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Chapter Text

Emma never thought honesty could be too much. But for Hugh it was.

The honest truth was that Fiona had died.

When Emma was able to stop and process it she’d cried for days. Fiona was one of her closest friends and she was gone. Emma could never see her face again, never give her a hug, never hear another quiet but teasing remark. It all came crashing down over her and she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

She was worried that it would all be too much. She’d lost the love of her life, her home, and then her friend.

But it wasn’t too much.

Day by day, Emma was able to get better. The grief was there and it always would be there but she could grow around it.

Some days it felt like anger was getting her to the end of the day. The wights had taken another person from her but she damn well wasn’t going to let those monsters destroy her too. Other days it was love that got her to the end of the day. Love for both her friends that had passed and the ones that still lived. Either way, Emma got there.

Hugh… wasn’t able to do that.

Emma felt like she was watching another friend die.

Hugh barely spoke to them anymore. He was always out searching for information on Fiona or holed up in the small room of Bentham's house that the boys all shared. If he did talk to them he was burning with anger or quiet and hopeless. He yelled at Millard, Emma, even, to everyone's horror, Miss Peregrine. When he got like that Emma didn’t recognize him.

At the mere implication that Fiona could be dead Hugh started shouting matches, stormed out of the room, or started to cry. After his initial anger wore off he easily fell into a depressive spiral that took weeks for him to get out of.

He couldn’t take it. He couldn’t accept that they’d lost Fiona, and it was killing him.

***

Emma walked at a brisk pace down the streets of Devil's Acre. The sun was starting to set and the only thing worse than being in the Acre was being in the Acre at night.

The smog got thicker when the sun went down and every noise set her on edge. While in some ways it was easier not being able to see the horrors taking place around her, the knowledge that anything could be happening in the smog filled night was much worse.

She couldn’t understand why on Earth the ymbrynes chose such a hellhole to be their new home.

Emma continued her sped up walk, avoiding eye contact with anyone she passed. Then, as she walked by a bar, a loud and familiar voice brought her to a stop.

“Bloody hell, can you just give me another drink?”

Emma felt a cold pit of dread rise within her. She knew Hugh was having problems, they all did, but she didn’t think it had gotten this bad. There was a sharp note of anger in his voice and a tone she’d never heard him use with a stranger.

She entered the bar, trying her damndest to not come off as nervous as she felt. There was no door but hinges marked where one used to be. In the dim orange light she could see Hugh leaning across the bar counter in an attempt to get the bartender's attention. There were two other figures in the back. One man was asleep at a table that looked ready to collapse and a few stools down from Hugh, nearly consumed by shadows, another man sat nursing a beer.

It didn’t long for Emma to decide it wasn’t a place her friend should be.

She walked over to where Hugh sat, cringing at every step across the sticky floor.

“Hugh, what are you doing here?” She hissed. 

He startled, almost falling off his stool. “Emma, I– why’re you here?”

Now that she was close, Emma could see how drunk Hugh was. He swayed side to side and not even the nervous look in his brown eyes could hide the hazy way his gaze slid across the room.

“That’s what I’m asking you.” Emma responded, arms crossed.

“I… I jus’ needed a break.” Hugh responded after a pause. His voice was slurred.

“Excuse me Miss, is this young man your friend?”

The bartender, a tall man with no obvious peculiarity, had returned from washing dirty cups and ignoring Hugh.

“Yes, he’s my friend.” 

Emma clenched and unclenched her fists out of habit, trying to assess if she and Hugh were going to have to run from a madman bartender like the one in Cairnholm.

“You need to leave and take him with you. He’s too young to be having this much to drink.”

“You’re only fifty two.” Hugh snapped. “I’m so… I’m so much older than you.”

The bartender pursed his lips. “His physical age is too young to be having this much to drink.”

Hugh rolled his eyes and turned back to Emma. He grabbed her sleeve for balance before he tipped too far.

“These young peculiars have so many… so many made up rules. There wasn’t any age limits on half these things when I was a kid.” He muttered. “Always changing things… tha’s why I like the guy before this one more. He don’t make up rules about age.”

In any other situation Emma would’ve struck up their sibling-like banter and pointed out that rules about drinking age had been around since she was a kid and that he was acting like an old man. However something else had caught her attention: he knew the bartender's schedules.

“Hugh, how often do you come here? And how much have you had to drink?”

The way his eyes widened told her everything. “I– well, it’s jus’ a little bit. Jus’ a little… little to drink.”

He held up a hand, nearly hitting Emma in the face, with two fingers pinched together to demonstrate exactly how little. His hand wobbled and his fingers drifted farther apart.

Emma wracked her brain, trying to figure out how long this had been going on. When they thought he’d been looking for Fiona, had he been drinking? The days when he said he was tired had he been drunk?

Everyone was trying their best to keep their broken up family together. Horace made sure the food they ate tasted good and kept them from going hungry like peculiars around them were. Bronwyn and, surprisingly enough, Enoch, kept their spirits high. Olive and Claire motivated them; they all owed the two of them a life worth living. Emma and Millard spent days working out plans to improve their lives and Miss Peregrine listened to them all. What gave Hugh the right to fall apart?

“Hugh, please , we’re all upset about losing Fiona but you can’t destroy yourself like this. It’s not fair to the rest of us. You don’t get to stop, we all have to keep going.”

Hugh frowned. “You think… you think this’s jus’ about Fee? Emma, our homes gone. This’s where we live now. I wanna go home but we don’ have one. I jus’ wanna feel happy again.”

Emma didn’t know what to say to that. “Come on, let’s get you to the house.”

“Emmaaaa,” he whined, dragging out the a, “‘s not even a big deal.”

“Come on .” Emma grabbed his arm and pulled him off the stool. 

Hugh stumbled and all but fell before Emma could catch him. He giggled. “I don’ think I can walk righ now, maybe I should sstay h-here.”

“Are you kidding me?” Emma snapped. Hugh giggled again.

Emma put her arm around his waist and lifted his arm over her shoulders. “How much do you need for the drinks?” She asked the bartender, reaching into her pocket for money.

The bartender shook his head. “It’s on the house. The kids’ given this place enough profit with how often he comes here.”

Emma felt Hugh tense up. “You w-weren s’posed to tell her tha’.”

She shook her head, thanked the bartender and focused on dragging her friend out of the bar and onto the street. 

If Emma thought walking in Devil's Acre after dark was bad, this, walking in Devil’s Acre after dark with a drunk Hugh Apiston, was so much worse.

Hugh couldn’t walk in a straight line and any time she tried to pick up the pace his stumbling increased. They were moving too slow for Emma to feel safe and she wasn’t sure if the fire in her free hand would draw unwanted attention or scare it away. Worst of all: Hugh wouldn’t stop talking. Most of it was drunk rambling but every now and then he slowed down and words made it across.

“Fiona’salive, y’know? I can feel it. She’ssalive. No one bel-ieves me but ‘s not s-stupid.” He slurred. His breath smelled flammable. “Fiona’salive. She can… she can talk to trees. The treessave her.”

“Hugh, please be quiet.” Emma begged.

“We’ll go home. Ev’ryone won’ havta live like thissanymore. It’ll get better when... when I find Fee. Righ, Emma?”

Hugh stopped walking. Emma tried to keep going but even drunk out of his mind Hugh was stronger than her.

“Righ, Em?” He repeated. 

Emma looked at her friend. His eyes, lit by the flame, were glassy and tired but still held a glimmer of hope. Hugh’s jaw was slack and his face seemed blown open and desperate.

In that moment, Emma understood.

Honesty was too much for Hugh, and if they didn’t stop acting like it wasn’t, it was going to kill him. He couldn’t take the truth that Fiona was never coming back or that they would never get their home back. Getting angry was doing nothing if he couldn’t hear what she was saying.

So she lied. 

“Right. It’ll all get better when we find Fiona.”

Chapter Text

Honesty is something they’re apparently not doing anymore. And it’s all because of Hugh.

The honest truth was that Fiona was dead.

When Enoch found out he’d been upset about it, of course he had. While he and Fiona hadn’t been best friends or anything it’s impossible to live in the same house with someone for almost a century without developing some kind of friendship. And of course he got the news in a wight prison where he had nothing to do but sit in fear or think about how he’d lost another friend.

But here’s the thing, Enoch was glad to know the truth.

He got closure knowing the truth. There was no dragged out anxiety or worries to keep him up at night. Fiona was dead. She wasn’t coming back. It hurt but it was simple and easy. The truth brought mercy.

Hugh... wasn’t giving himself that mercy.

The lies started the first day they found out. In the cold and dingy prison Hugh insisted that Fiona was alive, though they all heard him cry himself to sleep that night. Then the lies continued as he argued to no one in particular that the trees could’ve caught her, that she could survive, that she could escape.

It started to affect the way he acted. At first he wasn’t sleeping, then he started getting angry, then sad and tired. Then he stopped speaking to them altogether. What drove Enoch mad was that everyone else went along with Hughs lies.

No one suggested they hold a memorial for their friend and no one tried to get Hugh to stop a pointless search for something clearly making him worse. They gave up on even mentioning Fiona and simply let Hugh go on a course set for destruction.

They’d stopped being honest and it was making everything worse.

***

Enoch walked up the staircase of Bentham's house. Each step creaked and whined like the house itself was trying to distract him and make him spill the bowl of soup he carried. He hated that they had to live, not only in Devil’s Acre but in Bentham's house. Sure, at least he was sharing a room with his friends and not a bunch of random peculiars, but it was still cramped and crowded.

Plus, he was certain the wax statues were going to come alive and kill him in the middle of the night.

If he had his way they’d have their own home, a nice big one like Benthams, but without the constant humming of the panloopticon and without all the strangers from other loops. But no, there they were, no reward for fighting off the wights and for what? Seeming humble? It was all stupid if you asked him.

After climbing what seemed like more stairs than there had been yesterday, he reached the room he shared with Millard, Horace and Hugh. The door was opened a crack and Enoch rapped his knuckles against it three times. He was met with silence. Of course.

He pushed open the door and stepped over the mattresses taking up the majority of the floorspace. With all the mattresses, Millards maps, Horaces clothes, and Enochs jars the room was an obstacle course. And of course there was Hugh.

As far as Enoch could tell, Hugh hadn’t moved the entire day.

He lay on his side on his mattress, same as he’d been for weeks. His brown eyes were dull and he stared unseeingly at the wall. He hadn’t changed his clothes in days and the bowl of soup Horace brought up for lunch was still on the floor beside him, untouched.

“Hey Hugh,” Enoch knelt down on the floor and surprised himself with the gentleness in his voice, “are you feeling any better today, mate?”

He knew what Hugh’s answer would be even before he asked the question. Silence. Hugh continued to stare vacantly. He didn’t even acknowledge that Enoch had entered the room.

“I brought you some soup from dinner,” Enoch pressed on as if something wasn’t clearly wrong with his friend. “I know it ain’t the best stuff but Horace found some spices so there’s more than just salt to season it.” Enoch chewed on his lip. “You don’t have to eat it all, you don’t even have to eat half . Just try a few bites.”

Hugh didn’t say anything, instead he closed his eyes.

Enoch liked it more when Hugh yelled. At least then he knew he was feeling something. He’d rather listen to Hugh yell at them every day that they never cared about Fiona then see him spend another second in this state.

They took turns trying to get him to eat something. Sometimes Emma and Bronwyn came in and coaxed him into taking a bite of a sandwich and Miss Peregrine had convinced him to get out of bed once. But Millard was too mean and Horace was too nice so most of the time it came down to Enoch.

On a good day he could get Hugh to eat something, maybe get a few words out of him, but there had been only bad days for a while.

“We’re all worried about you, Hugh. We want to help you get better… I just don’t know what to do.”

Enoch felt small and hopeless in their crammed and suffocating room. Being in the room itself was reason enough for Hugh to be silent and lifeless and lord knew he had other reasons.

He heard a small noise, almost like a whimper, and looked up. To his horror he saw that Hugh was crying. If Enoch didn’t know what he was supposed to do before, now he really didn’t know what to do.

Hugh cried of course. He cried at night when he thought everyone had gone to sleep and it only took one look to make it clear that he cried during the day when he was alone. But he never cried in front of them.

Enoch reached out and tentatively put a hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “Do you think you can sit up?” he asked as he tried to think of something that would help, like a hug.

Hugh shook his head and kept crying.

“Okay, that’s okay.” Enochs words came out like he was talking to a small wounded animal, not an eighteen year old who was practically his older brother. “I’m going to get Miss Peregrine.”

Enoch got up and headed towards the door. Before he left he gave one last look at Hugh.

Hugh, who’s shoulders were shaking with tears and who still hadn’t moved from his spot on the mattress. Who hadn’t eaten right or left the house in weeks. Who was stuck in a cruel cycle in a suffocating room that he couldn’t get out of. 

In that moment, Enoch understood.

Honesty was killing Hugh. The whole thing had started when Millard had snapped at him that Fiona wasn’t coming back. It wasn’t helping when they told the truth, in fact, it was making everything worse. Enoch was ready to do whatever he had to do to get his friend to start living again. Or to simply crack a smile.

So he lied.

“Everything is going to be okay. I promise.”

Chapter Text

Honesty is something that Bronwyn always thought was important. But Hugh is starting to make her doubt it.

The honest truth was that Fiona had passed away.

Bronwyn was devastated when she found out. Besides Emma, Fiona was her best friend. She didn’t talk much but when she did she was kind and funny and loving. When Victor died Fiona held her in a tight hug and wasn’t bothered by her tears. She helped Bronwyn get out of bed on the hard days and didn’t judge her on the days that were worse. Fiona had been spirited, strong, compassionate and persevered despite everything. Now she was just gone.

But even with the hole in her heart where her friend had been, Bronwyn knew honesty was important.

With honesty she could love her friend and let her go all the same. She was able to punch in a wight's head and say “that was for Fiona” and know it to be the truth. Worries and wondering wouldn’t drag her down and she could keep going without doubts.

Hugh… kept getting stuck. Because he wasn’t being honest.

They’d all lost their home but he’d lost the person he loved the most in the whole world.

He was sad all the time in a way that reminded Bronwyn of when she’d lost Victor. He didn’t get up from bed and there was no one that knew how to help him. Even when he wasn’t in bed he wasn’t himself and he spent more time picking fights than talking to them.

Nothing was helping and everyone was coming to the conclusion that, well, maybe they should just stop trying.

He was losing himself and no one knew how to get him back.

***

Bronwyn made her way up the ladder, coming to a stop two rings from the top. She tapped the spine of a book. “This one?” She called down.

“No, the one to the right, with the green spine.” Millard responded.

“Got it.”

She pulled the book off the shelf, balanced it against her shoulder and began her careful trip back down. The book was nearly two feet wide and weighed as much as a bag of bricks. She wobbled on the last few rungs.

“Where do you want me to put it?” she asked.

“Just on this table here.”

Bronwyn lowered the book as gently as possible onto the round table in the center of the room. It hit the surface with a bit of a thud and she could practically hear Millard cringe.

“So, why do you need this old thing?” She asked, rolling her shoulder.

“This old thing is a copy of the Tales, one of the closest copies to an original we have. Lord knows how it ended up in Bentham's library but here we are. I’ve been planning on analyzing the Tales and I figured this was as good a place as any to start.”

“Right. Why do-”

She was interrupted by the library door swinging open. Hugh stood in the doorway. He looked tired and his clothes were rumpled but he was out of bed and didn’t immediately go back upon seeing them which was… progress.

“Hugh! It’s so good to see you! How’re you feeling?” Bronwyn asked.

He smiled a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Fine. Mill, I have a question for you.”

Millards hat tilted a fraction of an inch in the air. “Sure.”

Hugh joined them at the table and looked down at the copy of the Tales with vague disinterest. “Does Bentham have any copies of the Map of Days around here? I need an edition for England specifically, like around the menagerie. I don’t mind if it’s outdated.”

Bronwyn chewed on the inside of her cheek. Whatever Hugh was planning already sounded like a terrible idea but she needed to think of something to say before Millard could respond.

Millard sighed. “Do you really think that’s for the best, Hugh?”

Hugh’s eyes darkened. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Fiona couldn’t have survived, Hugh. The fall, the loop collapse, the wights, one of those things would’ve killed her. And if you go around leapfrogging through time trying to find her you’re going to end up dead too.”

Millards words echoed a conversation they’d had with Emma, but Bronwyn wished he would soften his words before he said them. She could see the muscles tensing in Hughs jaw.

“She’s not dead.” 

“You need to let this, let her , go.”

“Millard, stop–” Bronwyn began.

“I swear to god Millard–” Hugh growled. He started towards Millard but Bronwyn had seen this go down before. She grabbed him by the shoulders before he could make it more than a few steps. “Never before have I met someone who cares so bloody little about anyone other than himself.” his voice rose to a yell.

“I’m just telling you to be realistic so you don’t get hurt .” Millard yelled back, taking several steps away.

Hugh strained against Bronwyn's grip. “Please let me hit him. Just once, Wyn.”

Bronwyn wasn’t stupid. “No. If you hit him he’ll hit you and then you’ll hit him back.”

“Not if I hit him really fucking hard.”

That’s what she’d been worried about. “Let’s take a break, ok?”

She half pushed half dragged Hugh out of the room as he continued to struggle against her. He held up his middle finger, keeping it raised at Millard until they'd left the room.

She positioned herself between Hugh and the library door and shut it before letting him go. She’d never seen him like this before. His face was red and his breathing heavy and uneven. He yanked on his hair, mumbled something, then yelled “fucking fuck, shit !” and punched his fist into the wall.

“Hugh!” She didn’t have time to react before he slammed his forehead above where his hand was. “Hugh stop it!”

Bronwyn felt panic fluttering in her chest. She didn’t know if she should pull him away from the wall or let him stay there. She took a deep breath, imagined it was Victor, and pulled him away.

“I’m going to kill him. I’m going to fucking kill him.” Hugh muttered, chest heaving in and out.

“No you’re not,” Bronwyn pulled him into a hug. “But you’re angry and that’s ok. I’m going to have a word with him. You need to promise me though, promise you won’t do that again.”

She didn’t say that when she talks to Millard she’ll tell him that she agrees; that Fiona is gone but that he needed to think harder before he spoke to Hugh. Or that maybe he should just stop talking to Hugh for a while. She didn’t say that she cared less about what Millard had said and more about how Hugh reacted.

Hugh held onto Bronwyn tight and she could feel him shaking. “She’s alive, okay? She’s fucking alive.”

In that moment, Bronwyn understood.

Honesty was important. But what was more important was her friend.

So she lied.

“Okay, I believe you, Hugh.”