Joanne. Family.

[death-to-pavlov.livejournal.com]

Productivity was an addiction.

Joanne was sitting on her bed with the box open in front of her, rolling the ring round and round in her hand and reading the letters. She'd sorted them into chronological order, but all in all she was only getting one half of the conversation. She could only use her imagination and patches of memory to imagine how her mother might have responded.


Joanne- Joanne Roe- had been the driving force behind her mother's decision to leave. Most of the letters mentioned it, coaxing her, scolding her, sometimes tender and sometimes frustrated. One thing Joanne did remember about her mother was her stubborn nature, once she had decided to do something she was going to continue doing it right till the bitter end, including her marriage. It said something about the relationship these two woman used to have that Bianca had finally caved into someone elses wishes. Or finally admitted her own.

She was so engrossed in her letters that she didn't hear her father come home; she didn't notice anything until the light from the hallway changed and he was there, standing in the doorway. She flinched, closing her hand around the ring, but remained frozen on the bed.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" Lionel demanded.

"English homework," Joanne blurted, "these are my not-"

"I mean what the hell are you doing leaving the damn oven on- everything burned."

Oh shit. Dinner. She'd been so caught up in the letters that she forgot she was supposed to check on the roast. "I'm- I'm sorry," she said.

"Downstairs. Right now." He ordered, and vanished from the doorway. Joanne's heart dropped somewhere into the region of her stomach and she hurriedly stuffed the letters back into the box and slid it under her bed. Not the best hiding place, by all means, but the best she could do before scooting out the door and down the stairs.

He was waiting for her in the middle of the living room, between her and the smoky kitchen. Joanne winced at the smoke, how could she have been so stupid? She was always so careful about cooking! "Dad, I'm sorry," she pleaded. "I got distracted. I can fix it."

"It's beyond that. Dammit, Libby, you can't even get dinner right."

"I was doing homework," she protested, "I got distracted- Damien's home, he should have smelt this, couldn't he have-" Later she wished she'd just kept her mouth shut. It was completely useless, hinting that maybe Damien had dome something wrong. He was Damien, the son, (the wolf) and he could do no wrong. It was pointless to protect but she hadn't been able to stop herself speaking out.

"No!' Lionel snapped, drawing his hand back and striking her across the chest- she stumbled backward, banging her leg into the corner of the coffee table and loosing her balance. "I gave you a job to do, not Damien, and you need to accept responsibility for the only things you can do around here! I will not have a dead weight in this house."

She stared up at him from the floor, now completely stunned. He'd hit her. He'd never hit her before, only yelled. Hot tears pricked at her eyes and her mouth hung open, just staring at him in shock. Her left breast ached but she couldn't think about that now.

"Do you understand?" He asked, taking a step towards her. With his movement she broke out of the temporary paralysis and scooted backwards, using the couch behind her to pull herself back to her feet. "Yes," she nodded, trembling. He took another step and she couldn't handle it anymore, fear grabbed her and she made a run for the door. There was so much of her not expecting to reach it that when she did, she could barely open it. She let it slam behind her and ran down the drive, having absolutely no idea where she was going.

Lionel watched her leave, then straightened up the coffee table, picked a cushion off the floor, then went upstairs to fetch his son.

~*~

It was almost ten, and drizzling slightly, by the time Joanne worked out she was being followed. She knew it wasn't safe to walk the streets alone, at night, especially not when you were a fifteen smaller-than-usual girl who, quite possibly, wasn't exactly sure where she was. There was a bus stop a couple of blocks up ahead and there were a few people hanging around it, it was the only populated area she was going to get so she quickened her pace, shoulders hunched and arms tucked under her elbows. Please just let me disappear, please please God. The ring was still in her fist, making a perfect circular indentation on her palm.

The bus turned the corner up ahead and she broke into a run to reach the stop before it did, getting into line behind an enormously fat man and a woman who reeked of stale cigarettes. But at least he couldn't follow her onto the bus... Joanne dug round in the pocket of her big coat, glad she'd been wearing it inside, till she found enough change to but a ticket, but when she handed it over to the driver he gave her a look.

"You can't bring him on here." he said, at the same moment a cold nose was pushed into the back of her hand. Joanne yelped in surprise and stared down at the big grey wolf, feeling suddenly dizzy. "He- he's not mine," she tried to tell the driver, but Damien nuzzled her leg and the driver pointed out the door. "Get off."

It was hopeless, or she was out of energy to protest anymore. Other passengers were watching her, out the window, and a couple of kids at the back were pointing excitedly at Damien. Most of them would have never seen a real wolf before, and would never expect one in the middle of London. They'd probably convince themselves he was a husky of some kind, but that wasn't her concern. She hung her head and climbed off the bus as if she was going to her execution. Damien was behind her, shepherding her away from the bus, towards a small, dark park. He snapped at her heels once but she turned around and shrieked "Stop it!" to which he only growled, baring all his teeth, but he didn't snap at her again. She picked up the pace, hot tears starting to silently run down her face.

He led her home. She had to walk faster than her usual, already quick pace to keep up with him. "Damien," she tried to say something, to explain (to get him on her side? Was she that naive?) but he put his ears back and kept walking, till they were standing at the front gate and she was trying to brace herself. But, how do you brace yourself when you have no idea what you're about to face?

Joanne opened the front door and peeked in, but the house seemed empty. Damien pushed past her and loped up to his room, and she sat down no the edge of the big couch and hugged a pillow, waiting. She knew she couldn't go and hide in her room like she wanted to because there had to be something coming. She'd never run off before. But then she'd never burned dinner either. The grandfather clock in the hallway never sounded so loud.

Damien came downstairs again, after a while. He looked pale and tired and slightly pissed off, then bored when he turned to her and spoke. "Father wants to see you in his study."

Of course he did. Joanne put the cushion back with its fellows and stood up, slowly.

"He hit me." she said, as she passed him. She wished she hadn't as soon as she'd opened her mouth, but whatever the damage was, it was done. A look of anger crossed his face, but he shrugged it off, turned to her and said "tough luck."

In reply, she left. Better get it out of the way.

The study was down the hall from the kitchen (it didn't smell of smoke anymore, and there were pizza boxes on the bench) but the hall seemed narrow and lower than usual, two things that this hall never seemed to accomplish. The door was open but she knocked anyway, and he looked up from whatever he was reading and smiled.

"Come in, Libby." She did, placing herself in front of his desk, hands clasped at her front. "Don't be nervous," Lionel stood up and moved towards her. She couldn't help being nervous but she tried to smile as if she wasn't.

"I'm sorry I hit you, honey. It had been a very long day and you know how much I dislike charcoal chicken." He was trying to make a joke, Joanne realised, and adjusted her smile accordingly. "It will not happen again."

He was smiling as if he meant it. Maybe he did. Joanne had thought she could pick when her father was lying; she'd seen him often enough with his clients, watched his body language and just knew but now she wasn't so sure. It was the way he looked her straight in the eye as he said it.

And he'd called her 'honey'. He never called her honey.

He was talking again. "Now, you are almost sixteen years old, I need you to start taking a bit more responsibility around here. You have to learn how to balance your school life with your domestic life or you'll never survive in the real world. And you must not under any circumstances run off like that again." He looked at her angrily and she knew that wasn't false. "For that I am going to have to ground you. Two weeks. Damien will drive you to and from school every day and you will stay home and work on your homework and music in the weekends. You understand that I'm doing this for your own good as well as punishing you. You have become very distracted recently, since your concert, and you need to put all your efforts into your work."

Oh, she was glad he didn't know of Melissa.

"Do you understand, Libby?"

"Yes." she said.

"Very well. You may go. Goodnight."

"Goodnight." she whispered, and fled.