` ` Suffering ` `

"I'm sorry." He whispers again.

Machiavelli isn't sure what he is apologizing for anymore. He has repeated these words over and over so many times that they feel more like a mantra now, some song that is more melody than lyric; though, that does not take away from their meaning, the damn things dripping with guilt.

The hands in his own simply squeeze tighter in reply.

"You don't have to apologize so much." Her voice has always been softer than his. It laps at the tension in his shoulders, brushing away the shudder that runs through him. "You always did way too much."

"Because I need to."

"I still get tired of hearing it though." Comes her retort, loving and so her that it has a wet chuckle climbing its way out of Machiavelli's throat, his hands shaking with the effort. She is keeping him upright, he has realized, something that he does not mind a bit right now- he's tired of supporting himself, anyways. There's a small tease to her words then, meant to comfort, as she adds, "Come on, I know you've got more in that noggin' to say than apologies anyways."

Her finger prods at his head next, making him want to lean into her further. "Or did the last of those brains of yours finally fall out while I was gone?"

That earns a more amused sound from him now, some little snort that has him chasing the contact, chasing the warmth she is offering him. God, she is so warm.

Real and warm and here.

"I wouldn't be surprised." Machiavelli mumbles back in reply. With the amount of beatings he has taken over the years, he really wouldn't be.

He takes a deeper breath then, in through his nose, catching her scent. It's still the same. He remembers reading about that once- that scents carried more memories than most other things. The amount of times he has caught himself turning to talk to someone at the simple scent of straw is... evidence enough of that.

God, he missed her.

He takes another breath.

"I missed you." It leaves him on the exhale.

"There you go," She hums, tugging him closer.

"I love you."

"Mmhm."

His chin settles on her shoulder, her arms coming up to wrap around him. It's more choked this time, as he mumbles, "I missed you."

"Ah-ah- now you're just repeating yourself." She chuckles; he can feel the rumble of it against his chest, solid and assuring. He finds himself nuzzling closer, craving the feeling of it.

He shifts, settling his cheek into her shoulder while he turns to look into her face. Dark curls bounce around him, tickling his skin, framing pale skin and sharp features. Darker eyelashes flutter at him, accompanied by an easy smile: it's the look of fondness that crosses her expression whenever she is particularly endeared. He knows it better than anything.

He counts the freckles along her nose again, his eyes trailing a line down her face from her brow to the mole beneath thin, pink lips that have curved a thousand smiles at him and chewed him out even more.

Penelope.

"Hey." She murmurs, brushing away a lock of his hair that has managed to escape his hair-tie. Penelope tucks it behind his ear, before poking at his forehead in a motion that has his face scrunching a little. "Stop thinking so loud, it's interrupting my own thoughts."

"Maybe you shouldn't be thinking so hard either then." He grumbles, bearing no actual heat. Their banter comes as easy as it once did.

A moment later, he simply wraps his arms around her torso, settling into the crook of her neck and letting his body hide in her embrace- of which she willingly takes. He buries himself deep, soaking in the familiarity of this, of being held. His mind is stuffing every little sense into the corners of himself, arousing and relighting the long burnt out coals of memory.

He allows himself to be held, this time. To hope.

A shudder escapes him as a smooth palm begins to rub over the length of his back. The gentle pattern begins to ease out the kinks and rubble of his insides, tension breaking beneath her touch and releasing some of the stream of *ache* hidden away behind it: it swarms to his eyes, pressing until they're stinging impossibly hard, forcing his eyes to squeeze shut as the emotion finally begins to swell.

He is trembling as she holds him tighter and more loving than he deserves, as the first piece of rubble hits his feeble heart and tears a sound out of the wreckage. He hides his shame in the fabric of her shirt, wet and muffled, his body only held up by her arms. She is pressing her fingers into something aching inside him, something that has been aching for years, and the gentleness has him torn between wanting to beg at her feet for further forgiveness or cling to her bosom and cry like a young boy again.

And yet, every apology is wiped away, eased into incoherent mumbles as she holds him, even as his grip tightens impossibly. He is gripping her shirt and back like a lifeline now, fists twisting and tugging at the fabric of her shirt - one he bought he ages ago, he sees - but she doesn't seem to mind. She never minded- Penelope is just strong like that, strong in a way he never could be. Stronger than he ever will be.

God, he loves her. He loves her.

Both of them.

The trembling never fades, though the tears at least stutter when he feels a tug on his belt. Machiavelli sniffles, muttering a quick apology to Penelope for being gross that has her flicking his head again, and looks down to his side to see...

Ah.

Machiavelli bends down, his teeth sinking into his lip to keep himself from letting out anymore pained sounds as his hand comes out to cup a softer face, mirrors of his own curls caught in his palm. His skin lays against a similar tone. Big eyes meet his, searching and innocent.

"Papa?"

His lips twitch up. It hurts, but it's genuine.

"Yeah, baby." He whispers, already tugging her forward into an embrace of his own. He fully engulfs her, wrapping his arms completely around her, keeping her small and fragile against his chest. It has her squeaking out an eep! in reply, but all he does is tuck his face into her hair, breathing in his kin. His daughter.

His Charlie.

"What's wrong?" She asks, muffled against his shirt. His little free spirit... she pushes against him just enough to get a look at his tear-streaked face before he is standing, scooping her up alongside him. He lets Charlie rest on his hip, settled between the two adults as Penelope wraps her arm around his back, holding them close.

Absentminded, he tucks back her messy curls. Damn things never sat right, impossibly tangled no matter how many hours he spent brushing it: a gene she had gotten straight from him.

... His...

"Nothing sweetheart." He murmurs, ignoring the swell in his chest at the reminder. Penelope smiles at him again then, inflating the feeling until he feels like he might burst. "I'm just happy."

She frowns though, her mental processing on full display as she sizes him up. "But you're crying."

Machiavelli can't help it- another laugh bubbles out of him at that, and the joy in it surprises even himself. "It's 'cause your Papa's a crybaby, Char, is all."

Penelope snorts. "Yeah, you are."

"Okay- see, you weren't supposed to agree-"

"You're the one who said it!"

"You did say it," Charlie chimes in. Machiavelli forces a scoff, leaning back in feigned annoyance- but it's impossible to hide his joy, his smile.

"C'mon- you're ganging up on me now?!"

His pouting is interrupted by a small kiss against his head, making him wilt a bit. Still a sap. "You make it too easy, love."

... The pet name does have him pausing though, before his heart gives a little flutter. Penelope was never one for those sorts of things; the situation probably brought it out of her. Regardless, the usage makes him feel sappier, even if it was off-putting.

"Y'all are just mean," Machiavelli grumbles, feigning patheticness in the way he knows makes Charlie giggle- which he is right on the money about: that lovely sound hits his ears, and, as always, it makes him feel special. Accomplished.

He has missed both of them. So much.

"Alright." He finally breathes out. His body can only handle so much emotional quake, and he is very aware of where they are right now. Where he needs to get them out of. He can tear through the jumbled mess of his head later on- right now, he has other things to figure out. "We should probably get you two out of here, right?"

"Mmhm." Penelope hums, brows tilting down as she thinks. Ah- her hand briefly leaves his shoulder to come to her chin, a thinking habit Vel has noticed she has. He does not know how many more times he can rant about the pleasant familiarity before it tires him- likely never.

He is about to comment on it, something to get her to speak more, to confirm her reality, before his eyes catch onto something shiny.

His brain processes stutter to a halt.

The lights in this place are terrible. They're blinding, fluorescent things, but one of their many traits is that they can highlight. And these ones, particularly, highlight a shine of gold wrapped around her ring finger.

Ah.

... Machiavelli cannot say that he did not expect it. He was gone for years, it would make sense that Penelope would have found someone in that time. Makes sense that she found someone far better than him. That was their agreement, right-? That both parties were free to pursue-?

"Hey."

Penelope is staring at him now, focused on his furrowed brows.

"Mm."

"You're staring."

He winces out a guilty smile, but before he can think up a reply, she is glancing over at where his eyes had been pointed. Confusion, followed by realization, comes over her like a blanket, a sigh escaping her.

"I kept it." It sounds like she is admitting something sacred, her voice ever softer.

He...

Her hand hangs in the air for a moment, ring on full display, before Penelope looks down to his hand as well- bereft of adornment. Something comes over her eyes then, something harder to dissect: some mixture of hurt, acceptance, and something deeper he cannot identify.

"You didn't keep yours." It's not a question.

He stares at his own hand.

"...That's okay." Penelope murmurs, voice tinged with a more defeated tone now. And yet, her hand still takes his, intertwining their fingers, letting him feel the weight of the metal press into him. "I get it. I mean... you thought I was gone. So..."

There's something in his gut stirring. Something nauseating.

"It's understandable." Penelope looks into his eyes, her own crinkled. Nostalgia bubbles in him. "I'm not mad. We... We can talk about it later, when we get out of here."

It's such an easy assumption to make. Two people living together, raising a kid together.

"I'm- I'm not mad, really." There's a tinge of panic in her voice now. "I told you, I understand. We'll figure it out, it's okay. Please, I just want to get out of here first."

People assumed things all the time. It's such an easy mistake to make.

"Mack?"

If someone didn't know, it would be so easy to just assume. Logical, even.

Yet there's a vice around his ribs. It's hard to breathe.

And

Then a hand touches him.

Machiavelli flinches. The touch makes his skin crawl, the sinking, oppressive feeling settled beneath it finally snapping. His body jerks him back, stepping backward, wanting away, a motion that has guilt pushing its way up his throat and nearly making him gag at the pained look Penelope gives him in return.

"What's wrong?" Quickly falls from her lips, and it is all he can do to shake his head; the stupid, desperate thing in his gut squeezes.

"We-" He is stuttering. "We weren't-"

Machiavelli holds Charlie closer, tucking her head beneath his in protection. There is a fact bubbling to the surface, one he's fighting tooth and nail, pushing back, trying to ignore- something he just needs to leave alone.

Fuck, why can't he ever leave anything alone?

His voice feels horribly hoarse, barely forced out of his throat, but he knows he has to voice this. He has to ask. He doesn't want to do this. "Pel, who did you marry?"

That has Penelope stopping too, confusion blooming over her face to replace the worry from before. Her face, that hasn't changed in the last few years since he last saw her.

"What?" She is looking at him like he just grew an extra head, stuttered to a halt.

"The ring. Who did you marry?"

Her brows furrow. "Vel-"

"Tell me!" Machiavelli finally shouts. He hates the way Charlie yelps in his arms, burying further against him, scared and hiding- he tries so hard to never raise his voice around her, to never fight with Penelope in a place she could hear. Special circumstances, he promises himself, gently rubbing her back.

And, finally...

"You!" Penelope hisses, clutching her hands around her stomach protectively- a habit he watched her develop, memories making her subconsciously hold herself. It's so specific, so accurate, so how could she- "Obviously you. What are-?"

He cannot do this.

He can't.

All the softness she meticulously worked into him feels like it's being yanked out- his feeble bandages are being ripped away with claws, a mess left in the aftermath that he is choking on.

It hurts. Fuck, it hurts.

This isn't his Penelope.

Of course it isn't.

He is an idiot. A fool. Over and over, he proves himself to be nothing but a scarred, hoping, pathetic fool.

"You're not her." The words drip from his lips like tears, weak as the rest of him. He was right: he will never be as strong as her. "You're not her."