he did not know if he believed in as many seconds. He pressed his lips together, feeling them crack around where he had bit down. Flexed his ankles, cracked the bones in an attempt to slot his brain back into place. The sound was small as he stared at his boots. "I'm sorry. That that all happened to you."

In his peripheral vision, he could see her pull the sleeves of her coat down, and Killian frowned. The light was still golden, but fading -- dark coming soon. "I'm sorry, I should have grabbed us gloves," Killian mumbled, curling his left hand tight around the chains of the swing.

Jesus Christ. “Maybe three weeks,” she breathed. He wasn’t looking at her, but that was okay — it made it more comfortable to watch him. She parted her lips again to apologise, feeling the rise of a fluttery, panicky sort of feeling as she guessed at what he might be thinking, but then thought better of it and pressed them together instead. She gave a small nod. Then he apologised. “It’s okay,” she said, soft and automatic.

Things with Phillip had been on the turbulent side for the past few months, she thought. There were so many slices of intense connectedness, or quiet understanding (giving him the key to the maidstone house; walks by the lake, where it had frozen over; other, more intimate things), punctuated here and there with far tenser, more stressful moments. You spend more time with Killian — his words echoed in her head before she lurched to cut them off. She supposed that there was a chance that she was even more in the habit of guessing at people’s feelings than usual, and there was a chance she didn’t need to try so hard, here.

But there was always a chance that she did.

He still wasn’t looking at her. Her cold fingers were not of any concern. She shook her head woodenly, internally grasping for something to say; a part of her felt like she needed to console him, or apologise, or find some way to fit herself into his feelings in a helpful way, but she wasn’t sure how to offer in a form he’d accept. Her hands were in her lap now, tucked into her sleeves, folded neatly together. She tried to smooth the frown from her face, sit up a little straighter. It was easiest to be still, though.

“Kendrick found me.” She repeated tentatively, eyes still on him but ready to slide away if he looked at her. She said it like an answer – like oh, but Kendrick found me so it was all fine in the end. Or something. I don't think about it very much, she wanted to say. Would it be more true to say she tried not to think about it? She still dreamed about it: waiting days to find out people had died. Alone in old houses, in gardens, in kitchen cuboards with tinned peaches. She still felt sick waiting for people. Hated being at home alone. Hated people being late. She felt a twisting feeling in her gut just imagining it. "I still hate waiting, though" she confessed.

Three weeks! Killian's eyes went wide, pupils small. How was that -- was she making excuses for the world abandoning her? Killian couldn't believe it. He bit down the urge to swear,  swallowed down air instead. It's okay, Billie said, which was insane. Of course it wasn't okay! How was she not full of rage at the world for doing this all to her? Three weeks was too long for a ten-year-old to be alone and forgotten.

Kendrick found her, alone, in a big empty house on an island somewhere, only after a month, only after the wards had faded. Her father had given her no tools to get her own help, the stranger left in the house had abandoned her -- but Kendrick found her. To Killian, the tone in her voice seemed to imply a soft finality, as if being found by Kendrick tied off that part of her life into a neat little bow. Except, it didn't, of course, right? If it had, they wouldn't be sitting here.

I still hate waiting, though, Billie said, soft and hesitating. Killian tried to think back -- there had been a few times he had been late, just by a hair but still late, to classes with Billie, or to patrol in the late night when he hadn't noticed how long a study session with the girls had gone. Killian twisted his head to look at Billie, feeling a powerful urge to stand up and declare -- something. Instead he twisted the swing a quarter turn, so he was sitting facing Billie instead of front towards the rest of the park. "I will never make you wait again," Killian said, voice low and firm.

It sounded utterly dramatic coming out of his mouth, and possibly a bit self-centered. How self-centered did one have to be to declare something like that? "And I'll make the other girls get better at timekeeping," he added, less certainly. "Tell them to meet fifteen minutes ahead, sort of thing."  He swallowed his own spit again. "You shouldn't have to wait for anyone, after that."

Her hands laid demurely in her lap -- Killian's fingers twitched, wanted nothing more but to reach out and hold them. 

Billie could sense a kind of buzzing energy from her friend, and it was making her a bit nervous. She was trying to read his expression, trying to guess his thoughts. She did sit up a little straighter, blinking a couple times, as he turned to her, both surprised and stilled by the weight of his gaze. He was looking at her like he wanted her to feel whatever he was feeling. Understand what he was thinking. It was compelling, and she was only mostly inclined to shy away from it.

“Ki,” she said, her eyebrows coming together a little. She felt a swell of something intense. She felt emotional. His delivery might have been a little dramatic, but Billie was more than receptive – especially right now. More dramatic things than that had been said today and besides, he declared it with such conviction that it was difficult to undermine, even for her. And that was something.

“Oh, please don’t do that,” she breathed, her lips twitching ever so slightly in the direction of a smile at his next words, though the thought was privately a little mortifying. The almost-smile was small and watery; her eyes were wet again. She glanced down at her hands in her lap, lifting them a little to see that they were shaking. She didn’t think it was from the cold, though it was difficult to tell – anxiety, cold, exhaustion, raw emotionality, all bled into one feeling. Her head ached from the crying or the tenseness; body was really starting to complain in response to the constant state of stress she’d been in all day. All week, even.

Merlin, she was tired. “Could I. Hug you?” she asked, feeling vulnerable, her sentence split neatly in half with a momentary pause. She didn’t look up until he answered.

Billie looked like she was about to cry again. Killian dug into his pockets -- to his shame, there appeared to be no more napkins. They were making eye contact, just for a moment, and Killian's chest felt tight. Billie looked down at her hands -- they were shaking. Killian wanted to hold them, warm them, but there was no way to do that without making things weird. Besides -- he rubbed his own hands together -- it wasn't like he had any warmth in his to share.

"You sure?" He asked, his own voice sounding a little wet. He tried to make his tone more jokey. "I wouldn't mention anything about this. Just say I'm annoyed waiting on them all the time. I'm sure I could get them to shape up." Killian was sure of no such thing, but he was more than willing to try.

Could I, hug you?

Killian was on his feet in an instant, the swing flying backwards with the momentum and then hitting the back of his legs. It must have looked stupid, he could feel the sting of it, but Killian didn't care. Just stepped in front of Billie, only a few paces away from the swing she was sitting on. His own smile was big but shakey. He held his arms out, waiting for her to walk into them before wrapping his arms around her. "Of course," he said gently, heart pounding in his chest.

What she really wanted to ask was if she could have a hug, but her language choices were being shaped around her feelings, now more than ever. And she felt all kinds of things – anxiety, confusion, a lot of care, exhaustion. She felt like she was safe, and a burden, and was nervous to trust the former, felt guilty about the latter. So it came out more plainly. More carefully. Less like a request.

And he got to his feet right away.

Billie stood too, a little slower, wincing slightly as the seat swing back and smacked him in the back of the legs. Typical Gryffindor, she thought.

She stepped into his hug and closed her eyes straight away.

He must have been almost the exact same height as Phillip, she noted distantly, feeling an ache at the fact that she thought it. Her eye level came to the same place on his body, his waist more or less in the same place when she hugged him back. She wished it was him, a bit. She wanted to tuck her arms up in between them, her hands warm in the middle, but thought it would probably be a little too odd. She did that with Phillip. “Thank you,” she breathed. She’d cried so much that there couldn’t be many more tears left in her body; they came out slow and without fuss. Her breathing was a little shaky, but at least she felt like she could breathe this time.

She wasn’t sure whose heartbeat she was hearing; she was the perfect height that it could have easily been his. A benefit of being short, she thought, her mind strangely pulling lines from a conversation they’d had a several months ago. It felt like much longer. She was quiet for a little while, holding in shivers – the heat of his body made the air feel colder. She couldn’t quite relax, but it was close. “I don’t know if I can say more about it all,” she said, her voice muffled a little by the thick material of his coat, his woolly scarf. “If that’s okay… Today, I mean. Maybe another time…” She felt a bit like a young and sleepy child, her sentences out of order. She felt warm.

If he had imagined this moment yesterday, Killian would have died on the spot. The force of his crush, the fear of Donnelly perceiving him, the sick feeling at the bottom of his stomach that Billie wouldn't welcome his touch, all of that would have consumed him and drowned him in his own feelings.

But now? Holding her? Her cheek pressed against his chest?

It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

He rested his chin on the top of her head, arms wrapped around her shoulders again. The height difference was more pronounced now, he couldn't quite rub her back the way he had before when they were sitting on his bed.  One arm dropped down a little more, trying to keep her warm and close. A small squeeze of the arms -- Killian didn't want to trap her, but it felt right for the embrace to pulse like his heart beat.

It was slowing down, too -- He was aware of his breathing, of her breathing, of the tears on the front of his coat, all of it slowing, rolling towards some sort of conclusion or stability.

He wasn't sure how long they stood there, how long they had been there. Time slowed down with their breaths, the light fading and the sky turning slowly dark as the streetlamps turned on. Billie mumbled something against his chest. "Of course. Whenever you'd like." He squeezed again, short. "Thank you for sharing so much." There was an urge to stroke her hair -- that would DEFINITELY make things weird, though, so Killian just pressed his fingertips gently into the space between her shoulders.

He didn't want to let go, but the temperature was dropping and if they stood there like this, the pair of them would be icicles by morning. "We could watch a movie," Killian suggested, suddenly aware of the vibrations of his voice travelling through his bones and into Billie's. "If you'd like to stay longer, today. Order takeaway. Not think too much about anything."

Whenever you like didn’t feel like an offering she could take. She hoped he didn’t regret it all, after this.

With what was more or less his permission to do so, Billie exhaled slowly, her shoulders relaxing a touch, suddenly somehow more exhausted than before. It took a lot out of her to dig; it went against every part of her being to do it, so she really was working against herself. The noise in her head didn’t go away now, but at least she didn’t have to keep picking at it.

She would have dismissed his thanks – or the need for his thanks – with a shake of the head, had her head not been pressed against his chest currently. She didn’t have the energy to do it. “Thank you for being so kind,” she replied quietly. Thank you for not hating me was the subtext.

Briefly, the girl wondered if this was how Phillip would have reacted if she’d told him before he’d found out, but the question was almost dishonest with how badly it fit their situation. If she’d told him at the start, he probably never would have wanted to know her, let alone have fallen for her. And if she told him more recently, how could he have responded differently than the way he did? His voice played in her mind: Would you want her to recognise you? She shied away from the memory. Billie had lied to Phillip for a lot longer, had coaxed out his vulnerability with her lying, and was sure he looked back on the past year with those lies embedded into everything she did – each gentle touch on his arm, each I love you.

So it wasn’t the same.

She opened her eyes finally as he spoke again. Watch a movie, stay longer, order takeaway. It seemed such a painfully normal, adolescent experience to her. Appealing, somehow. With his parents (and sister?) in the background of it all, in the house he grew up in. She felt a pang of something that was probably as close to envy as she had the capacity to feel. Somehow, it felt more like regret. “Um,” she said, pulling back. She wiped an eye with the back of a knuckle, and action motivated by tiredness rather than tear-wiping. She tucked some hair, messy now from the swings and the hug, behind one ear, feeling a little self-conscious about how she must look.

A part of her really did want to stay. There was doubt in the mix still, even now, but mostly it felt safe; she didn’t want to leave it behind. The regret-like feeling lingered. “No, I think I should go home,” she said anyway. “Thank you, though. Very much.” A mix of different things swirled in her mind, and she couldn’t seem to hold any of them for very long. The conclusion of it all, though, was that she’d imposed here long enough. “Shall we walk back?” She asked, waiting for him to move before she did.

Thank you for being so kind, Billie whispered against his chest. A surge of protectiveness launched from his gut, coupled with another flare of anger that was vaguely directed at Phillip Donnelly. Kindness -- that was something everyone was entitled to, wasn't it a human right? It was enshrined in that American document, written by a slave-owner and marinating in hypocrisy, wasn't it? Killian's misremembering of the Declaration of Independence was a whole other tangent -- the point was, why didn't Billie feel like she deserved kindness? He squeezed his arms around her again, reflexively.

He hadn't even been particularly kind, when this all began! That was the worst part -- he had been mean and sharp when Billie had revealed this to him, and she was still apologizing for inconveniencing him, thanking him for what should be basic courtesy. Billie couldn't see the frown of concern forming on Ki's face, and when she began to pull away he quickly wiped it away and replaced it with a soft smile.

Billie could have easily ducked under his arms if she wanted to escape, but she just pulled back a little. Killian's arms opened up to release her, his chest feeling suddenly cold. Her hair was all over the place -- he wanted to brush it down.

She wanted to go home. Killian nodded, trying to hide his disappointment behind his smile. "Of course," he said, for what felt like the tenth billion time today. "We should, yeah." He stuffed his hands into his pockets, turning to start walking out of the park and back down the street to his house. It would have been nice to just curl up on the couch with her after all this, he thought it would be relaxing for both of them. But. She wanted to go home.

A thought from ages ago walked up to the front of his mind and kicked down the door: HOW WAS SHE GETTING HOME?

Killian cleared his throat. "It's, uh, it's a bit of a walk to Diagon Alley," he said hesitantly, knowing that was a great exaggeration. Normally he took transit to get there, but Billie didn't seem like she would be super comfortable with the London buses at the moment. "Dad or Mum could drive us over, get you to the Floo that way." It would be easier to just get his house put on the Floo Network, but Mum wouldn't have it -- the one and only time a Ministry official had come that way into the house, Rhonda had nearly beaten the man to a pulp with a poker.

His warmth lingered for a moment, then was quickly replaced by cold air. She shivered again, glancing up at the streetlights which had come on at some point without her noticing.

Billie wished Phillip had hugged her like that. Wished he would, now. She felt like she could sleep for days, and wanted nothing more than to curl up with someone who loved her, who could stroke her hair and promise her that she’d be okay. Of course, Phillip was that person in her imaginings, and had difficulty conceptualising it ever not being him. She missed him. Kendrick would look after her, but she already felt like such a burden at his house – moreso now, for multiple reasons. It wasn't the same.

Killian stuffed his hands in his pockets and Billie did the same, discovering the two tissues she’d hastily grabbed before they left the house with her fingers. After a moment’s consideration, she decided it was okay to take one out, and she wiped her cold nose, dabbed under her eyes, placed it back in a different pocket. The blonde walked a little slower than he did. Not because her legs were much shorter than his (although they were) but because she was reluctant to get to the end of it all. She desired a slower pace.

She glanced at him when he spoke again, a slight frown furrowing her brow. Walk? To Diagon Alley? “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head slightly, indicating she definitely did not plan to walk there (as if she had any idea where Diagon Alley could possibly be from here anyway). “No, no, it’s fine,” she added. “There’s er, a bus? A magical bus; I can catch it from here.” Kendrick had explained it all clearly, and she had her sickles in a little purse in her coat pocket. She hadn’t known when she might be heading home – she’d expected it to be earlier than now, but hadn’t known when – and if Killian was connected to the floo network then she wouldn’t have needed Kendrick to drop her off in the first place. “I haven’t before, but no, I’ll be fine,” she said, sounding more convinced than she felt. Any other day it would have been a far greater anxiety.

The blonde glanced at him striding along beside her, then looked down at the ground as she walked. Stepped around an uneven bit of concrete. She didn’t really want to say the thoughts that had drifted to the surface now, but she felt both softened and jittery at the same time; she didn’t have the restraint. “Killian, I really am grateful for everything,” she started softly. “And…I wont ask you, not to tell anyone about all of this,” she spoke slowly. “But, um—”

Billie was falling behind him. Killian paused a moment, waiting for her to catch up the few paces between them before falling in step beside her, slower. He was a fast walker, a fast talker, a fast thinker usually, so the deliberate nature of this walk was a bit hard for him. Still, it wasn't like he was in any rush, right? And it seemed, neither was Billie.

His brow furrowed. "A magic bus?" Killian asked, mildly taken aback. Any other day that would have provoked a bigger reaction from him -- there had been magic transit this whole time that left London and nobody had told him?!?!? -- but today it was just. Another thing. Another new, weird thing. He would have to ask around for it, or maybe ask the driver how it worked if Billie would let him wait for the bus with her. "Have you taken it before?"

She hadn't. Killian nodded, not convinced. He couldn't imagine Billie on a double-decker or the Tube, and whatever the magical equivalent was couldn't be too much different, right? In his head, the Underground trains opened up on rows of witches and wizards in robes, pressed up together as they clutched their cauldrons. "Right, okay. You'll have to tell me how it works, how it is after." It would be faster, maybe? But he would probably have to change more money, another painful wizard errand to attend to before school started again.

I won't ask you, not to tell anyone about all of this, but, um--

"I won't," Killian cut in, strong and decisive. "It's your history, your family. You tell people when you're ready to." He wished once more he was holding her hand -- here he would have liked to squeeze it tight, showing Billie some physical confirmation of his intention.

But, didn't he want to write Adam about this? Didn't he decide to try and fill Nora in, earlier tonight? Killian frowned, unsure how to ask for an exception.

"Nobody at school is gonna find out from me," he settled on saying, still decisive and dedicated to making it true. "Whenever you do, with whoever, I can be there, if you'd like." There was probably something Killian would have to make up, and he wasn't very good at lying, but he could learn to. Small lies. Like when Nola inevitably asked why did they break up? he could just say he didn't know. Or deflect, or something.

It wasn't much of a walk and wasn't long until they were outside Killian's house. He turned to look at Billie, fought down the urge to brush back her hair again. "Sure you don't want a cup of tea or anything first?" he asked, smile wane. He doubted it.