[enolive/mphfpc] chasing shadows

inhale gray skies, exhale blue

A/N: This has been sitting on my computer for the longest time, but I've finally gotten around to editing it. Apologies in advance for exaggerated cheesiness and any OOC-ness.

Moments of time from before, during, and after Miss Peregrine's Home (movieverse) because I somehow can't write stories with actual plots.

•

She is a constant presence in his room – a flickering shadow, always behind him.

"Hand me that, would you," and soon he doesn't even have to speak, just holds out an upturned palm and she sets whatever it is he wants into it, never asking, already knowing.

He almost never looks at her, his shadow, but her gaze is always on him, wondering if she can convey the fire rushing through her soul simply by her eyes.

Because the thought of him sets her alight.

•

She doesn't remember much from the first day she came to Miss Peregrine's home, except freezing, stinging cold because heating herself up would mean using her flames. The fear of that held her stronger than the cold.

Her shaking hand raps on the door and Olive is met by a neatly dressed boy, even younger than her. He takes in her tangled, flaming red hair, her ripped skirts, her bare feet. Something flashes in his eyes and a voice sounds from behind him.

"Well, Horace, is that her?"

He grins devilishly. "Indeed, Fiona, indeed it is."

Horace opens the door all the way, beckoning her inside. When she hesitates, a bird flutters into the room, wings growing and feathers flying until all that's left is a straight-backed woman with a crisply pressed jacket and pipe in hand.

She smiles, "Olive is it?"

And so Olive learns to match names with faces, and with gentle touches and a soft voice, she knows them better than they know themselves.

Horace, the boy who sees too much, knows too much.

Fiona, awkward but not shy, always curious, always following the danger, the joy, the excitement.

Claire, the sweet, darling girl who is the epitome of darkness herself.

The twins, who have never known a life without the sandpapery feel of fabric on every inch of their skin.

Millard, always misplaced, always forgotten, who knew how to fade into the background before he could walk, when the only thing he ever wanted was to be seen.

Bronwyn, who snapped her stepfather's neck and gives too-strong hugs but is too strong, too stubborn to cry for her brother.

Emma, strong enough to cry for her lost love, but not strong enough to move on.

And Enoch, the boy who lived where there should never have been life.

A hand reaches out and catches her own. "I'd better get you cleaned up," the words ground out bitterly, reluctantly, but his grip is tight around her wrist.

"Don't...!" she blurts out. "I'll–I'll burn you!"

His brow is creased in confusion and he continues to drag her up the stairs. He says, "Of course you won't," like it's the most obvious thing in the world. She's never been trusted so unconditionally before – not even by herself.

When Enoch lets go and pushes her into a room to change, her arm and face are burning hot, even though she swears there wasn't a flame.

"Thank you," she whispers in response to the soap and clean change of clothes. Mother always said that kindness should never go unrewarded, so the next day, after he pulls her under the sky full of rain to see the reset, Olive is determined to help him.