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Ezra and Ella	By : LuluDreams Category: S through Z > YOU Views: 418 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Disclaimer all characters belong just and only to the marvelous Caroline Kepnes, Netflix etc, I just own my sick ideas, lol

Chapter List
- 5
- 6
Summary:
There are still some truths Bronte and Joe needs to get off their chest

I’m sorry for the long wait, I don’t even know if someone still recalls this story…
Okay, this chapter is very emotional and is not what I was supposed to write )which probably you’ll see in the next chapter), I just love when characters do the hell they want, LOL.
My bad: until now, every time I wrote ‘we haven’t seen for one year’ I just counted the year of jail or a bit more, but I totally forgot about the process that must have been rather long, so it’s been more than two years since Joe has been arrested by the cops in the woods, I corrected it in my previous chapters, sorry for the big mistake

Chapter VI: Most wicked being

Joe’s POV

“Am I allowed to look at my mobile again to see what time it is? Because I guess it’s pretty late.” You yawn, but there’s clear sarcasm in your tone.

“Of course you can check on your phone anytime you please; what kind of obsessive control freak did you mistake me for?”

Now it’s me using sarcasm.

You narrow your pretty eyes at me.

“Trust me, Joe, we could discuss it until sunrise, but I really don’t have the strength right now.” You yawn again.

I glance at my mobile and it’s almost one o’clock in the morning. You have every right to feel tired after such an eventful day.

I would like to pick you up; holding you in my arms, bride style, like a proper Prince Charming would do with his beloved Princess, and carry you to bed.

But I can’t, thanks so much, stupid rebuild-trust rule.

I just watch you get up and follow you to the corridor, where there's a moment of awkwardness between us.

“There’s only one bed.” I state, pretending I am not giving a damn to that.

“I swear that when I rented this house I had explicitly asked for two single beds, but probably the agency forgot about it and I spent the last days calling them and they promised me they would do it until this very last day, uselessly. Looks like we are being harassed by tropes!” You roll your eyes.

“Among all the tropes, this is a very intriguing one.” I click my tongue.

“Tomorrow I’m going to get two single beds, I would go even now, too bad the shops are closed…” You grow more and more nervous.

“Don’t worry, we don’t live in fanfiction and I’m going to make things very easy for you,” I try to calm you down.

“Do you mean that the bed is so large that we can easily avoid invading each other's space, we could even make a wall with some pillows and…”

“Nope, Bronte. It’s been more than two years since I’ve slept with another person close to me, let alone a girl. Not to mention who was the last one. I don’t think it would be a good idea, not if I have to behave.”

Because you want me to behave, don’t you?

“Oh, yeah, you’re right, then what…” you look away, proving how awkward the situation is.

“You can have the bedroom. I’m going to sleep on the sofa.” I rush to clarify.

“But… I find it unfair. I mean, after all these months in jail, I don’t even make you sleep in a real bed! I should take the sofa.” You suggest.

Oh. So sweet from you, but I can't let you win this battle, Bronte.

“Damn right. After all those back-breaking months in those awful cots, compared to that, the sofa is a royal bedroll, I’m going to sleep oh so well.” I assure you.

“Okay, but… tomorrow I’m going to find you a bed!” You insist.

“Tomorrow is another day.” I counter, solemnly in my tone.

“Well, I guess I can’t compete with this. Goodnight, Mr. Big Quotes!” You smile, going to the bedroom and locking the door, for good measures; just like a wise and cautious Rossella O’Hara, running away from her Rhett Butler.

The only difference is that frankly, my dear, I do give a damn!

“Goodnight, my sweet saviour.” I murmur, too softly for you to hear me, as I place myself on the soft sofa.

I really feel comfy here. There’s no need for another bed, Bronte.
Also because, if I play my cards well, maybe it won’t be long before we share the same bed.

Laying down was the easy part, but I don’t think that I’ll manage to fall asleep, not so quickly at least.
Just like twenty four hours ago I was sleeping in that goddamn cold and dirty jail, isolated from the whole world.
I just was slightly aware that something could have changed, but I would have never expected something so life-changing.
I thought I would rot in jail for the rest of my life, instead, look at me now.
Look at us.
Look at you.
I still recall what I said to you when we were in the car that very fateful day.
You astonish me more every day.
And I wasn’t wrong.
You were never a lost bet to me, Bronte; not even in our darkest moments.
Speaking of, I guess I should be thankful to Kate for keeping me down for three long years, otherwise I wouldn’t be so out of training and my attempts of killing you would be sadly successful.
More than two years ago I chose to place my happiness in you.
Now I know I chose well.

-------------------------------------

I can’t tell exactly when but at a certain point of the night my mind ceased all its ruminations, allowing me to have a good, restful sleep.
And I woke up due to some noises.
At the beginning I thought it was the guard bringing the lunch, but then I realized I’m not in jail anymore.
I’m on a soft, comfy sofa, in a little but lovely house in the middle of nowhere.
It wasn’t a dream.
Everything is real.
Life is wonderful.

I get up, following the directions of the noises and there you are, getting busy in the kitchen.
“‘Morning. Uh, sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up! Oh, no, shit!” You muffle as you curse because you left the pan on the stove much longer than needed. “Shit!”

“Best awakening after so many months!” I smile at you, as I sit at the table.

You reach me there few minutes later, serving some very scorched pancakes, some bacon that has the consistency of a chewing gum, the most harsh orange juice I’ve ever tasted in my life and a coffe… oh well, maybe the coffee is the only thing defendable.

“You’re amazing.” I murmur, taking a forkful of pancakes, not before covering them with a large amount of maple syrup.

“Liar!” You playfully kick me under the table. “I amazingly suck! Let's just say cooking is not my biggest value.”

“That’s not true.” I protest and then you challenge me, filling the glass of more orange juice, after I so laboriously emptied it.

“Oh, really?” You sneer.

“Okay… I can face everything but this quintessence of sourness!” I make you laugh.

“There you go. Finally some honesty!” You giggle. “I’ve read somewhere that orange juice is better with a small addition of lemon.”

“I beg to differ on ‘small’!” I grimace.

“Maybe I added too much of it.” You reckon, throwing the rest of the juice in the sink.

Such a wise decision.

“Let’s just say that maybe it’s better if I take care of the cooking. Or I could teach you some tricks.”

“Sounds like a plan.” You smirk, stealing a pancake for my plate simply because it’s the less scorched one.

“Hey!” I chuckle, although my plan was to sound more reproaching, but I just can’t. “Look at us, Bronte, having breakfast as we used to do, so playfully, in such perfect harmony, as if nothing had happened…”

“I’ve dreamt of killing you.” You cut me off.

Wait. What the fuck?

Bronte’s POV

I know, Joe, this confession must be more bitter than my awful orange juice.

“Oh, do you mean you dreamed about it tonight?” You venture to ask.

“Nope, I’ve slept wonderfully tonight, no one tried to force the door open and, look, my ankles work perfectly!” I strike back, rocking my legs back and forth.

“I deserve it.” You reckon, quite calm. “I’m sorry. I admit it wasn’t one of my finest moments.”

And then, you pull the chair behind in order to stretch your left leg towards me.

“What are you doing?” I stare at you, puzzled.

“Well, I’m supposed to spend quite a long time hidden here, which brings me to not have all this necessity to walk. So, if it makes you feel any better, go on, twist my ankle.”

What the fuck?!

“Geez, nope, Joe, I’m not going to hurt you!”

“C’mon, I don’t mind a little pain…” You insist.

“But I did, back when you did that to me!” I yell at you, and yes, I’m still mad at you for that.

You seem to understand it and you lower your leg.

“I’m sorry.” You murmur. “For that and many other things.”

Such as shooting at me, trying to choke me, then drown me?

We still have so damn much to work on.

Speaking of…

“Anyway, I was in the middle of something, before you interrupted me.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry, please, go on.”

Are you going to apologize all day long?

“I’ve dreamt, no okay, more like I daydreamed of killing you when we were leaving the town, in that car, when you stopped to admire the view. I had a gun hidden in my rucksack and that was reality as you later found out, but in the daydream I took it and as you were turning your back to me, I pulled the trigger, shot at you, good and proper, and you fell off the cliff.”

I know it’s hard to hear this, but I had to get it off my chest.

You’ve listened to me so silently, then you take your time to think about what I said, and you laugh.

Wait a minute, you laugh?!

“Geez, stop it. Joe. There’s nothing fun about that.”

“Believe me, there is. You could never fall into the OOC clichè. You could never be so vile, doing something so cowardly.” You counter. “When you shot me, you were looking at me directly in my eyes, which I appreciated. It does you credit. That’s the Bronte I know.”

“And, tell me, did you even appreciate *where* I shot you?”

Damn you, Bronte, will you ever learn the lesson ‘avoid inappropriate things to say’?

You just snort and I feel the huge need to change the topic.

“Anyway, I still don’t get it.”

“What?” You frown at me.

“All that bothering to save me from that ill intentioned guy, to keep me with you, right after you say in a world wide direct interview that I was your biggest regret.”

Quicker that I can acknowledge, you’re right behind me, holding my shoulders.

“Oh, god, Bronte, Louise… no. That was something I said in the heat of the moment, when I was extremely pissed off, thinking you had betrayed me, that it was all a charade, that you had played with my heart as it was a toy, so I wanted to hurt you.”

“And it hurt much more than the twisted ankle or the gunshot!” I fight the urge not to cry.

“So… does it mean that you never saw the ending of that interview?” I hear you asking me, because I can’t bring myself to turn and look at you.

“Of course, not, the moment you said those things I was already buying a flight to go back to Ohio forever, not before sending you that text message… then it happened what happened.”

“I guess we should thank that ill intentioned guy for what happened.” You smirk, because I turned and I can also see you’re fumbling through your mobile, searching for something. “There you go, I knew it was still recorded somewhere.” You give the phone to me.

It’s a sub reddit page where someone stored the whole direct interview.

“Just go fast forward right after my breakdown…” You instruct me.

Wait. Did you have a breakdown?

I do as told, I reach the point where you ask the tiktoker to ask you again that question about me and… oooh.

Why are my eyes getting teary now?

I place the mobile on the table and look away, before you can notice.

“So, you stayed although you were sure I didn’t love you.” You recap, walking towards me. “I can’t say I’m not impressed.”

“Actually, I stayed because i was fucking handcuffed to a bed with a not working leg!”

“Bronte, c’mon, you can’t lie to me. I saw the way you smiled when you saw that point of the interview.”

Shit!

“You’re glad I loved you back then. You are glad I still love you.”

Okay. It’s truth time.

“Yeah. Because I still love you, too.” I admit.

Wait, when the hell did we get so close?

Now that you bent over me, my face is just a breath away from yours, we’re just one step away from kissing, but I hold back.

“But things are not easy anyway!”

“I never said they were.” You strike back, with an almost irritating calm.

“I guess that what we’re doing now, aka taking out all the shit, all the toxicity, is good for the path we chose to cross together.” I try to reason with you and you nod, utter comprehension in your eyes. “I guess I just need some time to go back to what we had, how happy we’ve been together; just erasing the last part and replacing it with a big difference.”

“Which one?”

“Me accepting you.”

“All of me?” You ask, making big puppy eyes.

And I start caressing your face, as I bring my mouth closer to you once more.

“Every inch of you.” I whisper, parting before the kiss can begin.

I really adore teasing you.

But then my brain processes better what I’ve just said.

Shit!

“Sorry… after what I did to you, ‘inch’ is not the best choice of words,” I babble, desolate.

And then I see you chuckling.

Geez, you are really keeping a positive attitude over it.

Joe’s POV

You still don’t know and I’m not going to tell you.. Yet.
It’s going to be oh so pleasant when you find it out on your own, maybe with your hand slipping under my pants.

But let’s just live the moment for now.
You and I. Us.
Let’s start to win each other back.
I guess we’ve found the key.

“What about watching a bit of TV?” You suggest turning the television on. “Maybe some update of yesterday’s news?”

“I highly doubt we’ll see the frogmen looking for a truck across the Bermuda Triangle.” I chuckle.

“I was thinking more about declarations from people who must have heard the news,” you explain, as you are zapping through the channels. “Here there’s a special about you, perfect.”

Right now there’s just a short recap of my prison break.
It’s always satisfying rewatching my ‘death’.

Then the journalist says they collected some interviews from the people who knew me and it’s like when there was that fucking trend about me.

They start with Ethan.

// “I’m so sorry for what happened. Huh, wait, it’s not that I'm sorry for what he did, but for who he had been to me: a friend. Okay, more like my Boss. Although I prefer to think he was a friend. But probably I’ve never understood anything about him. He gave me good love advices about who has become my wife for almost five years… and since she was Beck’s friend, he could have killed her as well. I’m glad he didn’t. And now I know he won’t ever do that, for sure. “//

Stupid, useless Ethan, as always. And also stupid Blythe. And if ever they had kids, they’re stupid, as well.

“Sounds like you didn’t leave a good memory.” You can’t resist teasing me.

“He’s just giving the wrong idea; this makes me appear as if I had killed anyone who had any sort of connection with Beck!” I argue.

Well, I actually did, but just on two occasions. It doesn’t make it a rule.

“Anyway, he thought that your oh so precious Beck was awful during that short time I had hired her at Mooney’s… which she obviously was.”

What’s that glare now? Is it still too soon to face Beck's topic?

I understand if even after two years since when we talked about it and nine years since I killed her it’s still a fresh wound for you.

As we talk, on the screen I see a very pleasant face.
My sweet angel boy.

// “I understand he did very bad things, but I can’t forget how caring he was towards me and my mother, all his help in the most difficult times…” //

His voice seems to break.

// "And now he’s dead!” // He burst out crying.

“Ohh, poor dear, he was very attached to you!” You comment, touched.

“My dear little Paco… probably he should know about my fake death, even before Henry. I know for sure he wouldn’t ever betray me.”

“Maybe it’s not a bad idea, just not immediately…” You agree.

“You know, I’ve taught him so many things, he could easily become my successor.”

Judging by the way you’re staring at me speechless, I guess I have to clarify a point.

“I mean at Mooney’s, if one day it will ever raise from its ashes. He loved books so much, even more than I did at his same young age and I bet he still does; once I also showed him how to fix a ruined book and he stared at me as if I was his personal god,” I smile at the memory.

“Oh.” It’s all you manage to say.

“What kind of successor were you thinking of?” I inquire, already knowing your answer.

“Huh, never mind!” You shrug.

“Trust me, I’m not looking for any other kind of successor. Sure, Paco tried to kill his awful stepfather… but that’s not the point!”

“He did… what?!” Your voice reaches its highest pitch.

“You heard me. But I stopped him before it was too late and… fixed things.”

“Does it mean that you… you killed his father?” You dare to ask.

We already crossed so many barriers that I think it’s pretty pointless to try to hide the truth from you.

“Yes, I did and I would do it again another ten thousand times. That son of a bitch beat Paco and his mom. And Paco couldn’t stand that situation any longer. But I couldn’t allow him to live with such a burden; so I did what had to be done.”

I startle when I feel you holding my hands.

“That… that was very noble of you, Joe.”

A voice from the screen interrupts us. A voice I know sadly well.

My fucking ex wife - the still alive one- is giving an interview.

// “That sodding bastard had already faked his death once; I’m so relieved that at least this time is real. “//

If one like Kate Lockwood bought it, it means that you, my astonishing Bronte, have done a flawless job.

// “My poor sweet child will surely grow up a lot better without him!”//

The only reason why I don’t rush to smash the television on the floor is that you are holding me still.

“Calm down, Joe, we both know how Kate is.”

“That bitch! It’s *my* son, he’s hers only on fucking paper” I growl.

“I know, I know, but you have to behave and go on. The deader you remain, the better. So, no plans of you kidnapping Henry, no plans of you getting your revenge on Kate!” You tame me.

“At least, she could have worn a sleeveless dress; I would have had a look at her ugly burnt skin very willingly!” I sneer.

“Which is your middle name, if you have one?” You ask me, out of the blue.

“It’s Gabriel. Why?” I ask you, a little bit puzzled.

“Because I need emphasis," you answer, pausing for a dramatic effect. “Joseph Gabriel Goldberg, you’re a horrible, horrible person!”

I don’t even have the time to strike back, because what the journalist says catches my whole attention.

//”Instead, Mrs Goldberg asked for the utmost discretion about this issue and chose not to be interviewed by any networks.”//

“Such a pity, I won’t have any chance to see how she looks now…” I murmur, more upset than I expected to be.

You almost slide out of your chair, shocked.

“Does… does it mean that your mother never paid a visit to you, during the process and all these months in prison?” You ask me in disbelief.

“Well, at least now I know she’s still alive.” I shrug, pretending that I don’t care.

This time your chair falls on the floor, but only because you rushed towards me.

One second later your arms are wrapping me in the most tender embrace I can recall.

“I’m so sorry, Joe; not even the most wicked being ever to walk the Earth deserves this!” You hug me even tighter.

“So are you saying I’m the most wicked being ever to walk the Earth?” I counter.

It seems a tad exaggerated to me; what about Hitler? Stalin? Kate?

“I’m just saying I’m sorry, you sneaky little shit!”

“I guess this is the worst attempt to cheer someone up ever!”

“Can you just stop being a dick for a second?” You retort, still trapped against the crook of my neck.

Then you pull away, just to stare at me deep in my eyes.

“I’m serious, Joe. I know you have to get it all out, it will make you feel better. Let the wall fall down, be honest with me. How can it be that with all your skills, you never managed to find your mother in all those years?”

Okay, Bronte, let’s the damn wall fall to pieces.

“Well, you said you stalked me for years, but maybe you hadn’t searched deep enough.”

“What do you mean?” You frown.

“It’s true that my dear mom abandoned me in that group family when I was twelve years old, but you don’t know that I managed to track her down about one year later, I don’t remember exactly which day it was, but I remember every single moment of that scene.”

My voice sounds harsher than I meant and you look scared.

“Which… which scene?”

“My dear mom, getting in a car with my young stepbrother, Jacob. Me, calling her, so happy we could still be together and she, telling me she wanted to start over, with this new kid, with her new family, but without me.” I’m trembling, but I'm not done yet. “She rejected me, Bronte, as if I was a dress of the wrong size, that didn’t fit her well, as if she could return it to the shop and get another one, a perfect one, flawless size. I’m the wrong dress, I’m everyone’s wrong dress!”

I’m rambling now and.. when the fuck did I start crying like a baby?

Bronte’s POV

I thought you were vulnerable that night in the cage, but now.. geez, is it what you were talking about? The breakdown you had during that tik tok interview?
Or maybe now it’s even deeper, more emotional.

I just know it’s breaking my heart to see you like this.

I switch off the television which by now was only a far background, because I want to give you my full attention.

“You are my perfect dress!” I scream and I mean it.

At least you’ve stopped your rambling and now your teary eyes are studying me with diffidence.

“Am I?”

“Well.. I mean, it does fit me well, but maybe too tight in some movements, it doesn't make me breathe… but I want to keep wearing it anyway, maybe with the help of a tailor, some cuts in the right spots…”

Shit. Once again, awful choice of words.

But you chuckle, which is a good sign, I guess.

“Even the cutting? So wasn’t the shooting enough?”

“I’m afraid I went too far with this metaphor… however, you were talking about the last day you saw your mother.” I urge you to go on.

“The coldness in her eyes as she asked me to leave her and stupid Jacob alone made me realize that I lost my mother the day she put me in the fucking house.” You grieve. “Sure, I’m extremely good at that and I could have found her any moment if I had really wanted that. But you don’t look anymore for someone who doesn’t want you and never will again.”

“She made a huge mistake giving up loving you.” I caress your hair.”She had a last chance when you were in prison and threw it away.”

“I bet she didn’t shed a tear over the news of my death.” You mutter.

“And you shouldn’t shed a tear over the fact she didn’t. Such a cold-hearted woman doesn't deserve anything, it’s better to lose her.”

“I already did, a long time ago. You know, maybe it’s for the better if I never looked for her anymore. Maybe I would have liked to get to know my little stepbrother better, but even more probably I would have ended up killing him due to jealousy and envy. He stole my mom’s love, it’s not something you easily forgive.”

“Or maybe you would have known brotherly love.” I try to be more positive.

“We’ll never know, since she decided to focus all her whole life just on him, forsaking the son who has just been … a failure. Maybe I’m the most wicked being ever to walk the Earth for real!”

And your voice breaks again.

No wonder why you are the way you are. Such a burden at such a tender age… all the things you had to go through.
The way you associate cheating to abandon.
The way that triggers you.
It’s not that I’m justifying all the things you did - well, the ones I know so far- , but… I begin to understand you, for real, this time.

“That’s it, Joe, get it all out…” I hold you in my arms once more as you cry. “Now I see, the way you tried to find love in all those girls, including myself; a different kind of love , more powerful, more healing…”

“Yeah, I just wanted to be loved!” You’re crying your heart out. “ I’ve tried so hard all my life! Why am I so unlovable?”

“Not to me!” I yell.

“Really?” You sniff. “Why?”

“Because you’re not the most wicked being ever to walk the Earth?” I make you smile.

We stare at each other for an indefinite amount of time, without saying a word, letting our souls speak for us.

“What about some comfort sex now?” You break the silence in the worst way ever.

I push you away, annoyed.

“Geez, Joe, nope! I can’t believe you said that! You’re impossible!”

“Wasn’t I a horrible, horrible person?” You chuckle.

“Of course, you are!” I stick my tongue at you.

I perfectly know what you’re doing. You’re putting back your disguise of prim and proper attitude, because probably it makes things easier for you, it makes you feel less exposed.

Go on, act like whatever you please.

But I saw the real Joe, as I had already taken glimpses of him that night in the cage.
I love that lonely boy in you.
I swear there will be no more loneliness.
For us both.

TBC

Bronte being an awful cook is my headcanon , lol, and it’s fun to write, as you can also see in some of my one shots in the complete collection 'Yearning (for) Our Unicity = Y.O.U.'

About all the rest, I hope you liked it, I’d really like to know your opinion about it, if I’m not asking you too much.
ngl I’m really proud of the dress metaphor ;P

I don’t care if almost everyone seems to hate this pairing, I love them and found them too inspiring for me to stop, whether I get some feedback or not ^^’
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Ezra and Ella