KOTLC Sokeefe One-Shots, Alternate Endings, etc

Panic (Keefe POV)

"It's hard to be rational about something like this." Keefe leaned down to kiss her, moving his hands from her face so he could wrap them around her waist and hold her close. That seemed to help calm her down, too. "Can you show me your discussion? Share the memory with me? I want to know exactly what all was said."

So Sophie placed her hands on his temples and her photographic memory perfectly replayed everything for him.

Keefe smiled. He couldn't believe Tiergan hadn't waited to deliver the news when Keefe could have been present, not only because he deserved to have been told, but also to support Sophie and Fitz. But he was so grateful for his best friend after watching that memory. Fitz had done everything he could to protect Sophie from it. "I definitely need to thank Fitz for looking after you in there," he told her.

Sophie nodded. "Yes, he really did. Not just me, but you too."

"I'm glad to know my two favorite people care as much about me as I do about them. Not that I'm at all surprised, but those reminders are nice, especially with the upbringing I had."

"Speaking of upbringing...what do you think about what Oralie said? About your dad?"

"I'm not sure I even want to try to make sense of that right now," Keefe admitted. "Even though I know you clearly need a distraction from your own feelings."

Sophie tried to hide it, but shuddered.

But he figured this wasn't the best time to tease her about lying to an Empath.

Instead, he squeezed her waist gently. "I know there's a lot to discuss, and a lot to think about, but maybe we should just sleep on it, like you said. You know you'll be telling them, tomorrow, that you'll cooperate. The rest can be figured out after that. Let's just spend the rest of today not thinking about such heavy things."

And so they discussed how the rest of the day had gone. Their other sessions. What they thought of the more rigorous work they would have ahead of them that year. Then they curled up on the couch and tried to watch another movie, though neither of them seemed to be paying it any attention.

Keefe was struggling. He was trying to make sense of his own feelings.

During all of their fights with the Neverseen, he had always been torn between knowing his mom was the villain, knowing she needed to be stopped by any means necessary, but also being unable to stop a small part of him from worrying about her.

In spite of everything, she was his mother. And she had pretended to be kind, pretended to love him, a few times throughout his childhood.

He understood now that he'd been little more than a pawn to her. But still...she was his mom.

But then after what she did to him in Loamnore, something had changed.

That small sense of obligation he felt toward her had vanished. He knew he would've taken her down before that, but would've dealt with some measure of regret.

After Loamnore, he knew, his conscience would have been perfectly clear even if he'd had to end her.

He wouldn't have relished it, but he wouldn't have hesistated, either.

But he'd also been grateful when she'd been captured and sentenced to Exile with the highest possible level of security.

He'd managed to come out of the whole ordeal without having to take anyone's life. He was grateful for that.

So why did he care that she was about to face a memory break?

While they watched the movie, Keefe thought. And thought. And thought some more.

He thought the Council should just leave well enough alone.

They were all healing, they had all moved on, they had come to terms with the trauma and the disrupted childhoods and everything they had endured.

And now the Council was forcing them to reopen the wound.

Keefe had hoped to never see his mother again, but there was absolutely no way he was letting Sophie go in there without him.

He knew it was safe. He knew there wasn't danger involved.

But it would be mentally and emotionally difficult. And he was going to be by her side every step of the way.

He wanted to talk all of this through with her, but judging by the emotions she was still hurling his way, she was barely keeping her panic at bay.

He didn't want to make it worse.

He wanted to make it better. So even while working through his own thoughts, he kept very close to her all evening. He remained in almost nonstop physical contact. His hand on her knee, or the small of her back, or holding her hand. Occasionally hugging her, kissing her forehead, whispering "I love you". Reaching out to stroke her cheek with a small smile that he hoped didn't betray the sadness he felt at not being able to talk it all through and make both of their discomfort go away.

He had to insist that she eat dinner. He could feel how queasy she was, but she had to take care of herself.

He could feel her gratitude for him every time he did those things.

But it didn't stop her feeling of dread.

That night, they climbed into bed earlier than usual. For the first time, neither of them suggested intimacy.

He wanted to. For the first time, it wasn't mere desire. It was a need. He needed comfort. Solace.

For both of them.

But he was hesitant. She felt panicked, but also strangely closed off.

Unreachable.

He couldn't quite make sense of it, and wasn't sure what to do.

That was a first for him. He usually knew what to do, what to say, to help make her feel better.

Nothing could have prepared him for this.

So he refrained. She didn't initiate intimacy either, so he assumed he was doing the right thing by holding back.

But neither of them wanted distance, either. So they just laid there, very close, facing each other, wordlessly looking at each other for a long time before whispering "good night" and "I love you".

They fell asleep holding hands.