Chapter Text
Rosie watched Anthony from the corner of her eye.
She always watched him; not because she was worried about what he’d do, such as steal or do a quick line, but because she was worried about him.
He’d been sleeping on her couch for a week now. At first he’d tried to leave, apologizing profusely and saying he understood if he didn’t get the job. But Rosie had insisted he stay. She told him she didn’t want him to leave, that it was nice not being alone in such a big place, that she needed somebody’s ear to talk off, that she needed someone younger and more attuned with the pop culture of the youth to help her out with designs.
But the truth was that she was worried about him.
She didn’t want to send him home. She didn’t know what would happen to him if she did. Carmilla may have a sour taste in her mouth when it came to Anthony, but Rosie was getting a soft spot.
He was sweet, and honest, and sure, yeah, maybe a little rough around the edges. But he cleaned without being asked, and he offered to take her shopping, and he cooked her meals when she’d forgotten to eat while working behind her desk. He never asked for anything. He never moved a single toe out of line.
Rosie couldn’t help but find herself caring for him.
She already had two girls that were cemented in her heart. Young and adorable and bearing their mother’s face, Rosie loved her step-daughters with everything she had. She loved Carmilla, too. That sour and gruff woman was secretly sweet, kissing her so tenderly that it made her whole body ache and her knees weak enough to knock together. That was her family. The mother tiger who growled at anyone that came too close and the two cubs who fought each other at every opportunity. That was Rosie’s home.
But as she watched Anthony, the boy busy frowning over a recipe on his phone as he stirred a pot, she couldn’t help but feel a little betrayed.
Because he was Carmilla’s family once, too.
And she didn’t want him anymore.
A bad egg, is what she called him. A thief. A liar. A good for nothing rat.
Rosie didn’t see that. She didn’t see a bad egg, a thief, a liar, or a rat. She saw a boy– a boy forced to grow up too fast by a society that didn’t want him. Rosie could relate to that.
Twisting her wedding ring around her finger, she walked up to him. “Hey, doll,” she smoothed her hand down his back, wincing as she felt the bandages through his shirt, “Whatcha makin’ tonight?”
“I’m trying to make chicken scarpariello,” he frowned. “But this recipe is totally wrong. The spices are too few and it says to cook the chicken for too long. And look!” He showed her his phone, “It doesn’t even mention the lemon juice! How are you supposed to make a good scarpariello without lemon juice? The citrus is what makes the chicken so tender and gives it that freshness!” He growled to himself, setting his phone aside. “If my mother was alive, she’d cry her eyes out at that… No lemon juice in scarpariello– what kinda fuckin’ idiot…”
“I think I have a lemon in the fridge,” Rosie offered. “Want me to check?”
Anthony shrugged. “Only if you don’t want this to taste like shit.” Shaking his head in disappointment, he wiped his hands off on a towel. “I hope you like peppers. There’s gonna be a lot of them in it. I think they’re nice, but some people can’t handle the flavor.”
Rosie went to the fridge and searched for that lemon. Moving milk and eggs and a pack of pork chops aside, she found what she was looking for. She held it out to him. “Here. Told ya I had one.”
He hesitated to take it. “You uh… weren’t planning to use it, right? Because if you were, I can always go down to the store real quick and–”
“Just take it.” She chuckled at his nervousness. “I can buy more. Besides– it’s a little cold for lemonade, don’t ya think?” Handing it over, she shrugged. “I’ll settle for some hot cocoa with a pinch of peppermint schnapps in it.”
Anthony’s eyes widened at the prospect. “With schnapps, you say? Don’t tempt me, woman.” He shot her a small smile, putting the lemon down on the counter. “I used to make cocoa like that all the time. It always kept the chill out of my bones and let me sleep when my legs hurt. Vaggie used to tease me that they hurt because I kept spreadin’ ‘em, but I knew it was growing pains. You don’t get to be my height without your bones threatening to snap.” He rummaged around in a nearby counter, looking for something. “She was always so mean to me,” she could hear the smile in his voice. “Always callin’ me a slut or something. She wasn’t wrong, and she never meant it, but…” He shrugged. “Dunno. She could’ve been nicer, I guess.”
Rosie leaned against the countertop with her hip. She chewed at her lip, “Was Vaggie… Was she always mean?”
“Oh yeah! A right little shit,” he chuckled, “But that was her charm! You know… We actually dated. Can you believe that? We even fucked!”
Rosie knew that. Carmilla had told her about the two of them dating for all of high school, how Vaggie had asked her to buy a plan B for her just in case, how Carmilla had grumbled the entire way to the pharmacy and back. Rosie knew about their whole relationship, from the fighting to the fucking to the break up to the friendship to the accident. She gave a surprised laugh anyways, “No! And yet you both came out as gay? That’s hilarious!”
“Right? God, Rosie, you would have laughed your head off at the looks on our faces! Telling each other we’re gay after fucking… We were so stupid!” Shaking his head to himself, he got down a juicer. He pulled out a knife and cut the lemon in half before putting it in the juicer, beginning to squeeze. “You would’ve loved her, Rosie. I think the two of you would’ve gotten along great.”
I keep telling myself that… I keep saying I’ll meet her one day. That I’ll get to see Carmilla’s first daughter with my own eyes and understand how much she loved her. How much she fought for her.
I’ll never stop telling myself that.
I still have hope.
“You never showed me what she looks like,” Rosie smiled, cocking her head. “I keep imagining a Jennifer Lopez type woman. All ass.”
“Nah,” Anthony poured the lemon juice into the pot of broth he was watching. “Don’t get me wrong, Vaggie’s got an ass on her, but she ain’t that bubbly or sweet. Think more Aubrey Plaza.”
Rosie didn’t know who that was.
“She’s got a resting bitch face,” Anthony continued. “And a mean right hook! She whooped my ass multiple times. I deserved it– I was being an ass. But that doesn’t mean she had to go full black belt on me.” Setting the juicer aside, Anthony watched the broth. He was smiling. “Vaggie’s the best. If she wasn’t still mad at me, I’d call her up for dinner. She loves chicken scarpariello!”
Rosie’s spine straightened. “Does she?”
“Oh yeah! I used to make it for her all the time. It was one of the few dishes she didn’t throw up when she was pregnant.”
Rosie didn’t understand how calm he was. Here Anthony stood, cooking and humming and adding pinches of salt as he tasted the broth, completely at ease. Despite being beaten within an inch of his life and making his best friend pissed at him, he was comfortable.
Rosie knew he was lying to himself.
She leaned closer, “Ya know… It wouldn’t hurt to call her. Maybe offer a plate as a white flag? Tell her you’re sorry?”
Anthony’s arm stilled, the spoon held up to his lips. He slowly set it down. “Rosie… I don’t think she wants to see me.”
“And why not, doll?”
He shrugged. “Because I’m an asshole…” He set the spoon aside, his brows furrowing. “Because I fucked everything up.”
“You didn’t fuck anything up, Anthony,” she held his arm in her hand. “And if you did… Well… You can still fix it. You can still say you’re sorry.”
His face went tight. Then, taking a deep breath, he leaned against the countertop on his palms. He hung his head. “Sorry isn’t enough, Rosie… You don’t understand what I’ve done.”
She didn’t like the pain in his voice. She didn’t like the sorrow, or the guilt, or the self hatred that intertwined with his words. She wanted it to stop. She wanted it to go away, to leave him alone and let him just exist as he truly was. Rosie didn’t want him to be a scared little kid anymore, cowering under shadows who put a collar on him and led him around on some sick leash.
She didn’t want to see herself in him.
“Anthony… I’m sure Vaggie will forgive you… She loves you.”
“She doesn’t… Not anymore… Not after…” He squeezed his eyes shut. Anthony’s breath stuttered in his chest.
He was on the cusp of breaking down. Rosie didn’t want him to break down, but she needed him to. She needed him to crumble and fall apart, only because she was determined to put him back together. Even if it took the rest of her life, she would sift through all the tiny fragments of his being and kiss each one before putting it in place. She would rebuild him, piece by piece, because no one else would.
Nobody rebuilt her.
“Anthony,” she tugged on his arm, leading him to the dining table. She sat him down in one of the chairs. “Speak to me,” she begged, “Let me help you.”
His fists tightened atop the wood. “Rosie… I can’t. If he knew, if he understood… If Vaggie–!” He grit his teeth, angry tears welling along his lashes.
Rosie rubbed at his arm. “Listen to me, doll,” she said softly, “I can’t help you unless you tell me… I’ve got ears and eyes out for Vaggie twenty-four-seven, but unless you tell me who he is, I can’t make him go away. I can’t make him stop.”
“He won’t stop,” Anthony whimpered. “Every day… Every night… I know he’s trying to get to her. He wants her just because I left him. Because I hurt him.”
“How do you know he's trying to get her?” Rosie scooted closer, her pulse rising. “Has he contacted you? Has he said anything? Done anything?”
She needed to know. She needed to know that Vaggie was safe, that her wife’s first daughter was still breathing and happy and perfectly fine. If she wasn’t– if she was hurt in some way– Rosie would bring down the wrath of God on this entire city. She didn’t care who got in her way. Carmilla was her wife, the woman she loved, and if her daughter was caught in the teeth of Bedlam then she’d pry them open and yank her out. It was the least she could do after everything Carmilla’s done for her.
Anthony looked away. His jaw set, his chin wobbling, and his knuckles going white, Rosie understood what he wasn’t saying. She’d done the same thing.
“He talked to you… didn’t he?”
Anthony nodded. “Not to my face,” he admitted, “But… But I knew it was him. I knew he was the one who sent it.”
“Sent what?”
Anthony reached into his pocket and produced his phone. Tapping on the cracked glass, he pulled up a message from an unlisted number. He showed it to Rosie.
She nearly fell out of her seat at the photo.
There Charlotte was, the last person she expected to see, holding a little girl in her arms outside of a building. The little girl was pressed to the blonde’s shoulder and looking miserable, Charlie’s lips pressed to her ashen hair.
That’s her… That’s the daughter Anthony told me about… That’s Vaggie’s baby…
That’s Carmilla’s granddaughter.
“He’s torturing me,” Anthony moaned. “Look how close he got to her! To Charlie! If he can do that in broad daylight, imagine what he could do if they went back to the apartment! In his own territory! Rosie–!”
“His name.”
“I can’t,” Anthony whimpered at her, “If you knew… If he found out I betrayed him, he’d–!”
“He won’t,” she promised. “He won’t find out nothing.”
“How do you know that? You don’t even know who he is! You don’t know how powerful he is! Who he has in his pocket! What kind of connections–!”
“That doesn’t matter to me,” Rosie growled. “I have more. Tell me his name, Anthony, and I’ll give you his head. I swear it.”
Rosie was telling him the truth. Whatever little power this unknown creep had, she had more. Be it weapons, ears, eyes, or people willing to do the dirty work, Rosie had the numbers against him. She could turn this whole city upside down in a matter of hours if she wanted. What was one man compared to her? What was one weak, fragile, creepy, self righteous man compared to the kingpin of Bedlam?
She’d promised herself she wouldn’t let another man like that hurt her. She wouldn’t feel their fists on her, wouldn’t know how the taste of their tongue felt in her mouth, wouldn’t know how sour their fingers felt against her skin.
She wouldn’t let anyone else know that either.
Rosie wouldn’t kill this stranger. She wouldn’t give him such an easy way out. She’d corner him, clip his wings, and wring every last gasp out of him until he had nothing left. Until his blood was drying beneath her nails, until her dress was stained, until the floor was so foul and wretched with his pulsing insides that it would never be the same again. Until she was tired of hearing him plead, until she grew bored of listening to his sobs and gurgles and incessant begging for mercy.
Because that’s what the last one did to her.