Beverly woke up when a gust of cold air hit her side; scrunching her nose in distaste, she tried in vain to get away from the sensation, only for a pair of familiar, calloused hands to grasp her arms gently.
"Griff?" she murmured blearily, cracking open her eyes and squinting up at the shadow hovering over her. His face appeared directly in front of hers a moment later, his eyes displaying his relief at seeing her in one piece.
"Yeah, it's me. You alright?"
Nodding, she scrubbed a hand over her face. "Alright."
He blew out a heavy sigh, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of her lips. "Thank God. We're going to have to talk about you running off on me; I'm beginning to develop a complex." The words were teasing, but Beverly wasn't blind to the underlying sense of stress and frustration, even in her half-asleep state.
"Sorry. Francis okay?"
"Right here, Beverly," she shifted just enough to see Francis in the dim lighting of the SUV's interior, and she smiled crookedly; he tried to return her look with a smile of his own, but it looked more like a grimace as his eyes darted to Griffin. "Griffin," he greeted.
"Asshole." Griffin returned acidly, and Beverly spun back to her boyfriend with a gasp.
"Griffin!"
His expression showed no remorse. "What? He is." There was a loud sigh from Francis, and Griffin's eyes flashed dangerously as he opened his mouth to say something further to the older man. Before he could, Beverly looped her arms around his neck and leaned into him, forcing his own arms to grasp her waist.
As she'd hoped, his attention was quickly focused back on her. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice conveying his concern. "What is it?"
"I'm tired, cold, and need my medicine," she complained, nuzzling her nose into his jacket-covered chest. "Take me inside and give me hot chocolate?"
"Of course, Beverly." He shifted slightly, winding one arm around her back and the other under her rear before pulling her up so her legs were wrapped around his hips. She probably looked like some kind of sleep-deprived monkey, but she didn't care at the moment.
With a quick grumble at Francis ("Cynthia's inside, asshole; we're not finished here, either."), Griffin spun around and carried her into the house, the hand he had on her back running up and down soothingly as the warmth engulfed them. He carried her to the living room and set her gently on the couch, snagging a blanket from over the armrest and tucking it around her carefully.
"Good?" he asked after he had slipped off her shoes and ensured her toes were covered by the blanket, and she smiled at the familiar question, snuggling into the fuzzy fabric with a nod.
"Good. Hot chocolate?"
Griffin chuckled huskily, placing a kiss against her brow before stepping back. "Yes, Beverly. I'll be right back with it."
She hummed in acknowledgment, burrowing deeper into the plush couch with a happy sigh. "So warm," she mumbled to herself, shifting her half-open eyes to glance out the large bay windows that provided a perfect view of the circular driveway in front of the house.
Standing by Francis's SUV, illuminated by the many outdoor lights, was Cynthia. She was tucked into a thick jacket, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she watched the driver's side of the SUV closely; Beverly couldn't see her face, but she imagined the woman was wearing a look of wariness.
A moment later and Francis climbed out, his expression one of caution and barely-there hopefulness. His lips moved as he no doubt greeted Cynthia, and Beverly was pleased that the other woman didn't seem to tense up or panic.
Perhaps there was hope for the two after all.
Francis took a step closer to Cynthia, his eyes pleading, his lips working quickly; Cynthia stopped bouncing on her feet, her shoulders and head dropping as if ashamed. Francis paused, listening to Cynthia's own confession, surely, before he shook his head fervently, protesting viciously against whatever Cynthia had said.
Just as Beverly contemplated going to the window to try and read their lips, Griffin sauntered back in, a large mug clutched in his hands. "Hot chocolate," he announced, waiting for Beverly to wriggle her hands out of her blanket-turned-cocoon before passing the drink over. "Be careful," he warned, "it's hot." He pulled two prescription bottles out of his pants pocket and set them down on the coffee table.
Beverly gave him an adoring smile. "Thanks, Griff," she muttered, curling her fingers around the mug and absorbing the warmth it emitted giddily. She'd take the pills when she was sure her tongue wouldn't get scalded.
A grunt from Griffin had her looking up, only to find him staring outside, his eyes cold and his fingers tapping an erratic, harsh rhythm on his thighs. Following his gaze, Beverly found a sight that had her inner teen girl cooing.
Francis had wrapped Cynthia in his arms, one hand stroking down the back of her hair lovingly; Cynthia's face was tucked into his shoulder, her own frame shaking—
"Is she crying?" Beverly asked, her eyes wide.
No wonder Griffin's unhappy.
"Yeah," her boyfriend hissed. "It seems that the only thing Knott can be counted on for is his ability to make her cry." As soon as the words had left his mouth, he was stalking from the room, and Beverly groaned at the hulking mountain of anger as it barreled out the front door.
Passing her hot chocolate a sad look, she set it down regretfully, praying it wouldn't be too cold when she finally got back to it. Dropping the blanket onto the couch, she hopped up and hustled outside, unsurprised to find Griffin practically yanking Cynthia away from Francis.
"Haven't you done enough?" her boyfriend snapped, bending down and asking his godmother, "Are you okay, Cynthia? What did he do?"
Cynthia waved the younger man off tearfully. "It's not his fault this time, Griffin. It's okay; I'm just being a woman."
"Don't discount your emotions," Francis was quick to interject. "Please, Cynthia. It's best to get it all out now, trust me."
"Trust you?" Griffin laughed, though the sound held no humor. "She shouldn't trust you with anything! You've demonstrated plenty of times just how shit of a person you are." Francis's eyes dropped, and Beverly had never seen the man look so downtrodden.
"Griffin," his gaze snapped to hers, but—instead of softening like she'd hoped—his features only grew steelier, his eyes swiveling down to the bulge in her shirt, evidence of her still-bandaged stomach.
"And Beverly," he spun back to Francis and continued, as though she'd given him more power for his fight, "trusted you, and you sent her out of your office with nothing more than a 'good luck, Beverly, have fun!' A big load of goddamn help you were; where the Hell were you when she was getting shot?!"
Beverly tried to take a step closer and try to calm him, only to halt when Cynthia's hand landed on her arm. "Don't," the older woman ordered, her voice hushed. "This needs to happen. Just like me, Griffin needs to get it out of his system."
"This isn't the way," Beverly protested, trying in vain to tug her arm free. "Cynthia! He'll send Francis to a hospital if we don't stop him!"
A glaze settled over Cynthia's eyes as she shook her head. "He won't. Let him yell, though. This needs to happen."
Beverly didn't agree in the slightest, but the woman had a surprisingly strong grip, and she couldn't pull free. "Griffin!" she tried again, but her boyfriend was so lost in his own anger that he couldn't hear her.
A part of Beverly—the part that wasn't panicking—noted that in front of her was no longer her sweet, socially awkward, occasionally grumpy Griffin; towering over Francis and looking every bit like a bad boy, the Griffin before her now was the 'something ugly' one. Beverly could see now, why Cynthia had worried so much about him.
This Griffin knew no consequences. He didn't care what happened, so long as he made it clear that the people he cared about were never to be harmed.
Pulling herself forcefully from her mind, Beverly waited with bated breath as the two men eyed one another—one with bloodlust in his eyes, the other with a sort of resigned realization.
"You know what I want to do to you?" Griffin's words were so quiet that Beverly almost didn't catch them.
Francis nodded somberly. "You'd like to pull me apart limb by limb, I imagine. I treated your godmother poorly, and then I didn't do enough to keep Beverly from harm."
"Damn right. Cynthia was one thing, Knott, but Beverly . . . Jesus!" One of Griffin's fingers landed in Francis's chest, and he backed the CEO up until he was slammed against the driver's side door of the SUV. "She died, Knott! Do you realize that? Were you there when she coded on the table? I was there, and she was out for a full minute. Did you know that?" the chuckle that ripped from Griffin's throat was dark and hollow, and Beverly swallowed thickly at both the unfamiliar sound and his words.
I . . . died?
I was dead? For a whole minute?
Holy crap.
Beverly knew it had been a close call—both Alicia and Deb had told her that—but she had no idea that she'd actually lacked a heartbeat for an extended period of time.
The thought was terrifying.
Don't focus on that right now! The helpful voice in her mind hissed. Bigger problems right now!
Yanking herself from her daze with a strangled gasp, Beverly's attention shifted back to the scene in front of her, just in time to catch Francis's response: "I didn't know," he croaked.
It's okay, Beverly wanted to tell him, I didn't know, either.
"That's right," Griffin hissed, yanking Francis forward by his collar and pulling the man up so they were face to face, "you didn't know. But you know what? I know, and I'll never forget. I counted the seconds she was dead, Knott. Every. Damn. One. So don't you dare come in here and act like some goddamn good doer, when we both know that's not true." He moved his face even closer, until he was muttering something into Francis's ear.
The older man paled but nodded. "I deserve that," he admitted after a moment, his voice defeated.
Griffin scoffed, shoving Francis back against the vehicle before releasing him and stepping away. "You deserve more than that," he snarled, his hazel eyes dark with intent. "But it'll do for now."
Beverly wasn't quite sure what happened after that. All she could remember was that, in one second, both men were standing, and, in the next, Griffin's fist was moving, and Francis was suddenly on the ground with a bleeding nose. Beverly shrieked at the sudden action, and Cynthia's fingers loosened with shock around her arm.
Griffin wasn't done, however. Pulling Francis up by the back of his suit jacket, he helped the man stand before punching him again, this time on the other side of his face.
Somehow managing to free herself of whatever spell had been cast over her, Beverly shook off Cynthia's fingers and raced to the men, stepping in front of Griffin and grabbing his face in her hands, pulling him down until his wild eyes met her own.
"Griffin, stop it." She was proud when her voice remained stern, not wavering for a second. "That's enough."
He tried to yank his face free from her grasp, his eyes unable to see her through the ugliness that had overtaken him, but Beverly stood firm. "Griffin," she pleaded again, "Griffin, look at me."
What was only seconds felt like hours as she waited, until he finally—slowly, achingly—lost the fury in his eyes, only for it to be replaced with humiliation (at his actions, or that she'd witnessed them? Beverly wasn't sure.). "I'm so sorry," he muttered and, with one last glare directed at Francis, Griffin pulled from her grip and stalked away, down the driveway and into the darkness of the quiet country around them.
Beverly watched him go sadly, knowing she shouldn't follow him; he obviously needed some time to sort through his thoughts, and she would do her best to be patient with him. Spinning away from where Griffin had disappeared, her attention refocused on Francis, and she grimaced at the sight of him on the pavement, his back leaned against one of the SUV's tires.
"Ow," he told her, trying for a smile but wincing when his face protested. "Your boyfriend packs quite a punch."
A quick glance at Cynthia showed the other woman staring blankly at the ground. Upon realizing she wouldn't get any help from that area, Beverly hurried over to the older man. "Geez, Francis," she sighed, helping him stand and stumble to the doorway. "I am so sorry about this. Had I known he was going to beat you up, I would've had you drop me off at the beginning of the driveway."
Francis managed a chuckle as Beverly got him through the front door and set him down on a bar stool at the kitchen island. "S'alright," he assured. "I knew he'd get me, eventually. To be honest, he went easy on me; he said he would hit me five times, and I agreed."
Mind flashing back to the words that had been exchanged quietly between the two men, Beverly's mouth dropped open. "Five times?! Francis, that's nuts! He could've broken your whole face in!"
"I think he already did," Francis joked, groaning when his split lip protested against his smiling. "Ah, damn. It's fine, Beverly; it's about time I got taught a lesson."
"You lost Cynthia—you already learned your lesson."
Even through his swelling left eye and bruised and bloody features, Francis was able to level Beverly with an Are you being serious right now? look. "Beverly, this wasn't about Cynthia."
"What?" her hands stilled on the towel she'd grasped, holding it just above the sink. "What do you mean?" She'd realized, obviously, that Griffin had blamed Francis for letting her run off, even though it hadn't been the older man's fault, but she'd thought that most of his anger still resided in what Francis had done to Cynthia, regardless of what he'd told Francis.
"It wasn't about Cynthia," Francis repeated, his eyes watching Beverly carefully as she dampened the towel with warm water and returned to his side, trying to keep her touch as light as possible as she wiped the blood from his face. "It was about you, about how I let you go back to your dorm without sending someone to protect you—letting you go at all, really."
Beverly's movements stilled. "There wasn't much you could've done," she reprimanded, recognizing the guilt in his eyes and knowing it didn't belong. "The only ones to blame are Dennis, Harris, Red, and myself." When he opened his mouth to protest, she continued, "I chose to go back to the dorm, and I'm the one who was separated from Griffin and Deb and chose to go it alone. Those were my choices, no one else's."
"I can't say I agree," Francis began, "but I'll let it slide for now. As for Griffin, you have to realize that what happened tore him up more than he'll ever admit. We weren't sure if you were going to pull through, and—when a man loves a woman as much as he loves you—his world felt like it was ending."
Beverly's brows rose, and she stepped away to grab an ice pack when Francis's face was clean. "What is it with people today and the word 'love'? Isn't that something I should be hearing from Griffin?"
Snorting with amusement, Francis held up his hands in a sign of surrender. "Right, as always. Sorry, Beverly. I'm old, you know; I can't help but comment on the love life of younger individuals."
"Oh, please," she set the ice against his swollen eye a little harder than necessary, sniggering when he stuck his tongue out at her in retribution. "You aren't that old. Now, don't say things like that around Griffin; he's mad enough with you as it is, and I don't want you to scare him off with your talking about lov—"
"Francis, for once, isn't wrong."
Both Beverly and Francis spun around, their eyes wide as they regarded Cynthia standing several feet away, her eyes cleared of whatever glaze that had captured them. She eyed Francis aloofly. "I have to be honest, I'm not mad at Griffin for punching you. I think you deserved it."
Beverly's expression conveyed her disbelief. At least now I know why she didn't let me step in, she mused, a bit disappointed in Cynthia. She knew the woman had been hurt, but letting Francis get pummeled by her godson? It seemed a bit low, especially for Cynthia.
Francis's shoulders slumped in defeat. "I can't say I blame you. Would you . . ." he trailed off, his eyes shifting from Cynthia to his hands, which were clasped in his lap. "Would you be willing to talk, now? You don't even have to talk if you don't want to—you only need to listen. Once I've said my piece, I'll leave."
Cynthia considered his words for a moment, looking every bit a proud woman with her shoulders back, chin forward, and face blank. Beverly would've thought she was unaffected by Francis, if not for the glittering conflict of hope, sadness, and regret swirling in the older woman's gaze.
"Yes," she agreed after a long pause. "That's fine. But if I want you to leave—"
"Then I'll leave," Francis rushed, snatching the ice from Beverly before hopping off the chair. "I promise, Cynthia."
She nodded stiffly. "Let's go to my office." Her eyes drifted over to Beverly for a split second, and she asked, "Griffin will come back when he's ready."
Beverly blew out a weary sigh but nodded nonetheless. "Yeah," she admitted begrudgingly. "He will." She watched the pair disappear down the long hallway before slumping her way back to the living room, where her now-cold hot chocolate resided.
Snatching both it and her two bottles of pills, she returned to the kitchen and took the pills with some tap water, knowing she'd feel better once the ache in her side was gone. Grimacing as the medicine slipped down her throat, she plopped the hot chocolate in the microwave, letting her thoughts take over while she waited for it to reheat.
Her mind, at that moment, was nothing but chaos.
Between thoughts of Francis and Cynthia, Griffin's anger, the possibility that Griffin loved her, and the impending doom of the spring semester that waited only a week away, she could barely sort through them all, much less digest and solve the problems attached to each one.
Francis and Cynthia, she supposed, would have to handle their own issues. She'd done more than enough (her meddling had already caused quite a mess); it was up to them to sort through the long-simmering emotions that existed in them both. Beverly could only wait around to pick up the pieces of the aftermath, whether the outcome be good or bad.
Griffin's anger was a different story. Because she had been unconscious when he "beat the shit" out of Dennis, Beverly had never witnessed Griffin's "something ugly" side until that night; she'd be lying if she said it hadn't scared her. Not because she thought he'd ever turn it on her, but because she worried about the consequences. Francis had obviously expected and accepted the beating, but chances were that, if he decided to hit some other guy, Griffin could very well end up in jail for assault; Beverly didn't want that.
On top of that, Francis and Cynthia were more or less telling Beverly that Griffin had punched Francis because of his love for her and his desire to protect her.
Love . . .
Surely it was too soon? They'd only known one another for several months, and had been dating for even fewer than that. Of course, when Beverly really thought about it . . . well, loving Griffin didn't seem like a farfetched idea. It certainly wouldn't be a hard thing to do, what with his large heart, sweet words, cooking and coffeemaking abilities, soft hair, good looks—
Beverly snapped upright, staring at the now-beeping microwave with huge eyes. "Holy crap," she muttered to herself. "I love Griffin."
Well. Damn.
The more she mulled it over, the less surprised she was, though. She and Griffin hadn't known each other long, but their connection had formed almost immediately (once the awkwardness wore off, anyway), and she couldn't see herself caring for a different guy as much as she cared for Griffin.
Pulling her hot chocolate out of the microwave, she stared at the swirling brown liquid with a soft smile. Yes, she loved Griffin; she wouldn't tell him just yet, but thinking the words brought her a sense of peace.
Now, if only she had the object of her affections nearby.
Lips tugging down into a frown, she took a sip of her beverage, her body warming with the heat it provided. She had no clue where Griffin had gone, and Cynthia had told her to leave the man alone—the only thing left to do was wait, as painful as it would be.
Padding out of the kitchen, she climbed up the stairs and wandered into the theater room. One wall was made almost entirely of a projector screen, and an array of different seats—beanbags, cushions, blankets, theater-style loungers—were spread across the carpeted floor.
Beverly made a beeline for the oversized blue beanbag that she had fallen in love with after one use; she only ever came into the room when Griffin was gone, and the beanbag provided the same man-I'm-cozy-and-safe-and-I-love-this-like-a-whole-lot feeling she got when she was tucked in her boyfriend's embrace.
Taking another sip of her coco, she set it down on a small side table and sank into the beanbag with a happy hum, snagging a blanket from a nearby pile and curling into the fuzzy warmth.
She still had much to think about and consider, but—for now, anyway—she could spare a couple of hours to rest. Her body was still recuperating, and there wasn't much to keep her occupied until Griffin returned (as much as she wanted to, she would not eavesdrop on Cynthia and Francis).
Just a couple of hours . . . what could possibly happen in that time, anyway?
***
A/N:
Sooooooo, let's all say it together--
Francis has made mistakes, but my gosh does he have an amazing amount of patience now.
What. A. Champ.
You go, Fran, you go.
(づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ
(Also, he should probs get his poor face checked out, geez.)
**NOTE: This was part 2 of a double update, so go back and read previous chappie if you haven't!!!**
Stay beautiful,
A. R.