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❛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘ. ᴘᴀʀᴋᴇʀ ᴇғғᴇᴄᴛ​​​​​​​​​​. ❜ ° . ༄
- ͙۪۪˚  ▎❛ 𝐒𝐈𝐗 ❜   ▎˚ ͙۪۪̥◌
»»————- ꒰ ɪɴᴛᴇʀʟᴜᴅᴇ ɪ: ᴛɪᴍᴇ
ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟ ɪᴠ ꒱


❝ FOR WHAT MUST BE, NO ONE
WILL EVER AVAIL TO ALTER ❞

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[ the first year ]

ＣＡＩＭＢＲＩＤＧＥ， ＭＡＳＳＡＣＨＵＳＳＥＴＳ

Law school fucking sucks, Deianira thought sourly for the thousandth time since she'd accepted her position at Harvard University. She had pulled many late-night study sessions, especially this semester, and it was wearing on her. She wasn't 'gifted' like most of the students seemed to be, she was older than a majority of her peers and— as her academic counsellor liked to remind her— she was not especially motivated to study in the first place. But her scholarship required that she maintain at least a three-point-five average and her Constitutional Law class was kicking her ass, requiring her to put in the extra effort with great reluctance.

Her professors all said that she had promise, she just had to apply herself. That was the problem, though, wasn't it? She just simply wasn't ambitious like the other students. Sure, she could be a go-getter when the time called for it, but it was on her own terms rather than when people told her she should be. It wasn't even that she didn't have a passion for law; she did. She liked the power it would bring her, the ability to control someone's life with a well-argued case. She could shape reality with her words and make the judge believe what she wanted them to believe. That was her strong suit: debate, the practical application of her work. All the theory? It was boring. Unfortunately, though, she had to understand the theory to put it into practice.

Thus was the reason for her current cramming session as she prepared for her midterms. She was one of the few people left in the library, most having retired to their dorms or to dinner due to the late hour. The main lights had been dimmed, leaving the remaining students to use the lamps on the desks. Books were piled high around her while her scattered notes took up the rest of the space. As another student left the library— the lucky bastard— Deianira shook out her cramping hands. Reaching her arms up towards the ceiling, she stretched to loosen her sore muscles.

She'd been sitting in the same position for far too long. What she wouldn't give to go out on the town, hit up the bars and find a pretty woman to flirt with. That would be a much more enjoyable evening than sitting in this stuffy, dimly lit space. The curly-haired woman rubbed her eyes, then scrubbed her hands over her face to wake herself up. The long study sessions were already bad enough; put her sleepless nights on top of that? She was ready to take a nap at the drop of a hat.

Deciding that a change of scenery was in order, the brunette left her belongings to mark her spot and began to walk around the perimeter of the library to stretch her legs. As far as she knew, she'd always been a poor sleeper. What she could recall— which wasn't much— were foggy, distant memories of going to bed late and waking up at a god-forsaken hour. That was how all of her memories were, really: faint impressions of a rather unhappy childhood. She couldn't recollect anything with clarity from before a year ago.

Well, that wasn't exactly right. Sometimes, when she did manage to get to sleep, her dreams brought the lucidity that her waking thoughts lacked. She still always forgot them within the first seconds of waking up but at least it was something. If she was lucky, she would recall a glimpse of a beautiful woman whose feet never seemed to touch the ground (which was impossible, of course.) Other times it was images of seven other siblings. Though their faces were distorted, one was, inexplicably, a box. And, finally— the most distinct of her memories— was of an Asian man around her age, his dark eyes sharp, guarded and full of arrogance. Deianira guessed that these people were her family (a pity, since the woman was gorgeous— definitely her type) and, as they had all died in a tragic accident, her brain was using amnesia to protect herself.

That was all well and good; she'd lived the last year alone. She obviously didn't need anyone.(She ignored the twinge in her heart as the floating woman crossed her mind.) She had her future ahead of her: pass this stupid midterm, study abroad and then become a world-renowned shark lawyer. 

☂︎ ☂︎ ☂︎

[ the second year ]

ＰＩＳＡ， ＩＴＡＬＹ

Deianira didn't know what had made her choose a place with structural integrity problems as her country of interest, but now she was here. Somehow, she could speak Italian. She didn't remember learning it but it came almost as naturally as breathing— even the locals were impressed by her fluency (which was especially notable since she stuck out like a sore thumb with her dark, curly hair and light brown skin.)

She had to admit that she had good taste; even if its buildings were in constant danger of falling over, the city was beautiful. The colors were so vibrant they looked almost superimposed: the grass a bright, healthy green, the sky so blue azure wasn't a good enough description. The leaning tower itself was stark white marble, jutting up precariously into the sky. A light breeze played with her curls and the sun was warm on her skin. Sweet smells drifted by her that hinted at a nearby bakery and the low murmur of people's voices could be heard as they observed the tower.

The brunette held an informational pamphlet in her hand, reading about its significance as she stood before the attraction. Speaking to nobody in particular, she commented: "you know, I don't really get what's so great about a leaning tower. I mean, I could try my hand at architecture and get the same exact result, except mine would probably be classified as 'a hazard to society' or 'fundamentally unsound.' It sets a double standard, y'know?"

A soft laugh drew her attention away from the building. She turned towards the sound. For possibly the first time in her entire life, Deianira was speechless. The laugh came from a woman— a beautiful woman— whose light brown-blonde hair fell loosely over her shoulders, framing her pretty face. Her brown eyes were kind and glinted playfully, almond-shaped and set against high cheekbones. She sat on a bench nearby with a notebook and pen in hand. Upon the brunette's remark, though, she stood to move closer to Deianira.

"It's about the history," she chided her gently. "That's why it's important."

Deianira was no history buff— she'd never given two shits about the past, seeing as she couldn't remember her own— but suddenly, history became her favorite subject. She was torn between wanting the woman to keep talking and making her laugh again. She chose to go with the latter and scoffed. "What history? Italians are terrible at making buildings?"

Although her eyes sparkled in response, the stranger replied as if she'd meant her question seriously: "Pisa was a key trading port several hundred years ago," she explained. "The tower isn't just leaning for no reason; it was actually supposed to be a bell tower but the land underneath it was too marshy so it began to sink while they were still constructing it. That's why it's no longer perpendicular."

"It still sounds like an oversight on their part. I mean, nobody thought to jump on the ground to test its durability?" The curly-haired woman sent her a rather saucy smirk. "I jump on every new bed to test out the squeaks I don't keep my dorm neighbors up all night long. It's the same concept, really."

The woman's face filled with a pretty blush at her teasing, whose suggestiveness she chose to ignore. "A building that weighs several hundred tons would have quite a different impact on the earth than if one of the construction workers tried on their own. Don't forget that it was built during the Medieval times so they didn't have modern means to test that sort of thing."

"Hmm," was the brunette's reply. "You seem to know a lot about this stuff."

"I should hope so," the woman said, "I'm a travel writer. It's my job to know things about places."

Deianira's lips twitched, unable to resist another dirty joke: "so you must get around a lot, huh?"

The light-haired woman let out a faint huff of amusement at the question. "A fair bit, yes." She stuck out her hand. "I'm Sloane Hargreeves."

Deia's eyebrows shot up in surprise as she shook Sloane's hand. "Hargreeves, you say? I'm Deianira Hargreeves. How serendipitous; if we get married, you won't even have to change your last name."

Sloane's blush deepened and, to Deianira's delight, she giggled. "You're a smooth talker, aren't you?"

"Only when I'm inspired," Deia replied, her voice dropping a notch into something soft, almost playful.

--

To her relief (though she pretended like it hadn't mattered) Sloane asked if she wanted to have lunch together. They sat outside at the café with the delicious-smelling pastries. As they ate, the blonde cast her a curious look. "So, what brings you to Pisa? You don't happen to be a travel writer as well?"

The curly-haired woman chuckled. "No; that would be a bit too coincidental, don't you think? I'm here for college, studying abroad. I'm working on getting a law degree."

Sloane examined her critically for a moment before she nodded. "Yeah, I can see it. People are generally intimidated by you, aren't they?"

Deianira glowed from her praise. "That's the goal. Kind of hard to argue if you're tongue-tied."

The other woman rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Where are you getting your degree?"

"Harvard," she said nonchalantly, though it was with genuinely offhand; of all the things in her life that Deianira would happily gloat about, the one thing she truly didn't care to rub in someone's face was where she'd been accepted.

Sloane arched a slender brow. "You got into Harvard?" she asked, her tone more impressed than anything else.

Deia scoffed, tossing her curls casually over her shoulder. "What, like it's hard?" They both laughed at that and she pointed accusatorily at the blonde. "You set me up for that."

"I sure did," Sloane agreed with a smile, the warmth shining in her brown eyes.

☂︎ ☂︎ ☂︎

[ the third year ]

ＣＡＩＭＢＲＩＤＧＥ， ＭＡＳＳＡＣＨＵＳＳＥＴＳ

There were very few people in Deianira's life that she just clicked with. In fact, she could count all of them on one hand— nay, one finger. Sloane was unlike anyone she'd ever met. Most people weren't even a blip on her radar; she met them, then forgot about them. That was why she liked one night stands: there were no messy emotions to worry about after. She'd promised herself that it would be the same way with Sloane but for the first time ever, one night turned into two, then three, then four until the semester was over and she was living at Sloane's more than her own dorm.

It was nice that the blonde was stationed in Italy for the duration of her semester; although she took trips around the country, it wasn't like there would be an ocean between them for a while. But, eventually, Deianira had to go back to Harvard and Sloane was off on her next adventure to the Lake District in England. Deia did her best to play it off like their separation was no big deal. It was extremely likely that she would never see Sloane again. (The thought made her chest ache with actual pain, which she ignored.)

When they separated to go on their respective planes, the curly-haired woman laughed and joked as if it were just a normal day, like her heart wasn't breaking at possibility of Sloane finding someone else to share her bed. But she told herself not to look desperate or clingy and if her not-girlfriend didn't reach out, she wouldn't either. She had never been happier that Sloane was an excellent communicator.

They talked on the phone almost every night and it never felt unnatural or forced. (And sure, Deia's grades might have taken a slight hit from spending too much time talking to Sloane, but it was a sacrifice she was willing to make.) So, at the end of her third year when she earned her degree, she coolly invited the blonde to her graduation ceremony.

"It's not a big deal," Deianira told her indifferently. "If you're busy I totally understand. It's just a dumb ceremony with over the top pomp-and-circumstance since it's an ivy league. There'll be a bunch of old, stuffy white guys with their heads up their asses."

"'Sounds like a great time,'" Sloane teased her. "'I wouldn't miss it for the world.'"

The brunette took her words at face value: a careless joke but neither a confirmation nor denial of her presence. Deia told herself not to get her hopes up. (Spoiler alert: she failed.) On graduation day when she crossed the stage, dressed in her cap and gown, her dark eyes scanned the crowd for a glimpse of Sloane's pretty face. Her heart sank a little when it wasn't immediately obvious that she was there, but she reminded herself that there were thousands of people watching her get her degree.

As Deianira stepped off the stage, diploma in hand, she tried to push down the disappointment gnawing at her. After the ceremony, she made her way through the crowd with people patting her on the back or congratulating her in some other way. She barely paid them any attention as they were almost all strangers to her. A hand caught her wrist.

Acting on instinct, she whirled around, ready to throw a punch, only to stop short at the sight of very familiar kind, brown eyes. She stood there, frozen rather stupidly with her fist half-raised, as she tried to comprehend the sight of Sloane before her. The blonde's eyes met hers and in that instant, the world seemed to fade away. The noise of the crowd, the excitement of the ceremony, even the weight of the diploma in her hand— it all disappeared. All that mattered was the woman standing there, smiling at her like she was the only person in the world. It occurred to her then that she didn't know what to say. Words had always come easily to her, but now, faced with the person she hadn't been able to stop thinking about, they failed her.

Deia's heart stuttered in her chest. For a moment, she just stared, half convinced she was imagining her. She'd been dreaming about this for months, coming up with all kinds of scenarios where she saw Sloane again. She'd say something witty, something provocative, something charming— she'd imagined a whole host of one-liners that would make Sloane laugh or blush. But now. . . now she had nothing. Finally, the words that did come out of her mouth weren't suave or funny; it was a question laced with breathless disbelief: "you came?"

Sloane stepped closer, her smile softening as she reached out to tuck a curl behind Deia's ear. "I told you I wouldn't miss it for the world."

The brunette swallowed hard, her usually detached composure beginning to crumble. "You didn't say you'd actually show up," she muttered.

Sloane chuckled softly, her hand lingering at the side of Deia's face. "You really think I'd let you graduate without me being here to see it?"

A warmth spread through Deianira's chest, something she hadn't allowed herself to feel in a long time. She bit her lip to stop herself from smiling too widely and gave Sloane a teasing look instead. "Well, you always have some excuse to go adventuring somewhere."

Sloane raised an eyebrow, stepping even closer so their bodies almost touched in a way that had nothing to do with the press of the crowd around them. "Germany's nice, but nowhere compares to this view right here."

Deianira rolled her eyes at the cheesy line but couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled up. "Now who's the smooth talker?"

☂︎ ☂︎ ☂︎

[ the fourth year ]

ＰＡＲＩＳ， ＦＲＡＮＣＥ

Deianira officially asked Sloane to be her girlfriend shortly after graduating from Harvard. While it wouldn't be easy with their vastly different careers, there was a connection she'd felt with Sloane that she didn't want to let go. Thankfully, the blonde agreed. They worked together to figure out living arrangements; luckily, they knew where Sloane was going next— Paris, France— and Deia applied for internships abroad. They went out to dinner the night she found out Gide Loyrette Nouel Law had accepted her application.

However, living together also had its own issues, the foremost being Deianira's disruptive sleeping habits. Their apartment was small, though their bedroom was a separate room, so it could've been worse. But Sloane wasn't one to let details escape her notice, especially when it came to her partner's health. Deia had no problem getting into bed— in fact, it was usually with her. . . encouragement that Sloane went to 'sleep' so early— but she often woke up to find the brunette's spot next to her cold, the other woman having been up for hours already.

Deianira always played it off with her blasé attitude, claiming she had 'too much energy' or 'sleep was for the weak.' However, Sloane was finally able to get her to talk about it one night while they were lying in bed, the curly-haired woman's head resting on her chest as Deia's fingers traced absentminded patterns on her bare skin.

"Nira," she began softly, her own fingers gently detangling the brunette's mass of curls, "I know I've asked this before and you just laughed it off, but can you please give me a straight answer? I swear I'll never ask again if you do. I just. . . I'm worried about your sleeping habits. I'd. . . like to wake up beside you at least once."

Well, shit, Deia thought, how was she supposed to brush that off? So, instead of offering her girlfriend another quippy remark, she sighed. "It's my dreams. They're. . . I don't really know how to explain it. Do you ever feel like there's a whole other part of your life that you should know about, but you just can't remember it? It's crazy, I know—"

"No it isn't," Sloane interrupted her, her voice brightening with excitement as her eyes lit up with recognition. Her hand stopped playing with the brunette's hair to clasp their fingers together. "For the longest time, I thought I was the only one! But with all my travelling I get to meet different types of people, you know? And I over heard some of them talking about how their memories were all jumbled up. I'd felt the same way, but I thought I had—"

"Amnesia," Deianira finished, looking surprised. "Yeah, me too! It's like, when I'm asleep, my mind is trying to get me to recall my past, but I forget it once I wake up." She hesitated, not sure if she wanted to spill the one secret she had from Sloane. Despite their faintness, the memories were all she had of whatever had made up her family. But this was Sloane, the woman she loved more than anyone else; she could trust her with this. "But I do know I had seven siblings. And— get this—" She sniggered. "One of them was a box."

The blonde stared at her. "Nira. . . I have the same family. And. . . both of our last names are 'Hargreeves.' It's not that common. Do you think—?"

"No!" Deia burst out vehemently, shaking her head against her pillow. "No way. I'd feel it if you were my sister rather than my girlfriend." She gagged at the thought.

Sloane smiled with soft amusement at her reaction. "I kind of thought the same. It's just. . ."

"What?"

She let out a reluctant breath. "I think. . . I think I was married in this other life. There was another woman. . ."

Deianira did her best not to let her emotions show on her face even as she felt her heart crack in two. Sloane had loved someone else. She'd loved them enough to get married to them. What if this other woman came back? What if she had to chose between them? Who would she pick?

The brunette shoved her jealous feelings aside; she wasn't someone who got possessive with their significant other. She'd be fine if Sloane picked this mystery woman over her. But, she couldn't resist asking (in a voice that wasn't as steady as she wished it could've been): "h-how do you know?"

Sloane squeezed her hand reassuringly before she slid out of bed. Even Deianira's tangled emotions couldn't stop her from enjoying the sight of the bare backside of her lover. The other woman went over to her dresser and opened the jewelry box that sat on top. Sloane wasn't much for accessories, but she did wear them when fancy events for her work required them. She lifted one of the layers up and drew out a small bundle of cloth. Unwrapping it, she left the silk next to the jewelry box and returned to her position next to Deia, showing her the item. It was a silver band with a single opal in the center. It was an engagement ring, alright.

"I didn't have a wedding band," the blonde explained quietly. "So maybe we were just engaged. Either way, I couldn't bring myself to part with it, even if I don't remember who gave it to me. Sometimes. . . sometimes I think I can almost remember her. She. . . kind of has curly hair like yours, I think."

"May I?" Deia asked, gesturing to the ring. Sloane nodded and let her take it. She ran her fingers over the sleek metal and smooth, iridescent stone. Whoever had purchased the ring knew Sloane's taste well: simple and elegant, just like her. She studied the jewelry, hoping that it would spark a long-forgotten memory from her. While it didn't have the result she hoped, her intense observation did produce something else: "it's engraved!"

"Really?" Sloane asked, peering at the band closely.

The curly-haired woman arched a brow. "It's your ring. You didn't notice?"

She looked a little sheepish. "Since I didn't understand its significance to me, it kind of. . . hurt to look at, which is why I wrapped it up and hid it. I didn't spend too long examining it. What does it say?"

Deianira squinted to read the small words. "'For what must be, no one will ever avail to alter.'"

"She thought we were destined to be together," Sloane said softly, her brown eyes going a bit distant as she tried in vain to recall the woman who'd proposed to her. Slowly, she mused aloud: "that's. . . from a book! I read it. . ."

Deianira did her best to hold in her scoff. If it had been anyone else, she would've made the harsh noise without restraint. It wasn't fair that such a simple sentence got Sloane hung up on a past love she couldn't even remember. (And, okay, Deia knew that she was being unhealthily possessive, but Sloane was all she had in the world; the blonde was her only family as far as she knew and the threat of Sloane being taken away from her by someone. . . better (more well-adjusted, less ruthless, more caring) was very real to her.)

So, she spoke with as much grace as she could muster: "good night, Sloane." And she turned over, her back facing her partner.

She heard the other woman sigh softly and the slight clink of metal as she set the ring down. After the blonde turned off the lights, she felt the comforting weight of Sloane's arm as it fell across her waist, her girlfriend taking on Deianira's usual role as the big spoon. Sloane's hand found hers and, as bitter as she currently felt, she couldn't bring herself to pull away. Sloane squeezed her hand and quietly replied, "good night, Nira. Love you."

There was a heartbeat of silence as the brunette thought about making her girlfriend feel as much hurt as she was currently feeling. She might've, had she not already spent two years loving her. Swallowing her pride, she murmured back: ". . .I love you too."

--

The quote plagued Sloane's mind for the next few days. She knew she'd heard it before. It was important to her— maybe that was why her past fiancée had chosen it. It might even hold a clue to who had given her the ring. She knew better than to talk to Deianira about it, though; any mention or sight of it made her turn grumpy and distant. She understood that the curly-haired woman felt insecure in the face of this other lover, but Sloane felt at peace with it. She had a niggling thought— which she was growing more confident of every day— that her current girlfriend and her past fiancée were the same person.

It made sense to her. They both had curly hair, they had the same last name (presumably from a marriage they didn't remember) and they had the same impressions of family. The romantic part of her heart sang happily at the thought: against all odds, they had found each other again, truly as if no one could ever avail to alter them. It made her even more determined to find the origin of the quote.

So, while Deianira spent the day at the law firm she was interning at, Sloane went to the local library. It was easy enough to ask the librarian to help her find the quote; like her girlfriend, several foreign languages came easily to her with no prior knowledge of learning them (yet another promising clue to prove her theory.) A short while later, Sloane left the library with a copy of Heracles in hand. She went to a nearby café, ordered tea and a pastry, and began to read.

She found the quote quickly enough; it came at the beginning of the book as the woman who spoke it, Megara, had a sense of impending doom. With its less than happy context, Sloane was glad that her mystery lover had put a different spin on it. She continued reading, hours passing by unnoticed as she sipped her tea. She was halfway through the book when she found what she was looking for:

Once he is ashes; the ashes are gathered, and they press them
to their breasts, throw themselves down on his tomb, and
clasping the stone carved with his name, they drown the name
with tears. At last, Diana, satiated with her destruction of the
  house of Parthaon, lifted them up, all except Gorge and Deianira. . .

A long-forgotten memory hit her unexpectedly, as crystal-clear as if it happened yesterday:

Sloane was the only Sparrow who treated Grace like a normal person. Not quite the mother figure she was to the Umbrellas, but not a servant either. She quickly became Grace's favorite child, her programming adjusting to prioritize Sloane's needs above the others. It was no surprise, then, that the fifth Hargreeves sought her out one day shortly after they received their real names.

"Grace," the blonde spoke kindly to get her attention. The robot paused her humming, turning away from the dishes she was cleaning to focus on the girl. "I. . . I wanted to ask, um, how did you find Deianira's name? It's really pretty; does it have a special meaning?"

Grace smiled fondly at the girl, noting her flushed face and avoidance of eye contact. She ran through her database, recalling the brunette's chosen name. "It's from a story called Heracles. It's about a Greek hero who had to complete twelve labors to atone for his mistakes. After he finished with that, he continued to make a name for himself and fought a river god for Deianira's hand in marriage. However, he was unfaithful to her; she tried to keep him safe but ended up poisoning him instead. Thus, her name means 'man destroyer.' I thought it was fitting for our Number Eight."

Sloane's eyes lit up as she listened to her robot mother-figure share the story. She giggled a little at the definition of the name, thinking about the brunette's ruthlessness and how she treated their brothers. "I think it fits her, too. Do you know if we have Heracles in the library?"

The blonde mentally scanned the list of the books that Reginald Hargreeves owned. "Yes. The Greek section, between Hecuba and Hercules. Third shelf."

"Thank you, Grace!" Sloane said happily, skipping off to go find the book.

She located it easily and, between lessons, training and their half-hour of fun on Saturdays, she worked her way through it. Although the Deianira in the story wasn't quite as violent as the one she knew, they both had the same fierceness, cockiness and loyalty. As she read, she thought of her Deianira's sharp, dark eyes, the way her lips tilted into a confident smirk, how casually she used her powers, often playing with a red glow around her fingertips when she was bored.

It was painfully obvious to the fifth Sparrow: Sloane was completely in love with her. She knew that underneath all the sarcasm, lewd jokes and arrogance, Nira had a genuinely caring heart (even if she went about it in an unorthodox way.) Unfortunately, Deianira was only focused on besting their siblings or learning about her powers. She was not the kind of person who fell in love easily, but Sloane was a hopeless romantic at heart. If there was even a chance that Deianira would return her feelings, she'd happily wait as long as she needed to.

Sloane gasped, both from the unexpectedness of the memory and the realization she'd come to. Joy bloomed in her chest, warm and bright: she knew it was Deianira who'd given her the ring! Not only that, but they'd been superheroes. They didn't have their powers now, of course— nor did she know what they were, precisely— but that was more than what she'd remembered this morning. (The details were a bit fuzzy around the edges, such as: she still didn't know Grace was actually a robot, her other sibling's names escaped her and she couldn't recall her father's name, either.) Glancing at her watch, she was pleased to see it was only a few hours before her girlfriend was due to come home; she couldn't wait to tell her the good news. (Especially in the face of Deianira's grouchiness— she'd been jealous of herself! Sloane chuckled inwardly as she walked back to the apartment.)

--

"You got a new book, Sloany?" Deianira asked as she set her bag down on the kitchen chair. Heracles sat in a very obvious spot so the brunette would bring it up.

Sloane looked over her shoulder, away from the stove where she was preparing vegetables for their dinner. "Not just any book. I found the quote that was engraved on the ring! And. . . and I remembered who gave it to me, too."

The curly-haired woman's face became stony, adopting a closed-off look as she turned away from the novel. "Oh. Good for you, I guess."

Smiling fondly at her partner, Sloane abandoned the meal she was cooking. She came around to take both of her girlfriend's hands in hers. Deianira refused to look at her, her jaw set tensely. "I bookmarked the page I think you should read, Nira. You'll be able to figure it out, too."

"No thanks," she replied curtly. "I've had a long day; can we not talk about this right now?"

"Fine; if you don't want to read it, I'll read it to you," the blonde declared. She received an irritated glare from Deia and knew she was pushing her luck; it was unusual for the brunette to lose her temper at her, but even Deianira had her moments. Still, she continued doggedly onward, knowing it would make both of them feel better. Opening the book to the correct page, she read the paragraph containing Deianira's name, emphasizing it pointedly.

"So?"

"Don't you see?" Sloane insisted. "You're the one who gave me the ring! You were my fiancée! I even remembered the first time I read the book." She trailed off, blushing slightly as she admitted, "I did it because I loved you; I never thought you would have feelings for me, so I coped by learning as much about you— even your namesake— as I could."

The brunette shook her head impatiently. "Sloane, that's. . . that's crazy. Whatever you think you remembered, it's probably just a mix-up. Maybe you're reading too much into this."

Sloane tightened her grip on Deianira's hands, her eyes pleading. "It's not just a mix-up, Nira. I know it sounds impossible, but everything fits. I can't ignore it. You're the same person who gave me this ring. We had a life together before all of this. . . I don't know how, but we found each other again."

"I'm pretty sure I would remember something like that," Deia replied. She faltered. "I mean. . . there was a woman I dreamed about but I don't know if we were married or anything. I just know that. . . she could float." She let out a derisive scoff. "God, saying that out loud makes me sound insane."

"No it doesn't!" the blonde exclaimed, her expression brightening. "In my memory, you had powers! Mine must've been the ability to fly or something. "You can't deny how similar our stories are, Nira. Something must've happened to us to make us forget our previous lives but there are some things that are stronger than time, stronger than memory. It doesn't matter if we can't remember our past; what does matter is that I choose you, again and again. This—" She squeezed Deianira's hands. "—right here proves that."

Deianira stood there, her eyes locked onto Sloane's, torn between disbelief and the overwhelming desire to believe her. She had never been a hopeless romantic like her partner; she was cynical and practical. The thought of fate or destiny made her want to laugh in the face of whatever god decreed their existence. But, if her girlfriend was to be believed, she had trusted in destiny enough to engrave it on a ring. Against her better judgement, she yearned to trust Sloane's conviction.

"Sloane, I. . . I don't know," Deianira finally murmured, her voice strained. "What if we're just grasping at straws? What if it's all just. . . coincidence?"

Sloane shook her head, her grip on Deianira's hands firm but gentle. "I don't believe in coincidences like this. Not when it's us, Nira. We have something so much deeper, so much stronger than anything I've ever felt. You feel it too, don't you? That connection, like we're meant to be together."

Deianira's defenses began to crumble as she searched Sloane's eyes for any hint of doubt, but there was none. Only love, determination, and hope. And that was what finally broke through her walls.

"Maybe. . ." the brunette began softly, "maybe you're right. I've always felt like something was missing, like I was searching for something I couldn't name. And when I met you. . . everything started to make sense."

Even if she wasn't sure she believed in their shared past, there was one thing that Deia did know: she wanted Sloane to stay by her side forever. She gently released the blonde's hold on her, giving her a reassuring smile to know she wasn't doing so out of discomfort. "Stay there— I'll be right back."

Bemused, Sloane watched the curly-haired woman make a beeline for their bedroom. It took her a minute to return and, once she had, she saw that Deianira was holding the engagement ring. Once she was in front of the blonde again, she gazed deeply into Sloane's warm brown eyes. "I've always prided myself on having good taste, which apparently includes both jewelry and women. Since I don't remember proposing to you the first time, I'd like to do it again now; I hope you don't mind my reuse of the ring— it would be a shame to put it to waste."

Emotion clogged the blonde's throat so that she couldn't speak, so she settled for shaking her head. Deianira could propose to her with a paper ring and she'd still say yes. She could feel the pinprick of tears in her eyes, blurring her vision as she watched the brunette get down on one knee. She took one of Sloane's hands in hers, positioning the ring in front of the correct finger. "Sloane. . . will you marry me?"

"Yes," Sloane choked out, her voice cracking as her tears finally escaped her eyes. "Yes, of course."

After Deianira slid the ring onto her finger, she joined the curly-haired woman on the floor, throwing her arms around her neck and pressing joyful, tear-filled kisses to her face.

☂︎ ☂︎ ☂︎

[ the fifth year ]

ＮＥＷ ＹＯＲＫ ＣＩＴＹ， ＮＥＷ ＹＯＲＫ

Sloane was, of course, eventually relocated as was the nature of her job. Their next home was back in the States, which was a nice change of pace. Deianira transferred from Gide Loyrette Nouel Law's Paris headquarters to their New York location as a fully-fledged lawyer. They were married now, too— officially, in this timeline. It had been a simple ceremony at the courthouse since neither of them had family to speak of. Deia's memories had not grown any stronger and Sloane's momentary recollection was exactly that: she gained no further information about what their past lives had been like.

Deia maintained her opinion that it was better to ignore her unknowable history than worry over it. There was nothing they could do. But Sloane's determination to find out more was ever-changing, shifting in peaks and waves. During one of her more adamant bouts, she managed to drag Deianira to a meeting of an organization called 'The Keepers'— they were the group of people Sloane had unintentionally met awhile ago whose memories were all jumbled up. It sounded sketchy, so the brunette went along to keep her wife safe.

While she had never been to an AA meeting, the setup distinctly reminded her of one. It was a cross between that and a cult. Everyone sat in a circle, introduced themselves, and shared stories about their past. Some of their tales were extremely laughable and Sloane had to elbow her reproachfully when her sniggers became too noticeable. One person shared that they had lived in a timeline where everyone lived in mushrooms and broke into spontaneous song and dance. Others were less bizarre, noting the difference between societal rules like walking on a red light instead of green.

When the member sitting next to her shared a particularly difficult story, the woman— Macy— reached out her hands to either side of her for emotional support. The other person accepted the contact readily, but Deianira recoiled, snatching her hand away. Her eyes flashed dangerously as she snarled: "don't touch me."

Macy looked a little shocked, but shook it off and continued. Sloane took her hand instead, squeezing it reassuringly. Deia took a deep breath to calm down and jerked her head towards the door in a clear question of 'can we leave?' She received another squeeze in response, along with a slight shake of the blonde's head. Sloane's brown eyes promised soon.

Sighing, she glowered at everyone when she realized they were all staring at her. A man across the circle from her smiled encouragingly. "It's your turn, miss. Share anything you'd like."

"Oh, no. I'm not here for me. It's. . . Amber who wanted to come," she told him dismissively, coming up with a fake name for her wife; she didn't trust these people in the slightest. She addressed Sloane pointedly: "Amber, what would you like to share?"

Sloane gave her an exasperated look; she'd wanted both of them to benefit from this. But she should've expected the brunette to be suspicious around strangers. She smiled as she spoke to the room. "Like my wife mentioned, my name is Amber—"

There was a chorus of, "hello, Amber."

"We have a story similar to all of yours. We didn't start out knowing each other in this timeline; we met in Italy and fell in love. But here's the thing: it wasn't our first time doing so. We grew up together and D. . . Darcy—" She quickly made up a name for her wife to keep her happy. "—and I became a couple then, too. The catch is that neither of us remember exactly what happened. Our memories of the past— this other timeline, maybe— are all fuzzy. We have some faint impressions, like having seven other siblings, but no names or anything like that. We wanted to know if anyone who's felt like this had their memories come back."

People exchanged curious glances after she finished speaking, some sympathetic, others skeptical. Deianira could feel the weight of their attention settling on her like a heavy blanket, making her want to crawl out of her skin. She clenched her jaw, wishing she could drag her wife out of here and put an end to this. But Sloane looked determined, her eyes wide and hopeful as she scanned the faces around the circle for answers.

After a beat, the man who had smiled at them earlier spoke up again. He looked older than most, with a thinning crown of gray hair. "Sometimes," he said softly, "the memories do come back. But it's rare. I've been searching for years and all I've gotten are flashes— nothing concrete. It's like. . . like trying to catch smoke in your hands. You think you have it but it slips away."

A few others nodded in agreement, murmuring their own struggles with incomplete memories. A woman chimed in, "the harder you try, the more elusive it seems. I've spent years obsessing over mine and it's driven me to the brink a few times. But once I started letting go of the need to know, I found a sort of peace. Not everything is meant to be remembered."

Deianira rolled her eyes. That sounded like exactly the kind of nonsense these kinds of groups were built on— vague platitudes and hollow reassurances. But Sloane didn't seem to share her doubts. Instead, she leaned forward, her voice earnest: "but what if. . . what if it's not just about the memories? What if there's something bigger we're supposed to remember? Something important?"

"That's what The Cleanse is for," a younger-looking man declared. His words were greeted by a smattering of applause and a few 'that's right' or 'speak it true.' "It will fix everything. All of these inconsistencies from across the timelines, they'll be wiped away so only The Right Timeline remains.

Deianira stiffened; this was veering too close to cult territory for her liking. She caught Sloane's eye, silently pleading for her to recognize the red flags, but her wife's curiosity was still piqued. "The Cleanse?" Sloane asked, sounding intrigued.

The man nodded, his face lighting up with fervor. "Yes, The Cleanse! It's coming soon; we're already seeing the signs. When it happens, all these fragmented realities will merge and everything will fall into place. There will be no more confusion, no more lost memories. Just clarity."

A few people in the circle echoed his enthusiasm, nodding along as if this made perfect sense. Deianira, on the other hand, felt her stomach churn. She squeezed Sloane's hand harder in warning.

"We should go," she whispered urgently, leaning close to Sloane. "These people are nuts. They're talking about erasing timelines or something— this is insane."

Sloane hesitated, her eyes flickering between the brunette and the group. She was torn, clearly wanting answers but also sensing her wife's unease. "Maybe. . . maybe we could hear a little more?" she suggested. "We don't have to stay long, but what if they actually know something that could help us?"

Deianira clenched her teeth, frustration bubbling to the surface. "Help us how, Sloane? By getting sucked into some weird cult? I'm not letting you get wrapped up in this."

The man who had been speaking noticed their exchange and addressed them directly. "I understand your hesitation," he said smoothly, his tone soft and persuasive. "But this is bigger than any of us. We're not here to recruit or coerce. We just want to help people find their way to the truth. If that's not for you, we respect that. But maybe you'll change your mind in time."

"Not likely," the curly-haired woman muttered under her breath.

But Sloane was still listening, her brow furrowed in thought. "What exactly is The Cleanse?" she asked. "How do you know it's coming?"

The man's smile grew wider, his eyes gleaming with something that made Deianira's skin crawl. "We've been studying the timelines for years, tracking anomalies and patterns. It's all leading to one inevitable event. The signs are there: the glitches in reality, the overlapping memories. It's only a matter of time before everything resets and aligns."

Deianira couldn't take it anymore. She abruptly stood, yanking Sloane's hand in the process. "That's enough. We're leaving." Her voice left no room for argument.

Sloane, caught off guard, stood up as well, her surprise making her forget the made-up name she'd given her wife. "Deia—"

"No." Her voice was firm. "We're going. Now."

The room fell silent as the two of them made their way toward the door, all eyes on them. Deianira could feel the weight of their stares, but she didn't care. All she wanted was to get Sloane away from this madness before things spiraled any further.

As they stepped outside into the cool evening air, the brunette exhaled sharply, finally feeling like she could breathe again. Sloane, however, looked troubled. "I just— I feel like we might be missing something, Deia. What if there's truth to what they're saying?"

"Sloane," Deianira cut her off, her voice softer now but no less determined. "All of that stuff they said? It was complete and utter bullcrap. They made the Kool-Aid and drank it too. I know you care more about this stuff than I do, but we don't need that kind of 'help.' If it means you'll stay away from those crazies, I'll actively start trying to remember more, okay?"

Sloane bit her lip, then nodded reluctantly. "Okay."

Deianira sighed in relief, pulling her wife into a tight embrace. "I love you," she whispered. "I just want you to be safe."

Sloane hugged her back just as fiercely, resting her head on Deianira's shoulder. "I love you too. I just. . . I wish we knew more."

"We'll figure it out," Deianira murmured. "But not like that. Not with them."

A/n: one of my biggest complaints about s4 (Lila/Five being number one) was that Sloane didn't show up at all. Where the heck was she?! It's my HC that, for some reason, she had amnesia and that's why Luther couldn't find her/she couldn't seek him out. Sloane and Deianira won't play much of a role during my version of s4 either, but I didn't want to make the same mistake Netflix did. They'll make a reappearance towards the end, though!

This is proving to be the longest book in the series yet; I'm almost at 50k words in total and I haven't even officially started writing s4! I'm transferring these books to AO3 since it keeps track of the word count over there and, as a comparison, The Benjamin Button Effect has 52,452 words for the entire season. This will probably be close to 100k by the time I'm done, lol. (Also in transferring it over there, I've been rereading it for any mistakes— it's amazing how obvious it is to see the improvement of my writing from that book to this one. It just goes to show that practice really does make [better]!)