**Spoilers**

Long time no see, fam! I read the series Shatter Me by Tahereh Mafi and became obsessed with her brooding character Warner! Wrote this chapter as an alternative to the scene where his father shoots Juliette. I always feel like his father's character/cruelty is underdeveloped. Used this one-shot to explore what I think Anderson would actually do.

"What are you talking about?" But I'm terrified that I know exactly what my father is saying.

"Justice, son." He doesn't look at me as he speaks. He is wholly focused on Juliette. Her blue-green eyes are on mine, and I silently urge her to take action. Why does she hesitate? I sense her fear, but no other emotion that might help her destroy my arrogant father. I discreetly reach for my gun he continues. "I'm talking about justice. I like the idea of setting things right. Of putting order back in the world. And I was waiting for you to arrive, so I could show you exactly what I mean."

My father's fury is detonated to explode. He looks at me and I am frozen. My hand on the hilt of my gun. Every muscle controlled by the pair of eyes that have both watched and ignored me for as long as I can remember. "This is what I should have done the first time. Are you listening? Pay close attention now. Are you watching?"

A shot rings out.

Agony courses through me, and I clutch my chest certain that I've been shot. I realize that my connection with Juliette hasn't been severed. Her pain rings through me as she falls to the ground, a red stain blooming on my old shirt.

My father has shot the girl I love.

"No," I say in disbelief. I'm half-rising, half-stumbling to her. Her eyes are open but unfocused. I lean forward, trying to capture her attention. "Look at me, love."

She chokes, blood staining her lips. Her focus is lost somewhere in her mind as pain and shock take over. I force myself to look down at the hole in her chest. Blood. There's so much blood. It pours from her like a fresh spring.

"No, no, no," I mutter in horror as I press my hands to her chest. They're instantly slick with blood. Her life seeps past my fingertips. "Please, Juliette. Stay with me. Please."

Her eyes droop shut and my blood turns to ice. I feel her energy dim with every passing moment. My father laughs behind me. It grates on me and reopens every wound that has ever been accompanied by the sound.

"Get out," I whisper hoarsely.

"Pathetic," he sneers.

I turn on him, my hands wet with Juliette's blood, finally ready to kill him. I lunge at him, but the Elite Guard now filling my mother's living room restrains me. Hands pinch into my muscles and joints as I rage against the monster that has effortlessly resumed control of the little world I'd hidden away in this house. Sweat beads on my forehead, but my herculean efforts make no difference against the strength of several men. My father is grinning as he steps towards me and squeezes my jaw.

"Anger. Finally, a useful emotion." His eyes glare down at mine and I fight the instinct to look down. "Love," he says the word distastefully. "It is a weakness. And you, my son, cannot give into your weaknesses. They will destroy you." His face is close to mine, and I resist the urge to spit in it as I struggle against the hands restraining me.

"You win," I say from behind clenched teeth. I stop struggling and drop my gaze. A silent moment stretches on for eternity as Juliette's blood continues to flow out of her while my father waits for me to submit. We silently engage in a practiced conversation until finally he laughs again. And I think I might be sick. With his approval the soldiers release me, and I drop next to Juliette.

"Juliette," I whisper to her. Still breathing. I pull off my jacket and press it against her wound. My father's pleasure pierces through all the fear, loathing, and sickening loyalty floating around the minds in the room. "You can go now."

"Oh, we're not done yet, son. That," he nods toward the girl dying on the floor, "was for justice. What comes next is to remind you that everything you have is because I allow you to have it. Or not have it."

My father jerks his head at one of the fifteen guards that have flooded inside. The soldier steps forward and claims the pistol offered by my father. I shift to defensively straddle Juliette. If they're going to finish her then they'll have to get through me.

"Upstairs," my father says. "Last door."

Understanding tingles along the back of my neck, but my mind doesn't want to accept what is happening.

"No."

I can't manage more than a horrified whisper as I remember that Juliette isn't the only person laying helpless in this house.

"No."

The soldier begins climbing the stairs of my childhood home. Each step pounds on my soul. I rise to stop the man, but my movements jostle Juliette. Her whimper reminds me that no one else in this room is going to press my jacket against the wound in her chest.

"Tell him to stop!" I scream at my father. "You don't have to do this!"

My father glances up at the soldier and the man pauses, waiting for an order. My knuckles are white as I grip my jacket with shaking hands. The years of "training" my father put me through, my own cultivation of tactical skills, the raw survival instinct- all gone in the panic that is choking me as my father decides on a whim whether to kill the two people I love.

"Don't," I beg quietly. "Don't do this. I'll do anything you want." I sense my father's anger spike. His son is kneeling and begging. Again. This time in front of the elite guard. His condemnation is final. Emotions are a weakness.

"You had that chance," my father says vindictively. His fury matches my panic. Pain explodes in my side thanks to my father's boot. The air seems to collapse in my lungs, but I don't give him the satisfaction of falling. My hands remain pressed against Juliette's wound. Another kick and I'm confident a rib is fractured. Maybe it's being in this house again, maybe I'm just especially disappointing today, but he wants to beat me like he used to. In the end, his anger burns out. My father impatiently nods his head at the soldier and the man continues toward my mother's room.

"Damn you!" I hiss despite my aching side. I'm glancing around the room desperate for a gun. I just need one bullet to end that soldier. Or better yet end the man orchestrating all this death.

"I'm not an unreasonable man," my father states.

A door shatters open upstairs.

I hear a scream. My heart falters.

"Please." My voice cracks as I beg despite my better judgment. Begging is the best way to fuel my father's ire, but I can't help myself. "Please..."

"I'll let you say goodbye," is all he says.

A shot fires and I sense an explosion of pain. I throw my head back as my mother's pain courses through me like my own. I gasp and struggle to find a single handhold to cling to as I slip over the edge. I have made the mistake of caring about two people in my entire life. They both lay dying, and there's nothing I can do. And I should have always expected this outcome. My father's pleasure is dotted with frustration. He's not enjoying my pathetic displays of emotion.

"Damn you," I bitterly whisper. "Damn you."

"There's time to say goodbye to one and save the other," he instructs mysteriously. He gestures for his soldiers to escort him from our family home.

"What are you talking about?" I demand.

"I'll send for you," his mind fills with resentfulness as he addresses my enduring future, "and my lovely prisoners in a few hours. I look forward to learning which life you spare."

He smiles at me from the open doorway and I'm five years old again. I am beaten, and, like a fool, I didn't expect this cruelty from the man who calls me son. Once again, I am nothing more than a weak, little boy in my childhood home. My father turns his back as he leaves me broken and hopeless.

"What do you mean 'save them?'" I know I'm practically screaming, but I don't care.

"Not them," he corrects without bothering to turn around. "One. Choose wisely." Then he's gone. And I am alone with everyone I love dying around me.

"Juliette," I beg. I have no interest in controlling my wavering voice. I shift the fabric against her chest so that the overly saturated fabric can try to soak up more blood. "Love, please." I glance up the stairs where I know my mother lays dead or dying. My head droops and I fight back a sob. The memory of yesterday wanders through my mind. Yesterday, when I tried to hate Juliette. Yesterday, when I thought my mother was safely tucked away. What a fool I'd been.

The pain and fear filling the house are too much to bear.

Juliette's breaths are coming slower now. I push firmly against her wound, not wanting any more of her life to seep out of her. I silently will her blood to flow back into her body. I imagine her wound sewing itself shut leaving behind no trace of the wound, like my shoulder…

My shoulder.

There's time to say goodbye to one and save the other.

I'll come back for you and my lovely prisoners.

I hadn't noticed until now that my father walked away on perfectly health legs.

The twins are here.

I leap up and race around the house looking for a miracle. I stumble into the kitchen and find two girls, their eyes wide, and their mouths gagged. The twins are here. They shy away from my knife as I break the ropes binding their wrists.

"Come on," I say already heading for the door.

"We aren't going anywhere with you!" One of them cries, reaching for the other.

"Please! Juliette has been shot, you have to save her!"

The twins share a look and a tentative step toward me. I am out the door and kneeling in front of Juliette in an instant. "Just take my arms. I can fix this. I can fix her. I know it. Help me."

"We-we can't," one girl says.

"You have to!" I shout. I stand up and the girls flinch away from my crazed energy. Control, I silently chide myself. Pain pinches my scalp as I pull on my hair. I take a shaky breath. Control.

"But we can't- we can't touch her," one of the trembling girl asserts. "There's no way for us to help her-"

"I can't believe she's actually dying," the other girl cries. "I didn't think you were telling the truth-"

"She's not dying!" I say fiercely, my heart clenches at the thought. "You don't have to touch her. I just need one of you touch me, so I can transfer your powers."

"That's not possible," one of them says. Her mistrust of me is rolling off her.

"Please listen. I'm telling you," I beg. My pride is long gone. "You can help her. I've been trying to explain to you. All you have to do is touch me and I can use your power. I can be the transfer. I can control it and redirect your Energy-"

"That's not- Castle never said you could do that- he would have told us if you could do
that."

"Jesus, please, just listen to me." My voice is husky with emotion as I grow desperate. Is this how it ends? Do I lose the two people I love forever because of all the things I've done? Because I was such a monster that I can't get two girls to trust me? "I'm not trying to trick you-"

"You kidnapped us!" They say in unison.

"That wasn't me! I wasn't the one who kidnapped you-" I brace myself against the wall, the other clenching my forehead. This is quickly spiraling. I didn't even consider that they might not be willing to help Juliette if I was the one asking.

"How do we know you didn't do this to her yourself?"

I did. I did this to her. I should have protected her. And now she's going to die because of every selfish thing I have ever done.

"Why don't you care?" My breath is coming in loud rasps. "I thought you were the people who cared. There's two people dying in this house. I just need you to split up and heal them-" My breath catches in my throat as I turn to Juliette. She is so still. Her energy is barely a flicker now. I move toward her; my legs cut out from under me. I pull her head into my lap and run my hands through her hair remembering all the times I dreamed about doing exactly that.

"I can help one of you heal Juliette. I just need the other to go save my mo-" I bite back the truth. They don't need to know that my mother is upstairs. It's not their business and they won't be very motivated to heal the woman who married a monster and gave birth to a monster. "Another woman was shot upstairs. The other one of you can go heal her."

"We can't," one sister says quietly.

"I told you," I whisper as I watch Juliette's eyes flutter slightly. "You don't have to touch her-"

"You don't understand. We can't split up. Our abilities only work together."

"We'll help you, but we can only heal one at a time."

Not them. One. Choose wisely. My father's words echo in my mind. The meaning is clear. He knew the limitation on the girls' abilities.

"Juliette," I say without hesitation. "Help me heal Juliette."

Her blood is everywhere. I push up her sleeves, so I can touch her without hurting her further. I build walls against the pain emanating from the room upstairs and speak to the girl laying beneath me. "You are going to be okay. We're going to fix this. They're going to help me fix this and you- you're going to be fine." I'm muttering in whispers, on the verge of hyperventilating. "You're going to be perfect. Do you hear me, Juliette? Juliette?" I'm rambling now. The words pouring out of the cracks in my mind. She's so still. I don't know if the flicker of energy is real or imagined.

Her eyes slowly open. Their blue-green unexpectedly focused on mine. I love you. I would have you alive and hating me than dead and in my arms. I need you to live. I need you…

"Each one of you grab my arms," I order in my best impression of a commanding voice. I'm holding onto her, as if my grip can keep her from leaving this world. "Now! Please! I'm begging you-"

And for some reason they listen.

Their healing ability feels different than I expected. Where Juliette's power is intoxicating and wild, their healing pours through me like a steady stream of hot water. So warm that you wonder if it should be burning you but simultaneously comforting and energizing. I pray to whoever might be listening that we're not too late.

The twins' abilities allow me to sense Juliette's wound healing along with my own ability sensing the energy reviving in her. She suddenly arches under my touch as her dying body responds to their powers. Her body trembles and fights for life. Finally, the hot energy borrowed from the twins dims to a glow and dissipates. Juliette falls back against the floor.

"Juliette? Can you hear me?" The twins remove their hands from my arms as I gently turn her face forward. Just give me one sign of life. Fluttering eyelids. A furrowed brow. My fingers are cold as I brush them across her cheek. "Juliette, love. Please."

I feel myself dying in the silent moments that stretch on. Her dark hair slides off her shoulders as I inspect the wound. My childhood shirt is shredded where the bullet hit. I shift the fabric, careful not cross a boundary, and force my eyes past the blood still wet on her skin. No bullet wounds. No wound at all. Not even a scratch. My shaking fingers brush along her flesh. It's warm and smooth- no trace of a scar. Finally, Juliette's lips part and I feel her chest expand with air.

"Thank you," I sigh. I can't control the gratitude that floods through me. The relief is so overwhelming that it cuts loose the breath I'd been holding. As I sink forward, I feel the ache in my muscles relax. She's alive. I didn't kill her. "Juliette, love-"

"Warner!"

My reflexes push me into a defensive stance. But it's the girls calling my name. They're at the top of the stairs, one already running down the hall. Without thinking I press my lips to Juliette's forehead and sprint up the stairs. How could I have forgotten? How could I have allowed myself to become distracted again?

My father's condemnation weighs on me as I hurl myself towards my mother's room.

You allow your emotions to get in the way of your duty.

You let your weaknesses rule you.

Disappointment. Embarrassment. Failure.

Failure rings in my ears. The girls disappear into my mother's hospice room. Without deciding to, my sprint halts before I reach the open doorway. I listen for a hint of what I will discover inside. Have I killed my mother?

"I'll work on her chest-"

"I'll try to ease her pain-"

"Can you sense a pulse?"

"No. Is she breathing?"

My own breathing grows unsteady as I listen to the girls work on the woman they don't know is related to me. Dread and guilt fill my boots with lead. I can't breathe. My hands shake as I grip the door frame. This is just like my father. His cruelty is creative. It unfolds like a nightmare that you can't wake from because it's real. It has layers and it tortures you long after he's gone. I use the last of my reserves to drag the ten tons of weight in my shoes forward.

"Her body isn't absorbing my energy. Can you feel anything?" One girl has her hands pressed against a bloodied patch on my mother's chest. She's looking frantically at her sister who's back is turned to me. When I appear in the doorway her attention shifts to me. I lock eyes with her and in that moment, I interpret her every emotion. Their abilities are having no effect. The mystery woman isn't going to recover. They're going to continue working, but she has no expectations of recovery.

I am numb. White walls erect themselves as I step forward. When I am next to the bed at last, I force myself to take a long, steadying breath. I feel the air shift as the girls work over the body in front of them, but my focus is on the battle going on inside my mind. Eventually, I force my eyes toward my mother's face.

I've visited her dozens of times. She was frequently drugged and asleep, or sometimes hysterical. An unknown trigger could send her into a delirious spiral. I'll never forget one visit a few years ago. She had laid there in a sedated calm, but her eyes were open and staring at nothing. I didn't understand my ability at the time, but some instinct told me that deep down she was aware. Or maybe I was just lying to myself. After about twenty minutes of sitting by her, I had built up the nerve to try and get her attention. Turns out that I'd made myself nauseous over nothing. She was lost in her own black hole of sedatives and pain. I remember looking down at the shell of a woman I once called mother and, not for the first time, wondered how I could be so selfish. I was forcing her to live in hellish existence, and now, at the inevitable conclusion of this pointless effort, I wonder what I'd ever hoped to accomplish.

A calm resolution pokes at the edge of my attention. The girls are done trying to save the woman they don't know they should hate. Their sorrow is apparent though superficial. Why should they grieve over this stranger?

I imagine they're trying to read my reaction. Should they be afraid that they couldn't save the woman? But they don't know that her death has nothing to do with them, and I have no interest in assuaging their fears.

"Warner…"

"If you want to avoid my father, you should leave by morning." My gaze remains on my mother's gaunt face as I address the twins with rare sincerity. "Thank you for saving Juliette."

Their complete surprise is nearly amusing. I know that if I allow myself to feel anything, I won't be able to dam up the rest of the emotions hurling themselves at the walls I built up when I commanded the girls to first save Juliette.

"Who was she?" One girl asks quietly. She probably thinks it's a simple question. I don't answer for so long that the girls grow uncomfortable.

"She hasn't been anyone for a long time," I finally state. "And now it doesn't matter."

"We can't leave without Juliette." I appreciate their devotion. It may be the first time that I can claim to empathize with anyone. But surely, they don't think they can carry Juliette to safety and keep themselves alive.

"You have no more business with her. Leave by sunrise or remain my father's captives."

"But-"

"I gave you your options!" I can't pretend to have patience for the girls arguing with me as we stand around proof of my father's absolute control. "In case you hadn't noticed, you have no power here! I'm not interested in feeding the naive ideals that got all your friends killed yesterday! I am best equipped to get Juliette to safety. I will keep her alive now. Stay or go. I really couldn't care less."

Their hurt strikes at my walls like arrows. They bury themselves into my defenses and weaken my resolve to remain unmoved. I stare at my mother's hand resting on the blanket and wait for the girls to leave. After an eternity, they move toward the door; each placing a gentle hand on my side as they pass. I am baffled by how little effort they make to curb their grief. It flows out of their fingertips and into me. No, not grief. The familiar heat flows into me until my side aches less. They've just healed my injuries. Again.

"Get out," I whisper not trusting my voice. I don't want their pity or presumptuous empathy. Compassion has never had any place in this house.

"You may think there is no opposing the Supreme Commander," one girl says with a steady voice, "but Juliette is alive downstairs." Their footsteps retreat out of the room and down the stairs.

The moonlight trickles through the window and illuminates the bleak scene. My mother's face is pale in the colorless night, and the flecks of blood on her cheeks dimly sparkle. I can't seem to swallow, so I close my eyes and try to take even breathes. I'd spent so many years terrified of this exact outcome, but here it is.

I take one more slow breath before slipping a hand into my mother's. She is still, and I realize that her sickness is finally cured. My knees buckle and with them my walls. I am drowning as I hold my mother's hand for the first time in years. She wasn't my mother long enough for me to know whether she deserves more or less of my grief. Despite that, I can't seem to take my hand out of hers. Eventually, I realize that the hysterical sounds in the otherwise silent room are mine. I'm tempted to laugh. We have switched roles. She is a silent fixture in the room while I lose complete control.

I break to the surface of my grief long enough to gasp for air and remember that my father is still coming at sunrise. I need to prepare to sell the story that everyone died. Do I dare defy my father one more time? How many more opportunities to break me will I give him? But the chance to keep Juliette alive beckons. It curves it's finger at me and summons me out of my despair.

I rise from my mother's bedside and the aged carpet crunches beneath my boots as I step away. Unnamed emotions tempt me to weakness, but I manage to take a deep breath past the needles in my throat. The scenery of the house blurs past me as I make my way downstairs. I have to get Juliette off grid and instruct her how to survive. I have to bury my mother and create a second fake grave. I need to figure out what the twins are going to do. And I need to figure out how to convince my father that this all works out in his favor. He may let me live if I can do that.

Creating a list of tasks soothes me. My mind is more comfortable with strategizing than processing grief. I arrive downstairs to discover the twins ministering to their yet unconscious friend.

"I do not like repeating myself." I hear the iciness in my tone. Why doesn't anybody have common sense anymore? I cling to the distraction of their foolishness. If these girls have a single ounce of self-preservation they will leave now.

"We're not leaving her." I note the squaring of their shoulders but it can't fool me. Their minds are full of fear. Settling into a familiar role, I don't hesitate to step close enough that they flinch away from me. I open my mouth ready to strike fear in them like they've never experienced but am distracted by moonlight sparkling in the blood pooled around Juliette. Triggered emotions slice through my fury like a freshly sharpened knife. My cursing is barely a whisper as I gasp for air. I clench my trembling hands into fists and I strain for control.

"I need her awake within the hour," I hiss and offer no further comment as I push past the girls aiming for the nearest exit. The front door glides open, and I stumble down the front steps. The wall of the house is cold against my shoulder as I lean there gasping. Despite the icy night air biting into my skin, sweat beads on my forehead.

In my mind are the echoes of two gunshots and the screams that turned my body cold. I am drowning in the blood that I couldn't control. I am paralyzed by the knowledge that my father expects tonight to rid me of my last distractions. But tonight has deepened the wound that will never heal. It is a distraction that will mute my focus and fester until it slowly overpowers me. I am next aware of the frozen dirt crunching under my hands and knees as I retch onto the ground.

I'm so tired. My bones have turned to lead and the strength to lift them escapes with every gasping breath I take. I focus on Juliette. All I have to do right now is go back inside, so I can look into her eyes and know she's alive. All I have to do is help her live so I can pretend like I accomplished something meaningful before I join my mother in an early grave.

Comment if you love brooding, angsty Warner *sniffles*