Hushed Willows There's a warning written in the corners of your face

reverie had explained to him the troubles of her mind, the things that had come back to haunt her as of late.
sometimes she heard things; saw things that were not there. and while, at first, his reaction had been one of confusion, the newlywed pair had begun to settle into a routine, as they did with most things. he had begun to train himself to recognize the look in her eye when something is bothering her. he had begun to show her proof that it was only her mind.
such a beautiful mind she had, he thought; one too creative for its own good.
and, as of late, he hovered near her, perhaps a bit too close at times. he watched her interactions with others. he made sure no one said or did the wrong things; even little blossom and mae. some would call it overbearing — he would call it being protective. he did not think she minded much either way.
their seaborne guests had settled, for the time being, and this brought him peace — but still, he had his reservations, as anyone would. and as he lumbers through the clearing, he began to understand why.
god, the father. the realization slams into him like a loaded truck. the memories set him aflame.

this fucking guy was about to indoctrinate his psychotic-break-having wife.

he's pretty sure his steps rock the earth down to the mantle. he has to fight his hackles as they threaten to bristle. instead, he forces a big, big smile, and makes himself known from behind the pair with a simple, friendly question: i beg your goddamn pardon, john?