andhiswife | The Tale You Tell

Jesse sighed and grabbed a pack of diapers off the shelf as he pushed his cart down the isle. They didn't quite need diapers yet but with a baby you always needed diapers because it was impossible to tell when you were going to run out.

"Why can't you be more regular, huh?" Jesse asked, looking down at his daughter in the carrier. She answered his question with a gurgle, which he assumed was a very wise answer he just couldn't translate.

They were basically all done with grocery shopping now and he was just seeing if there was anything that he didn't know he needed just yet. Jesse thought about getting a pie of some sorts but honestly the pie at Semele's had ruined all other pie for him. It was probably best to just go home.

Turning the corner of the isle Jesse smiled down at Ripley one last time before glancing back up. What he saw at the end of the other end of the isle made him completely freeze up. His stomach lurched and his heart skipped a beat when he saw that it was Greta at the other end.

Oh. Fuck.

Greta's reading the label on a packet of rice flour for the third time, because nothing really got through the first two times she tried. Someone else turning down her aisle doesn't even register -- not until the person goes absolutely still. That manages to catch her attention. She glances over, then does a double-take as she realizes she knows the young man currently staring at her.

Not as well as he knows her, of course.

She should say something. He's looking at her as if... well, as if he's seen a ghost, fittingly enough. She doesn't want to be looked at that way, and if there's something she can do or say that might convince him that she's alive, that she's fine... but she isn't. Not fine, anyway, and arguably not alive -- not where it matters.

So she just stares back at him like a startled forest creature, to her own distant frustration. She must look so foolish.

"Nope."

That's the only thought that went through Jesse's mind. Fortunately it didn't also come out of his mouth too because that would have been really shitty to do. He'd already caused Greta enough pain and he didn't want to hurt her more but he also didn't want to hurt her more. His presence here couldn't be anything but painful and he can see it on her face. Just looking at him must be hurting her.

So Jesse did the cowardly but hopefully right thing and just turned around. He left his cart and all his groceries there and just turned around and left. Walking all the way to the end of the store in case she tried to catch him in one of the other isles he just made for the exit as quickly as possible and hoped that she wouldn't try to talk to him on the way out.

She's not surprised that he beats a hasty retreat, but the abandonment of his cart is, she thinks, a bridge too far. It's not as if she expected him to stop and have a pleasant chat. He could have backed away and picked another aisle and she wouldn't have blamed him. Honestly, she would have been relieved.

But leaving his groceries and fleeing as if she's carrying some sort of plague is ridiculous.

She stares at the cart in stunned silence for a moment or two, wondering if she ought to laugh or scream. Then she resolutely turns her back on it and walks in the opposite direction from the one the boy fled. Someone else can clean up that mess; she won't take charge of it. She has enough to be getting on with.

She hasn't seen Greta for a few days, but that's not unusual. She's not been worrying. Girl's on her way to the studio when she sees Greta and she steps off the curb, checking both ways before she jobs across the street.

"Greta? Hey! Hey, Greta?"

"Oh, Dee." Greta had rather hoped to get to the store and back without running into anyone she knows. Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes as she turns to face her. "Hello." It's not as if she can give the girl a brush-off; she's not mean. She just doesn't have the requisite energy to pass herself off as if everything's fine. Once she's got the greeting out of the way, she falls silent, brow furrowed in mingled inquiry and apprehension as she wonders what she ought to say.

Dee's faked a smile enough to know when someone's doing it and she raises her eyebrows, studying her friend's face for a moment.

"I was just thinking that I haven't seen you in a while. Everything okay?"

Greta's not under any illusions as far as how she must look, and Dee's question isn't really a surprise. It's vague -- perhaps deliberately so, leaving her room to lie and insist everything's fine (not that she's ever been adept at lying) -- but you don't ask if someone's all right unless you've reason to think they're not.

She sighs, defeated. "Not really, no." Her arms briefly spread, the 'clearly' implicit. "I've... been better."

She's also been worse, according to Jesse, but she's not really in the mood for silver linings.

A frown flickers across Girl's brown face, definite concern and she steps in a little, reaching out with her fingers to touch Greta's elbow, gently. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She does, and she doesn't. Part of her wants to scream it from the rooftops; the larger part wishes she was able to hide her misery so thoroughly that no one could even guess at it. No matter how much it might ease her mind to speak of it -- each conversation slowly eroding the sharp edges into something more worn, more bearable -- she finds it hard to justify anything that might come at a friend's expense.

She might not always be here. She might leave before Dee does. And there will be no solace to be had in pleasant thoughts of what joy she might be going home to, not if she tells Dee the truth.

"Do you want to hear about it?" she asks quietly. A little warning seems only fair. "I don't want to--to burden you."

"I'm a friend, aren't I?" says Girl, gently threading her arm through Greta's and giving her a quick squeeze. "I've got nothing important to do for the rest of the day. I'm all yours."

"That's why I'd rather you didn't know," she says, both wry and a bit weary, as she reaches over to pat the girl's arm. Dee's already seen more friends die than someone her age ought to, and it seems cruel to tell her to expect another one. "It's not just--it would..." she trails off, frustrated. She tries again, choosing her words carefully, "I feel as if I can't tell anyone without making things worse."

"Then you don't have to tell me," says Girl, with a quick shrug, doing her best to keep everything about her demeanor light, trying not to urge Greta in any particular direct. "I'm just saying that I won't mind if you do."

You say that now, Greta wants to say, but doesn't. Dee would probably mind rather a lot. Goodness knows she would, if one of her friends here told her they were technically dead back home. How could anyone not mind knowing such a thing?

But she appreciates the offer, and she doesn't want to just snub the girl. Dee's confided in her before, and it seems churlish to just... refuse to do the same.

"I met someone who knows my story," she finally says. "It... ends badly."

Somebody else might have been more taken aback by that, but Dee just takes in a little breath and squeezes Greta's arm.

"Join the club," she says, gently. "Poison's dead for definite back home. Everyone I ever loved is. Hell, the Witch said I wasn't done, but I sure as hell don't remember waking up anywhere but here."

She lets out a startled huff of air, not quite a laugh, but closer to that than to a sob, at least. "Not much of a club, is it? I think I'd rather none of us were in it."

Still, there's something oddly reassuring about Dee's level response. If they are all in the same boat, it would feel a bit foolish to start carrying on as if her own situation is so much worse. If the girl can be calm about this, so can she.

"Shitty, shitty club, but at least we've got style," she says, grinning. She nudges Greta gently. "Come on," she says. "I can tell you my whole sob story if you like."

That does get a laugh out of her. It's more incredulous than amused, but at least it's there. Style isn't something she's ever had, not really. She couldn't afford it, back home. Maybe she could claim to have it here, but that's by virtue of the fact that she's chronologically displaced (and stubborn), not because she has the means or inclination to obsess over how she presents herself.

But if Dee wants to say so, she's not going to argue the point.

"I don't know that I'd like it," she says. "Though I suppose we could do a swap."

"Do you want to go first or shall I?" says Girl. She's spent so much time telling this story that it doesn't even really hurt anymore. It's as much a part of her as her fingers or the soles of her feet.

Greta had been half-joking, but it appears Dee's willing to tell all. Under different circumstances, she might rather the girl just kept it to herself. But her own woes have been so all-encompassing lately that there's a desperate sort of appeal to the idea of focusing on someone else's for a while.

"Why don't you start?" she replies. If Dee can get through her own story without losing her composure, Greta will have no excuse.

"I never got to met my mom," she says, thinking that that's the best place to start. "BLI had her when I was born and it was only the fact that my family came and got me that I had any chance at all. They were only kids themselves - Poison was seventeen the first time he held me."

It's not at all unusual for people to lose their parents at young ages back home, but that doesn't make the thought of it easier to bear. If anything, it's gotten harder since she learned she was among the ranks of deceased parents. Her son will hear stories of her, but will he remember her?

"I'm sorry," she says, though she isn't sure if it's for Dee or for Dee's mother that she has the most pity.

Girl shrugs.

"Can't miss what I never had," she says. "It was harder when the others died. I was six."

God, maybe she should have gone first. Is that what her son will do, when he's Dee's age and someone asks about his mother? Shrug? Blithely reassure the questioner that he doesn't -- can't -- miss her?

She doesn't blame Dee, not really, but that doesn't make it easier to hear.

Bull was waiting for a light to change at the cross walk when someone ran into him. Bounced off him, more like. Despite his size, he moved rather quickly to rescue a grocery bag before it hit the ground.

"Easy there," he said, voice gentle as soon as he saw the look on her face. It took him a moment, but he recognized her. Greta. She'd seemed much taller when he first met her.

Well, that was stupid of her. She might not be at her best, but she'd thought she could at least get from the shop to her door without blundering right into someone.

Truthfully, it isn't until the figure turns that she realizes they're a someone and not a something; they're so tall she might have mistaken them for a booth of some sort. "Oh, god, I'm so--" she starts, her mouth automatically spilling out an apology even as she belatedly registers just how massive this person is. She trails off abruptly, eyes widening as she looks up, and up, and up to find a battle-scarred face crowned by an impressive pair of horns, like a bull's.

Her mouth falls open, emitting a small, stunned squeak.

Her reaction wasn't new. Bull knew what he looked like: seven and a half feet tall, heavily scarred, missing an eye and the tips of two fingers on his left hand, horns. Most humans that had never even heard of Qunari looked at him like she did. But he didn't blame her.

"I know," he sad with a small smile. "It's a lot to take in. I was much smaller the first time we met."

"The first...?" she repeats to herself, brow furrowing. She'd definitely remember if she'd met him before. But he said he was smaller, and--and she did meet a very small fellow with horns once before, but it seems impossible that they're one and the same.

But this is Darrow, after all.

"... Ashkaari?" she guesses. "Is that--really?" She's so aghast that for a moment, she completely forgets her own troubles. An incredulous smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

Bull flashed a grin at her. "One in the same. Ashkaari is what my tamassran called me when I was that age. It felt special to have a name that early. Come on, I'll carry this and walk you home. You can ask questions if you want."

He hoped that he'd been as charming as he thought he was as a child. He knew he'd given Krem and Dorian a run for their money that week. Hopefully he hadn't terrorized anyone else; the memories were... somewhat fuzzy.

She doesn't even think to object to the arrangement. It's not as if her bag of groceries can weigh much to him, and she doesn't want to part ways when he's such a marvelous distraction.

As far as questions go, though, she doesn't know where to start. "I, er... I didn't think you'd grow up quite this much," she admits, craning her neck a little to look up at him. "How long did it last, you being a child?" That's safe enough. The only other one that immediately springs to mind is, 'what happened to you?' He might not fancy answering that one.

"My tamassran did. She was sure I'd go into the beresaad for a while. Uh, the army." Bull laughed quietly. "Yeah, hard to imagine me as that little guy, huh? I was like that for about a week. It was weird having both eyes again. It was weird to know, being a little kid again, that I'd lose the one someday."

He hadn't had a scar on him yet.

He looks as if he has been in an army. He looks like an army unto himself, quite honestly.

"I'd assumed it was an adjustment, but..." she trails off, figuring she doesn't need to finish that sentence. "I hope it wasn't too hard on you." As if being turned into a child wasn't hard enough. Someone so young shouldn't have to think about things like the horrible injuries they've yet to sustain. She frowns, all too eager to fret over something outside herself. "Are you all right?"

"No, it wasn't, but felt good to be grown again when it was over. Ashkaari is so far away from who I am now. And it was hard to be so young but to remember, vaguely, what people like Krem and Dorian mean to me. I'm alright."

Bull offered a smile. It was a strange relief to be able to look down at everyone from his proper height again - that was something he'd missed. "You were kind to me. I remember that, too."

Edited 2017-06-21 17:19 (UTC)

Greta ducks her head for a moment, shoulders hitching in a shrug and a bashful smile tugging at her lips. "It was no trouble." She wants to add that anyone would have done the same, but if that were true, someone else would have gotten to the lad before she did. Instead, she adds, "Being kind to a lost little boy was the least I could do."

"Well, if I can return the kindness, let me know. I'm a lot more useful as an adult," he quipped, and he winked at her. Despite having only one eye that was obviously what it was meant to be. Bull grinned.

"I'm the Iron Bull, by the way." He felt he should give her the nane he'd taken as an adult; it'd be strange to be called Askaari now. Especially if he intended to be Vashoth.

Edited 2017-06-22 16:44 (UTC)

The improbable wink makes her smile widen for a moment. But then a dour little voice inside of her helpfully reminds her that she has problems kindness won't solve, and her smile fades, her gaze going distant as she attempts to squash down that part of herself. She's not thinking about that. She likes not thinking about that, thank you very much.

"The Iron Bull," she repeats, looking up at him. It's a fitting moniker, given the horns and the general sense of solidity he projects. "Was Ashkaari a sort of... baby name? Or is Iron Bull more like a title?" Back home, it would matter less, but most universes are more fussy about proper nouns than hers.

"Hm... both. My people don't have names, but we get job titles when we're older. We don't have parents, either. We have tamassrans, and you get a number when you're born. But when I was about the age I was when you met me, my tamassran started calling me Ashkaari, and it was special to have a title at such a young age. She knew I wasn't destined for the army. Too smart, too quick-witted. When I was old enough, she sent me to the Ben-Hassrath for training. Ah, spies and sort of an internal police force."

Bull adjusted his hold on the back of groceries. He was keenly aware of Greta's shifting expressions, but he was also aware of the guarded tension in her shoulders. Whatever was on her mind, she didn't want to deal with it right now. That was fine; he could talk about himself.

"The Iron Bull is a name I chose. Uh... When one of my people chooses to leave the Qun, we call them Tal-Vashoth. You're more likely to see Tal-Vashoth on the mainland. When I became a spy, I had to create a cover story. The Iron Bull was it. My Qunari title was Hissrad."

Goodness, he really is from a different world. Aside from the slang, which he defines as he goes (and which she's certain she won't be able to keep straight, not with her head already a jumble), the way things are apparently done is unrecognizable. He doesn't have parents? He was born, though, so someone else must have been involved. And tamassrans sound like caregivers of some sort, like a wet nurse.

"Do they mean something in particular: Ashkaari and Hissrad?" It doesn't occur to her that these might be personal questions. If you have a title, you'd want people to know what it means. That's the point.

"Ashkaari means one who thinks, or one who seeks. Hissrad means... keeper of illusions." He considered a moment, then added, "It means liar."

That's what Gatt had always said, even if Bull had never entirely approved of that particular translation. Didn't matter; it was understood among the Qunari, might as well be understood among the bas.

"Fitting for a spy, I suppose," Greta muses. She isn't put off by it; it seems the sort of thing he wouldn't share if he intended to lie to her, and there's not much reason for that, anyway. Spywork sounds thrilling, but not very... Darrow-esque. Especially not for someone who stands out as much in a crowd as he does. (She can only assume that there are far more people of his stature back where he comes from.)

"Though I can't imagine there's much call for that here," she adds, with traces of both amusement and sympathy. There's no shortage of professions that don't translate well, here, which is probably one of the reasons their stipends exist.

"You'd be surprised," he said. "Just because I'm not sending information to anyone doesn't mean the skills don't translate. Especially when you look like me, it's good to be able to figure people out fairly quickly."

Bull shrugged one massive shoulder. "The part I miss is being able to kill things," he admitted. "It's cathartic, and I've needed catharsis here. I'm used to standing out, there weren't exactly a lot of Qunari on the southern continent. But knowing I'm alone here is... different. My people were always out there somewhere. But here..." He trailed off and shrugged.

She does a double-take at 'kill things.' Maybe it shouldn't surprise her, given all the scars he's amassed. How else would he have collected them? Still, it's a little jarring to hear him speak of it so plainly.

It's jarring, too, to have him somehow segue straight from talk of killing things to the sorrows of being alone in Darrow. Not that he's alone, exactly -- she's met Dorian, and understands that they aren't the only ones from their world who live here -- but he's the only enormous horned fellow she's met.

For all that he towers over her, she finds herself reaching up to give his arm a motherly pat. "It's not easy," she says. That's about all she trusts herself to say on the subject without getting emotional and embarrassing herself, and she quickly takes a different tack. "Killing, er... things, you said?"

"Mmhm. Demons, giants, spiders. Giant demon spiders. Dragons. Sometimes Venatori, rogue mages, Tal-Vashoth, Vints... those are arguably human, but it's easier not to think of them that way. They're all just bas - things."

Creating that separation kept him sane in a lot of ways. Sometimes those lines weren't as easy, like in the event of an ambush, or some kind of betrayal. Then things got messy.

'Giant' isn't something she anticipated hearing, and she flinches before she can think to school her expression. Could he have stopped theirs? Given how massive she was, it's sort of hard to imagine.

Under different circumstances, she might have been more unsettled by 'arguably human.' As it is, she's more preoccupied by the sudden, absurd impulse to casually let drop, 'I was killed by a Giant,' as if it's a charming bit of common ground. God. She absolutely cannot say that.

Bull noticed the flinch, noticed the strange sort of existential panic on her face. "Hey," he said gently, resisting the urge to nudge against her. He was pretty sure Greta would fall over if he did.

"Stay with me." His voice remained downright tender, warm and low. "Hard to distract you if you disappear in your head like that. Hard to resist asking what's wrong."

His voice draws her back out, and it's hard not to feel mortified -- not just because she almost fell to pieces in front of him, but because he knows. He's probably known ever since he laid eyes on her. Well, it's bound to be obvious. But she still feels caught out and foolish, and her eyes are overbright as she rolls them heavenward in a silent plea for continued composure. She nods, lips pressed together tightly.

"Sorry," she says, as if she's just made some sort of mildly embarrassing faux pas. "I'm--I'm listening."

Bull smiled gently. "We could talk about something else," he offered. "Even if it's not the thing you're trying not to think about." Reading people was what he did, and Greta wasn't particularly subtle. But she had been kind to him and if Bull could return that favor, he would.

Greta has never been a particularly gifted liar. Even if she could act the part, the slight but noticeable ill-fit of her clothes and the circles under her eyes would tell their own story. Of course he sees it, then... but he's not touching it, and she's grateful for that. The list of people she knows who might see her looking as she does and not ask is a short one, populated by those she's already told.

Leave it to a spy to show such restraint. Well, that's probably how it works, isn't it? Openly prying would be too obvious.

"How long have you been here?" she asks, unable to remember if it's a question she'd asked of Ashkaari. Small talk still feels inherently absurd, but it's preferable to the alternative.

"Coming up on a year," he said. He couldn't believe it had been that long, but there it was. "Passed out drunk in a tavern, woke up on the floor of my lover's apartment. He'd been here for a year before I showed up. I was pretty sure I'd gone mad or something, or was being tempted by a weird demon until he brought me outside."

He remembered that day, waking up on the floor of Dorian's apartment and knowing, almost immediately, he wasn't anywhere near the Herald's Rest or in Skyhold. He remembered wondering if Dorian was some kind of demon, disguised as someone he cared about and tempting out madness. At least he'd been real. It was a comfort in the face of Darrow being real.

One unanticipated side effect of being told her story is that these longer sentences are starting to feel reassuring instead of appalling. Being in Darrow for years sounds more like a reprieve than a punishment (though the reprieve still has an inescapably temporary feel to it, which makes it hard to justify uncorking any champagne). She doesn't expect the Iron Bull to see things that way, and knows better than to reply with some variant of 'oh thank goodness,' but the shift in her own perspective is rather jarring.

"I suppose there are worse places you could have woken up." Honestly, his account sounds downright convenient. No long walk into town, no need to impose on a stranger. Granted, she's glad to have met Biffy, but it's not as if she was at her best.

They reach Candlewood, and she looks up at the building, not knowing whether she feels relieved or defeated by the sight of it. "This is mine," she says, nodding at it. She feels an impulsive desire to invite him up, though it's hard to say whether it would be a good idea. He's been willing enough to distract her, which she greatly appreciates. But in the privacy of her own apartment, she's not sure she trusts herself to keep politely ignoring the elephant in the room. So she hovers indecisively, neither shepherding him toward the door nor attempting to retrieve her things so he can be on his way.

"Eh... he was engaged to someone here at the time. It was inconvenient in different ways." He knew other people showed up here in different ways, and while showing up in Dorian's apartment had been jarring, Bull knew it, maybe, could have been worse. He didn't necessarily feel guilty for being the reason Dorian ended his engagement with Biffy, but he did feel bad that it had caused so much heart ache on each side. "Both parties seem to have recovered, though. Asit tal-eb."

When she stopped, he realized the building was probably where she lived. He also noticed Greta's hesitation. "How about I come up and make you some tea," he offered. "You can ask me awkward and invasive questions that I probably won't hesitate to answer."

He was quiet a moment, then added, "And if whatever is bothering you needs to wordlessly come to the surface, I'm warm and well-padded, and I will never speak of it to anyone if you need to cry on my shoulder."

Oh. Oh. It's an embarrassingly belated epiphany, though in her defense, it's not as if little Ashkaari and Dorian had presented themselves as lovers. That would have been appalling. But she knows Dorian was Biffy's fiancé, and she doubts it's some other engagement the Iron Bull coincidentally broke up.

She wonders if she ought to be indignant, on Biffy's behalf, but finds she doesn't have the energy.

The first half of his offer isn't particularly surprising, but the second half is. She can't help but think of what an absurd picture that would make, her sobbing on this enormous, battle-scarred spy. She'd need a stepladder just to reach his shoulder, unless he sat down on the floor for her. Which he just might, if she asked.

It's absurd, but it's touching, too, and she can already feel her eyes welling up. She inhales deeply, then nods, leading him into the building and up to her apartment.

At least she doesn't have to be embarrassed by the state of the place; it's neat as a pin. She's recovered herself enough to nod towards the cabinet where the tea's stored as she starts to put away her groceries. "Tea's up there, and the kettle's on the stove."

He saw the pieces fit together, saw as the picture form, and as Greta realized what the picture was. But Bull didn't say anything, just offered a small smile and let her lead the way to her apartment. He supposed thinking of he and Dorian as a thing would be difficult when she'd first met him as a child. He also saw the tears she held back, and he didn't press. The offer was there, and it would remain.

Bull wasn't surprised to find that Greta's home was neat and tidy, with everything in its place. He went into the kitchen and set her back of groceries down, then tended to filling the kettle and turning the stove top on. He found the tea and looked through the selection. "What kind is your favorite?" he asked.

Edited 2017-07-03 01:04 (UTC)

She almost says that it's all the same to her, because it's true. Nothing tastes particularly good to her, these days; she eats and drinks because she must, and not because she enjoys it. But such an answer would be concerning at worst and unhelpful at best, so she says, "I think there's some mint in there somewhere." Probably near the front, in fact; she's been drinking more of that than usual, lately. It's easy to stomach.

She ought to offer food, but she's not sure if she can do that without her own lack of appetite stealing the show. Instead, she methodically tucks her groceries away, watching the Iron Bull out of the corner of her eye. He seems too big for the apartment, but he's also plainly used to such close quarters. He's able to putter about without knocking his horns against anything. She supposes it makes sense. There might be different apartment layouts between the buildings, but overall, the size is about equal. He'd probably have to look elsewhere for vaulted ceilings and extra-wide doorways.

She also can't help but note how easily he maneuvers despite his leg brace and eyepatch -- though he's probably had even longer to get used to those. "Is spywork normally so... injurious?" she asks, a bit hesitantly. He'd outright invited her to ask probing questions, and she'd rather take him up on that offer than share her own sob story. Still feels a bit rude, though, despite her curiosity.

Bull puttered around, seeming downright comfortable in the small kitchen despite his size. Once the water had boiled, he poured it over the bags of mint tea in each mug. "It's not supposed to be," he answered. "But my cover identity was to act as a mercenary, which meant taking jobs."

He offered Greta her mug and picked up his own, hip leaning against the counter.

"The eye went first," he said, his tone easy, light despite the subject matter. "I had other scars before that, but that was the first... big one. A Tribune and his men were harassing a young soldier - a deserter - in a tavern. They were going to do something bad to him, so I stepped in. Got hit in the face with a flail during the ensuing fight."

Amalthea looked at her for a long time. Well, it felt like a long time, to her. Then she moved, quiet and light, and soon she was at Greta's side in front of a display of summer fruit. She reached and lightly grasped the woman's hand.

"You don't look well," she said. She rarely remembered to say things like are you alright? Of course Greta wasn't alright, so why would she ask?

No one else that she's met moves quite like Amalthea does. Even in a human body, there's a touch of otherworldly grace about her. Greta blinks, unprepared for the unicorn-girl's sudden appearance or the hand gently taking her own, doubly unprepared for the blunt observation.

She opens her mouth, half-intending to admit that she doesn't feel well. But then she remembers the way Amalthea had said that she could feel her own body dying around her, and she wonders how on earth she could justify telling her friend, this unicorn, about her own death. Why is Amalthea even bothering with her in the first place? It's something she's always half-wondered, but now, when she's already feeling miserable, it's especially hard to fathom.

Her eyes fill, and she snaps her mouth shut before her shaky exhalation can turn into an outright sob.

She saw the tears and it took her a moment to realize what they were. She leaned against Greta's arm, rested her head against her shoulder. "We could go somewhere else," she offered quietly. "A walk, or just... not here."

She remembered that Molly didn't like to get overly emotional in front of other people.

God, she is not -- she is not -- doing this in the middle of a bloody grocer's. She presses her free hand to her mouth for a moment, then nods, giving Amalthea's hand a grateful squeeze. She still can't quite bear the thought of telling her; it still feels like it would be an enormous disservice. But if they can just get somewhere quieter, that will at least be a start.

"Please," she says, not trusting her voice to say much else.

She lightly tugged Greta's hand, guiding her from the produce section and to the door - she made sure they didn't take anything with them. They could come back.

She wasn't sure where to take Greta at first, but before long she took them down a little alley and into a greenhouse, filled with flowers. It was attached to the shop she worked in, and it was as private as anything. There was a bench that they could sit on, at least, and flowers everywhere. She sat down, still holding Greta's hand.

"Did something happen?"

She lets Amalthea lead her along. It's almost a relief, letting someone else decide where she's going and guide her there, leaving her free to think of other things, like what on earth she's going to say. By this point, she owes Amalthea an explanation. But the truth feels like both a burden and a theft.

She doesn't know if anyone stays in Darrow forever. She does know that when people do disappear, those left behind tell themselves that they've gone home to their friends, their families, to a place where they belong. Not to an unceremonious death in a Wood. She's already taken that comforting notion from Demelza, Baz, and Simon. Does she really have to take it from Amalthea, too?

Granted, a unicorn ought to expect to lose her mortal friends eventually. But still.

She blinks as they enter the greenhouse. She hadn't known this was here, and it feels a little like stepping into a different world. It's quiet, though, and they're surrounded by greenery; much better than where they were. She sits, staring down at her own lap as she searches for the right words, for some way to get the gist across without delving into the horrible details.

"I met someone who knows my story," she finally says. "It... it doesn't end well."

Amalthea brought her some water, then sat with her. She didn't ask for details, but she did watch Greta with bright eyes, patient. Something was deeply troubling the woman, something heavier than Molly had ever carried, maybe. A faint frown flickered across her face after Greta spoke.

"But it is not your story now," she said quietly. She supposed that was of no comfort, once she said it, but maybe it could be?

Edited 2017-06-22 01:26 (UTC)

She doesn't know what sort of response she was expecting. Others have offered sympathy and dismay, and the former, at least, seems rather unlikely. She knows Amalthea wouldn't think of endings the same way a human would.

But the quiet refutation throws her, and she blinks up at Amalthea in astonishment. "I... what?" she blurts out, brow furrowing. There's a faint trace of indignation in her tone -- as if Amalthea might be trying to undermine the perfectly justified sulk Greta's earned -- but there's hope there, too, desperate and dubious. Jesse hadn't lied to her, but she doesn't think Amalthea would, either. Can a unicorn lie? It doesn't really seem like their purview.

She looked down for a moment, attempting to pull her thoughts on the matter together. Greta seemed upset by her answer, and she wasn't sure why.

"That isn't your story now," she said again, more careful this time. "You're here, in Darrow. You've stepped out of one story and into another." She wasn't sure if what she said was going to help at all, but it seemed to be true, to her. Amalthea wasn't in her story anymore either.

Well. Yes, she supposes that's fair, and she bobs her head in acknowledgment. She hadn't really thought of Darrow's story as belonging to her -- or vice versa. It was another tale she'd stumbled into... and would, presumably, stumble out of, sooner or later.

And that's really the heart of it. "But we all go back to our old stories eventually," she says quietly. "It's still there."

"Perhaps we do. But when you return to yours, it will be with an entire life lived that you hadn't had before. That changes the ending, even if the circumstances don't. Your story will be different forever now."

She still didn't know if it was any comfort to hear it, but it was her own experience. Not necessarily for the better, but not for the worst, either. She thought of Lir, she thought of wanting to remain human. She thought of regret.

"I left my own story once, in a way. It changed everything, even though I tried to go back to it."

It ought to be a comfort, and Greta understands how it could be, in a distant sort of way. The time she's had in Darrow is time she wouldn't have had, otherwise. It could be a gift, if she chose to see it that way.

She's spent so much time focused on Darrow's cruelties that it never occurred to her that it might have been doing her a favor -- that it brought her here because the alternative was worse. But if that's true, and if her time here has been a gift... what has she been doing with it? Resenting it? Trying to strike some awkward balance between not growing bored and not getting too attached? Wasting it? God, if that's what her new story amounts to, it's almost as unbearable as what's come of her old one.

She feels like such a fool.

Her face crumples, and she sets the water aside so she can bury it in her hands. She hates this; she hates being such a mess. "I'm sorry," she gasps out between sobs, "it's not you, I--I just..." she doesn't even know how to finish that sentence.

Amalthea moved closer and put her arm around Greta. She was uncertain but she wanted to try to console her as Molly had often done for her. Her other hand lightly touched Greta's hair, lightly stroking it back.

"It's alright to cry," she said quietly. It was alright for humans to cry. Since coming to Darrow, Amalthea had not shed one tear. She couldn't. If she became human enough to cry then she might never regain her true shape. But Greta's tears were real and needed tending, and she would try.

She's done so much crying over the past week that she's sick of it, and it's easy to project her own exasperation onto anyone who might witness it. The fact that Amalthea is a unicorn could make it easier still. She can only assume her own woes would seem small. Or, more likely, downright incomprehensible.

But Amalthea just shifts closer, curling an arm around her and stroking her hair. She can't imagine the unicorn is used to things like this, but you wouldn't know it from the way she responds to it. Greta leans against her, soaking up whatever comfort and reassurance Amalthea's willing to offer. It's not as if she's in any position to refuse it.

"You'd think I'd have done enough of it by now," she says eventually, uncurling herself just enough to dig a handkerchief out of her pocket and mop herself off with it. "Evidently not."

"Crying seems like a relief," she answered quietly, staying close and letting Greta lean into her. "I cannot cry, but I think I've wanted to."

The truth was, she could cry. But the day that happened, the day she felt so moved that she came to tears, she would be too human to ever go back. It hadn't happened yet, despite her sadness and loneliness, but she feared that it would. If she did, would Greta hold her and stroke her hair?

She can't? That seems an odd way of putting it, when Greta can only presume that she has all the necessary ingredients, at least physically speaking. But Amalthea is still a unicorn, human body aside. It's hard to imagine a unicorn weeping.

"I suppose it is a rather human thing to do," she admits, sitting up a bit straighter, but not outright pulling away. It is a relief, but the relief is still only temporary, and she's not sure it's worth the embarrassment of breaking down in front of her friends. "You're not missing much," she adds with a somewhat damp attempt at humor.

"It is," she said quietly. "And if I ever become human enough to cry, then no magic in the world can change me back." It was what Schmendrick said to her when she had tears threatening in her eyes, when she was in a fit of despair and loneliness. She hadn't felt the sting of them yet in Darrow, but she feared the sadness that could swallow her whole and leave her without a memory of what she'd been.

She stroked back Greta's hair and gently tipped her chin up. "A magician told me that there can be no happy endings, because nothing ever truly ends," she murmured. "Perhaps a happy ending isn't what you need look for... but a happy middle. You could have that story here."

That's a depressing thought. It's also oddly compelling. Greta doesn't really expect Amalthea to start weeping out of sympathy, but now that she knows what such a thing would signify, it seems all the more prudent to pull herself together. She doesn't want to be inadvertently responsible for robbing her of her unicorn-ness. God, she'd never forgive herself.

Pulling herself together is easier said than done. Amalthea's kind, almost maternal touch makes her feel small -- not patronized, because she doesn't think a unicorn could, but like nothing she could do would be a shock. And maybe it wouldn't be a shock because it's all incomprehensible to some degree, as opposed to predictable, but she's not sure the difference really matters.

A happy middle. She doesn't even know what that would look like. She does know, somewhere beneath the more distressing revelations, that it's hard to imagine because she's been deliberately not imagining it. All her focus has been on going home, to the point where any stray thoughts about what she might do here, and only here, have been squashed as a matter of course. Even now, knowing what she does, it's hard to just take all those old wishes and scrap them.

It's hard to acknowledge that Amalthea is probably right, even though she knows how stupid it would be not to -- like rejecting a literal lifeline because she doesn't much care for the weave of the rope, and never mind that she's drowning.

"I don't know why you put up with me," she blurts out, the faint exasperation in her tone entirely self-directed. She immediately regrets it -- you'd think she was trying to be pathetic -- and shakes her with a rueful wince before making a more concentrated (and successful) attempt to pull herself together. "But I'm glad you do," she says with a small, sheepish smile, taking Amalthea's hand. "And I'm sure you're right. It's just... still a bit raw, I suppose."

"I know it is," she said softly. She knew that raw exposure intimately. She was terrified of never returning to where she belonged, terrified that she would someday forget who she was entirely. "I am a creature that was not born to die... but here I am. Dying." She leaned close and lightly touched her forehead to Greta's. She did not mean to make the woman's worries seem small, but she was trying desperately to let her know that she knew, at least to some degree, the anguish she must feel.

She squeezed Greta's hand. "You remind me of someone. She was very kind to me, even when I was just a silly girl. Even when I couldn't touch the feelings of those around me, even when I was cold. I worry I was cruel." Their worries had all seemed so ridiculous to her. Being human had changed her, fundamentally. After that first transformation she would never be able to go back to the way she was before.

"It will be alright. It doesn't need to be right now, of course not. But it will be."

God, that's right: they've both been confronted by an unexpected dose of mortality. Greta, at least, never anticipated living forever, but Amalthea would have. Maybe her own distress isn't as incomprehensible as she'd thought.

The light touch against her forehead is almost enough to set her off again. She can't help but wonder if it might signify something, even with Amalthea in a human shape -- if there's something the gesture is meant to impart besides a general sense of comfort and support. Not that comfort and support isn't enough. Unicorns can heal, in the stories she's read, but... this isn't something magic can fix. She'll just have to heal the old-fashioned way: slow and uneven, with lingering scars.

"I can't imagine you were ever silly," Greta says, leaning back so she can look at Amalthea properly. "Or cruel. You have to want to be cruel, I think." Thoughtlessness might passably impersonate cruelty, but it's not quite the same.

She presses Amalthea's hand in between hers. "In any case, you've only ever been kind to me."

"Perhaps you will see it someday," she said with a small smile, meaning her silliness. She let Greta pull back, a faint smile in her eyes at the assurance she wasn't cruel.

"Molly told me to return kindness when I found it. I have tried to do that more since coming here... It is easy to be lost in my own concerns."

Greta snorts faintly. Unicorns don't do 'silly.' Humans do, but Amalthea isn't that human -- and a display of uncharacteristic silliness wouldn't be worth the worry that she was losing herself. "I almost hope I don't," she admits.

"And they're big concerns." If she wasn't trapped in a human body, Greta wouldn't expect Amalthea to bother with humans at all -- certainly not more than she had to. Sympathizing with her human friends is above and beyond, really. "Big enough to get lost in."

"But I am here if you... want distraction. Or to talk." Human concerns seemed so distant to her when she was a unicorn, and sometimes they did now, but at least as a girl she tried to touch them. She squeezed Greta's hands and offered her a small smile.

Greta looks awful.

It's a terrible and uncharitable thing for Demelza to think given what she knows of Greta's situation, but she sees her friend, sees how thin she's gotten, and she can't seem to help herself. There's nothing at all she can do to better the situation and she knows Greta had asked, but she still rather wants to belt whoever it is that told her all these details of her life. It may not fix things, but Demelza thinks it might make her feel better.

But her feelings are not the focus now and they shouldn't be.

Garrick is trotting alongside her when she crosses the street to meet Greta and his tongue lolls, his tail wagging, and she can't help but hope perhaps the sight of a dog so happy to see her might lift her mood a little.

"Hello," she says, offering Greta a small smile as Garrick noses impatiently at her fingers.

Some of the tension leaves her shoulders when she realizes it's Demelza. There's no need to feign normalcy for her, or to account for her current state (which she knows must look rather dire). She can just be. Which only goes so far when you don't particularly want to be what you are, but at least it's easier than trying to be what you're not.

"Hello. And you, Garrick," she adds, dropping into a crouch and letting the dog sniff at her face. Animals don't require her to account for herself, either. Maybe she ought to get a dog. She's never had need of one before, and she still thinks of pets as something that ought to have a purpose, or do a job. It's odd to think of spending money on a creature for no other reason than the joy it might bring.

Or it was odd, anyway. Now, she thinks she sees the sense of it. Or maybe she just sees how bringing joy might be a job in and of itself.

"Were you just taking this one for a walk?" she asks, glancing up at Demelza as she ruffles the dog's ears. She doesn't want to think that she's interrupting anything especially purposeful (in large part because she doesn't want to acknowledge that checking up on herself might be a task worth pausing one's life for a few minutes).

Garrick's tail wags furiously when Greta drops onto his level, his entire back end swaying from side to side as he snuffles happily at her cheek and her hair before sitting back and letting out one of those great big dog sneezes that Demelza can only be grateful he's had the foresight to aim toward the ground instead of straight at Greta's face.

"Yes, I thought I ought to take him, sometimes he do get so restless in the house and tramples all over everyone. He would go everywhere with me if he could, but when I was working at Tintern, it wasn't allowed and when he waited for me outside, sometimes people would be cruel to him."

It might be different at Green Gardens, though, and she considers speaking to Baz and Simon about it. They might welcome her gentle and yet protective dog, who would only ever lie about and let the children crawl all over him, but would stand against anyone who tried to hurt them.

"Are you headed home or would 'ee like to walk with us for a bit?" she asks.

The sneeze is a near miss, but so enthusiastic that Greta can't help chuckling. "Bless you," she says, giving Garrick another pat before straightening.

It's no great surprise that a dog used to country living might feel cooped up in an apartment, and it probably shouldn't shock her that people were cruel to the poor creature when he tried to wait for his mistress. She doesn't often see dogs left outside shops here, but it does happen, and she's never seen one molested before. You'd think people would be used to it, and not bother them. She frowns at the thought of anyone bothering Garrick, who's proven himself to be nothing but sweet -- and perhaps a bit ridiculous. Too good a dog to bite someone, even if they deserved it.

"I'd be surprised if he wasn't allowed at the Gardens," she ventures. "So long as he doesn't torment the cats. It's not as if he'd be the only dog." Cu hasn't garnered any objections. And that Garrick would be good with the children goes without saying. "You could ask, at least."

She considers the offer for a moment, wondering -- and rather hating her own suspicion -- if it's charity, or an excuse to keep an eye on her for a bit, assessing her emotional state. As if she could blame anyone for the latter; as if she wouldn't do the same, if their roles were reversed. And if it is the latter, she'd only make things worse by refusing.

More to the point: she doesn't much want to refuse. There's no great rush to return to her apartment, and the prospect of spending time with Demelza is far less daunting than trying to navigate a conversation with someone who doesn't know what's going on. "A walk sounds lovely," she says, her smile a little worn-looking, but still genuine.

"I've thought of asking Baz and Simon if they'd mind. Garrick'd be wonderful with all the children, I d'think he's far too smart to ever be cruel to a helpless child, but if someone were to come onto the grounds and try to hurt 'em..."

She trails off and looks at her great, sweet dog, thinks of the way he'd snapped at her father, and she reaches out to finger his ear, showing Greta the place where he's missing a bit of it. The wound has long healed, but where there should be the tip of his ear is instead a jagged edge, the bit that's missing having clearly been torn off by a dull weapon of some kind.

"He used t'try and get between me and my father," she says. "That bit of his ear there, that's when I gathered him up and left. Twas bad enough that my father hurt me, but I'll not allow a soul in the world to lay a hand upon my dog. I only mean t'say I think if someone were to try and hurt the children, Garrick'd make sure no harm came to them."

She smiles when Greta says she'll join them and tucks her hand into the crook of Greta's arm like she once would have with Verity. "I'm that glad for the company. Garrick is sweet, but he's a poor conversationalist."

Greta frowns at the dog's damaged ear. She'd noticed it before, but hadn't thought much of it; there are plenty of innocuous ways a dog might suffer such an injury. That he was defending Demelza from her father -- and Greta knows all too well what sort of damage he was willing to inflict -- is both moving and awful.

Awful, too, is the thought of anyone trying to hurt the children at the Gardens. It honestly isn't something that had occurred to her before now. It's a grand estate, and she might imagine someone getting it into their heads to try and rob the place, perhaps, but to hurt children just for the sake of it?

She ought to know awfulness has no limits, but it's still unpleasant to be confronted with a particular variety that she'd never considered.

Her expression softens when Demelza takes her arm, a familiar gesture that she doesn't see or receive so often here. It's fallen out of fashion, it seems. But it's perfectly natural coming from Demelza, and Greta automatically reaches over to pat her hand.

"Maybe I should get a dog," she muses, looking at Garrick with newfound appreciation. "We only used to have cats round the bakery, and..." she trails off as her brain catches up with her mouth, reminding her that she'll never see that bakery again, and she has to pause for a moment, look away, and gather herself before she can speak. "... Well. It might be nice."

"Never ask Ross if he thinks you ought to get a dog, because he will tell you they're awful and stinky and full of crawlers, but he secretly loves Garrick almost as much as I do," Demelza says as they walk. Garrick trots out ahead of them, sniffing at trees and benches as they pass, leading them toward the park, as it is his favourite place, where he's able to chase squirrels without too much protest from anyone else, so long as Demelza finds them a more quiet corner, away from others.

"But I thinks dogs are wonderful," she continues. "They're kind and patient and when they're well loved, they give such love in return. The first few weeks being in Darrow were so hard, but twas not only because I was away from Ross, but Garrick, too."

She smiles then and adds, "Don't tell Ross I said so."

She thinks it's a wonderful idea, Greta getting a dog, and she thinks she would very much like to help her pick one out, a dog to be there for her when she needs company and when people just won't do. Because people simply aren't the same, they don't possess the same level of patience that dogs have, nor the unconditional love, no matter how kind they try to be.

If Demelza notices the little wobble, she mercifully ignores it, and Greta's smile comes a little easier for it. "I won't ask Ross to advise me, then," she says. Her own opinions on the animals is far less ironclad. Even within the Village, there was a variety of dogs doing a variety of jobs. Once, as a girl, she'd watched a shepherd send their scruffy creature zipping across a field using nothing but whistles, and been half-convinced it was some sort of magic.

Here in Darrow, they mostly just seem to be for companionship, which is... well, it's rather reassuring, considering that's what she'd want one for. It's a little odd to think of just going and getting one and not needing to justify it.

"The apartment is rather quiet. Especially after coming from the Gardens. Which can be a relief, sometimes, but... to a point," she says, lifting her shoulders in a gentle shrug. It's too quiet, is the thing. And she knows she has friends she could visit or invite over, but it's hard not to feel like an imposition. They have their own lives to worry about, and their own joys that she doesn't want to sully with her unhappiness.

You can't impose on a pet, though. It's not as if a dog would have anywhere else to be.

"Your secret is safe with me," she adds, glancing over at Demelza with a flicker of a grin. Then, her gaze going a bit distant as she considers the possibility: "Where does one get a dog?" All the dog owners she knows had their animals before Darrow got to them, and the city was kind enough to bring their dogs along afterwards -- or even at the same time.

"Oh, there are shelters," Demelza says, terribly pleased that Greta seems to truly be considering this. With everything Greta has been through, with all she's learned of her story recently, Demelza truly thinks it's better for her friend not to spend too much time alone and yet, at the same time, she can understand why she would want to. A dog, though, is a wonderful compromise. A dog can give Greta affection and unconditional love, as well as fill the empty spaces of a home, all while being completely undemanding beyond food and walks and love.

"I learned about them after someone threatened to take Garrick there if I didn't leash him, but they can't do that, because I have the proper license for him and I would just go get him and bring him home," she says, feeling rather smug about that. She has done her research and she's following most of the rules, even if she does know Garrick ought to be on a leash, but he hates them and he'll never wander off, so Demelza doesn't see the point.

"There are so many unwanted dogs and rather than let them run around as strays, they're brought to these shelters where people can go and adopt them and bring them home," she says. "I could show 'ee where they are if you'd like."

Perhaps not right at this very moment, not with Garrick, but any time Greta would like, Demelza will be happy to take her. Garrick needs a bit of a run, but even if she wants to go today, Demelza will take her dog home and go with Greta, all without telling Ross what they're doing, for he'll surely disapprove and roll his eyes at them.

Greta hums thoughtfully. There's clearly more to dog ownership here in Darrow than there would be back home, but she doesn't find that very daunting. Demelza seems more than happy to help, and Greta's already picked up a few things just from spending time with her -- and perhaps even moreso with Sam. She knows she'd have to gather a few things before she'd be ready to bring a dog into her apartment: food and water dishes, a leash (because while Garrick does fine without one, she wouldn't presume a dog she'd just bought would follow her obediently and not dart out into traffic), toys and things for it to chew on, a bed of some sort.

A few weeks ago, it all would have struck her as too much bother. Now, the thought of having a specific list of things to do is a comfort. She knows she could use the distraction. Dwelling on her own sorrows isn't just depressing; it's also gone on long enough to be boring. She can almost feel herself waking up a little at the prospect of getting a dog, precisely because of how much it would entail.

"I'd like that," she decides. "Perhaps not today, though. I'd have to pick some things up, first, like food and a leash and so on. And I don't know anything about getting a license -- is it terribly complicated?" She curls her arm around Demelza's shoulders and gives her a brief squeeze. "I might pester you mercilessly about this," she adds in a good-natured warning.

Though she might not have noticed it when she was still a child herself and caring for all her brothers, Demelza knows now she's the maternal sort, that she likes being of use and helping people to better understand certain aspects of their world, even when she might not understand everything either. There's a wonderful give and take, she thinks, when it comes to learning and teaching, and she loves doing both whenever the opportunity presents itself. That's part of why she enjoys being a mother so much and part of why she loves her work at Green Gardens and a very big part of why she enjoys meeting all the people who now call Darrow home.

So when Greta says she might be pestered mercilessly, all Demelza can do is smile, because that sounds wonderful as far as she's concerned. And Ross has long ago adjusted to her social nature and to all the friends she tends to bring home.

"Oh, not terribly complicated. I d'believe most shelters will supply you with the papers you need to fill out, but if they don't, all you do is visit City Hall and tell them you've adopted a dog and must purchase a license for him or her. Then it's only a bit of writing and a fee, of course, and they'll send you a tag your dog must wear at all times, especially when out and about. Tis the only reason at all Garrick wears a collar now and I know he's supposed to wear it at home, too, but I can't force that on him. I suppose I'd get a fine if someone were to arrive at my dog, but I tend not to worry about that."

If they give her a fine, then they'll give her a fine. She just finds it silly that the dog is supposed to wear their tag at all times. It isn't as if she always carried her ID when she moves from room to room in her own home, after all.

Marvin and Cu both wear collars all the time without objection -- without even seeming to notice them, really, aside from scratching at them on occasion. Greta can only assume most dogs from Darrow would be accustomed to such things, and that she wouldn't be subjecting them to something odd or unusual.

Besides, a collar seems like a fair trade for being in a home instead of a shelter. The more she thinks about it, the more she suspects she'd end up spoiling the creature in her own way. She's rather looking forward to it, and this might be the first time in the past week that she's looked forward to anything. Or anything specific and concrete and attainable, anything more solid and less elusive than 'not feeling so awful.'

"That doesn't sound so bad." Demelza's no fool, and has been here much longer than Greta has. But they're from similar enough circumstances, and Greta likes to think that if Demelza's managed to grasp one of the more inexplicable aspects of Darrow living, there's hope that she can, too. "But leave it to Darrow to make everything about paperwork," she adds with a wry smile. "There really is no escaping it."

"There are papers for everything," Demelza agrees. "Except money. Money is all stored in my little cards now." Which isn't entirely the truth, she knows she can still possess physical notes if she truly desires it, but many have warned her against it, pointing to thieves, and so she must admit that the cards certainly are better for money in that regard.

That's been the most difficult adjustment for her, she's found, even more difficult than vehicles or the flats in which they live now. There are times when she still feels as if everything costs far too much and yet, at the same time, as if she must be endlessly wealthy, for she's never seen such a high number when it comes to currency in her entire life. Even Ross, who had been considered terribly wealthy at a time, had never had such a sum.

It pleases her to think that George Warleggan probably had not either.

"But it isn't too terribly difficult to decipher," she says. "Even I managed and I sometimes still struggle with my letters. A friend of mine helped a little, but I imagine if I can do it, you'll have no problem at all."

Greta bobs her head in acknowledgment. She was hesitant to use her card much at first, worried that she'd spend more than she had if she couldn't see what she was doing (despite the fact that, even after accounting for the different kinds of currency, she is wealthier now than she's ever been in her life). But the card is faster. No one's scolded her for using banknotes, and she's never tried to pay for anything with a pile of little coins or anything obnoxious like that, but the implicit social pressure to get on with things quickly is still there.

This does mean she'll have to double-check her balance before she goes and spends a kingly sum on a dog. But she's been living well within her means; her stipend covers the basics, and there's the money she's making at the Gardens on top of that. So long as the shelter doesn't expect thousands of dollars from her -- and she can't imagine any dog would go for that much -- she should be fine.

"Well, and I'll have you to help me," Greta points out with a fond smile. Demelza's already been a great help to her over the past week, and whether Greta strictly needs assistance with getting a dog doesn't matter; she'd welcome it. And she can't help thinking it'd be more enjoyable for Demelza than the help she's given so far: handling the more boring chores at the Gardens and offering comfort and support whenever Greta loses her composure. She appreciates it more than she can say, but she knows it hasn't exactly been fun.

"I'll have to do some shopping, and probably a bit of reading, as well. But once I'm ready, I'd love some help picking someone out."

"I'd be honoured to help 'ee," Demelza says and she knows a dog isn't going to fix everything, it's not going undo the pain that's been caused by learning her fate, but they are wonderful creatures and she thinks the company of a dog might truly help where other things will be unable. Unconditional love of that nature is so rare and Demelza thinks if there's anyone who needs such a thing right now, it's Greta.

There's more to caring for a dog now than there had been back in Cornwall and although she knows it, has experienced it with Garrick, it still sometimes seems odd to her. She'd been instructed that she ought to buy Garrick a bed, though after she'd bought it, he had sniffed at it a few times, then flopped down on the floor beside it. Julia tends to sleep on it more often than Garrick ever does and yet it seems as if all over dogs love their beds. Demelza had come to the decision that Garrick is, like her, simply out of his time.

"You must think about what size of dog you'd like, I think," she says thoughtfully. "Though I think you also ought to be prepared to have your mind changed quite swiftly if one particular dog captures your attention."

"Nothing too big," Greta says, thinking aloud. "I suppose I'll have to keep it on a leash for a while, at first, and I don't fancy being hauled about." She's seen some dogs in town even larger than Cu, and though she hasn't been in the proverbial dog market for more than a few minutes, she already knows she's not after what might as well be a pony.

Then again, she wouldn't want something too small, either. Any dog she gets would have to be able to withstand the affections of all the children in her life. Jordan and Saoirse are both dog savvy, and it's not as if Marvin is that big, either. But she's also seen dogs small enough to practically fit up someone's sleeve. "It ought to be large enough that you can tell it's a dog at first glance, though," she says with a wry smile. "I wouldn't want something too small to play with Garrick. Or to weather children's attention."

The Balladeer has never quite cottoned on to texting; why do that when you can just speak with people? But this also means that he's a poor hand at detecting subtleties of text message, so he hasn't given Greta's absence a second thought. People get busy!

It doesn't mean he hasn't missed talking to her, though, so he brightens when he sees her across a street, rocking forward onto his toes and waving. "Greta! Hi!" He's already crossing; there's no escaping him now. Technically he was headed in the opposite direction to begin with, but there's a guitar case over his shoulder and he jingles faintly when he moves. Today was already a good busking day, and as that's his only regular job, he has literally nowhere else to be right now. And nothing to do but follow Greta to the grocery store, perhaps.

Greta stills when a familiar voice calls her name, then watches, already resigned, as the Balladeer comes loping toward her. He's one of the people she's been deliberately putting off the past few days, in part because she knew how easy it would be. If anyone would be inclined to take her texts at face value, he would. Now, of course, she feels horribly guilty for it -- not least of all because she hadn't had the sense to say she was ill, or something else that would excuse how ghastly she probably looks.

"Hello," she says as he nears her, offering a strained smile. God, she really doesn't want to tell him what's happened. He's such a ray of bloody sunshine, and he's happy here. She doesn't even know what bringing him down would look like, and frankly, she doesn't want to find out. "Busy day?" she asks with a nod towards his guitar. "It must be nice to finally have good busking weather."

"Yeah, it's been good!" He turns his face up to the sun, distracted for a moment. Darrow's heat doesn't carry the heavy mugginess of Washington weather; there's hardly any downside here to spending as much time out of doors as possible.

But that's only a momentary distraction. Buoyed as he is by the weather, he's not blind. "How're you?" The Balladeer furrows his brow, stepping aside and angling his guitar case to keep from completely blocking sidewalk traffic. Maybe he's not launching immediately into trying to figure out what's wrong, but obviously he can tell that something is. Maybe she's been sick?

There it is. She's received that cautiously worded inquiry often enough to know the real question it's covering (something closer to 'good god, what's happened to you?'), and she flinches as if that's what he actually asked her.

Which only makes matters worse, of course. She really wishes she was better at lying.

Not that there's much point in wishing.

"Oh," she starts, as if she might be able to pull off some casual dismissal. Her throat is already starting to ache in a too-familiar way, though, and she doesn't trust her voice, so she trails off into a small, frustratingly hapless shrug. She knows what a worthless offering that is, but for the moment, it's all she's got.

O...kay?

The Balladeer's first thought, naturally, is that someone has died. And maybe that's true, but no - people are a lot less likely around here to just get killed, aren't they? Most people don't even have guns. He glances over his shoulder as if to check, angling himself to block Greta from passerby a little. No matter the case, this is starting to look like a talk they shouldn't have in the middle of the street.

"Oh, well...you wanna grab a drink? Coffee," he clarifies; it's too early in the day for anything else, and he's warier about alcohol-as-comfort than alcohol-for-fun. Feels too familiar.

It's a subtle shift in position, but she notes the way he manages to block her off from a significant portion of the other pedestrians. Part of her idly wonders if it has anything to do with living with an audience, that implicit awareness that people might be watching, and where they might be watching from. She appreciates it, if a bit distantly. It's her friends that she really doesn't want seeing her like this, but being spared the bewilderment or pity of strangers is a mercy, too.

Coffee doesn't appeal to her, and neither does lingering out in public. If she has to have this conversation, she'd as soon do it in the privacy of her own apartment. She swallows past the lump in her throat, then hefts her bag of groceries. "Why don't you just come to mine? I've got to put these away." She focuses on the chore, holding that in her mind so she doesn't fixate on what she's going to say to him. Lying is something she can only really manage by text, where her face can't betray her. There's not much point in trying to keep him in the dark.

He might even take it better than most. He used to hang around dead people all the time.

Marius is at the grocery store picking up a few last minute things he needs for home. Basics, mostly, with the occasional brownie mix or three. He is, by no means, a master at cooking, but he's capable of making himself some comfort food, which has come especially handy this past school year.

He's grabbing some eggs when he catches sight of Greta in the aisle with him, looking decidedly haggard and upset. Concerned, Marius forgets his eggs as he makes his way over to her.

"Greta?" He asks, the concern evident in his voice. "What's happened?"

Oh, god, she's been spotted. Not that she's been making any great attempt to be stealthy. That would require more energy than she possesses, and more attention to her surroundings than she's evidently able to pay. And it's Marius, which makes her want to kick herself. She knows how busy he is, and he has more important things to focus on than her troubles.

Nor does she relish the thought of getting into it here, in the middle of a grocer's. She lifts her shoulders in a frustrated, hapless shrug. What is she supposed to say? What words can she even get out without choking on them?

"A lot," she finally says, voice hoarse. She can't even look at him.

The longer he takes in the sight of Greta, the more obviously concerned Marius becomes. She looks ill, as though she hasn't been eating, despite what the contents of her grocery basket might say.

He doesn't want to pry, nor does he want to make her uncomfortable in the middle of such a public space. But he also can't just leave her here, not with her looking the way she does. He knows she wouldn't abandon him, if their positions were reversed.

"Would you like to come back to my apartment?" He offers. "I can make tea. My cats would love the chance for company." They might also prove calming, in a way, for Greta. Or so Marius hopes.

Greta's tempted to refuse the offer. It feels a little too much like charity -- though she appreciates the irony of how uncharitable it is for her to assume Marius is merely being a Good Person and not genuinely concerned for her. More to the point, the last thing she wants to do is burden more of her friends with the knowledge of her own death.

But a polite refusal wouldn't exactly reassure him. He's already seen her; there's no escaping his fretting, now. And she knows, if their roles were reversed, she would want to help him. She wouldn't appreciate any strained attempts to put her off, either.

She gives him an assessing look, her expression clearly suggesting that she knows this has nothing to do with what his cats might enjoy. Then she drops her gaze with a soft, faintly exasperated huff of air. "Tea sounds lovely," she says. And it does. It's the conversation she expects to be miserable.

Marius feels relief wash over him as soon as Greta agrees to come back to his apartment with him. He would have respected her wishes, of course, either way, but he would have called or come by her own apartment to check up on her later, had she refused his offer. She looks too haggard for him to feel comfortable with leaving her entirely alone.

"Good," he says, nodding and flashing her a small smile. "I have cookies at home, and I've picked up an apple crumble cake here that I cannot, in all good consciousness, eat entirely on my own."

"So, really, you're doing me a favor," he tells her. He won't force her to tell him what's wrong or going on; he'll provide a shoulder and a set of ears, should she want to make use of them.

She's not sure how much help she might truly be when it comes to the apple crumble, and for a tense moment, that almost sets her off: the acute awareness that whatever happens, she will not be doing him any favors. If anything, she's likely to make his evening significantly worse than it would have been if he hadn't run into her.

But she can't subject him to the more immediate disaster of an emotional breakdown in the middle of a bloody grocer's. She just... refuses to be that much of a mess, and she ruthlessly tamps down the sorrow and self-pity that threaten to swamp her.

Once she's certain she has ahold of herself, she takes his arm. Her own smile is little more than a cursory twitch of her lips, hardly convincing, but that's already a lost cause. "How are your studies?" she asks. As long as they don't talk about her, she should be able to at least make it to his apartment without falling apart.

Marius keeps an eye on Greta when she takes his arm, still greatly concerned for her well-being, but happy to support her. He nods, managing a small smile of his own. If she would rather discuss him, he's happy to provide a distraction.

"My studies are going well," he tells her. "Hard, and stressful, but well."

"They're currently over for the summer, which gives me a bit of a break," he adds. "Which I'm grateful for, truly."

He wants to ask her how she feels; if he can do anything to help. But he also doesn't want to stress her out, not when she already seems so vulnerable. So he tries to ask after something she cares about, instead.

"Have you been baking much?" He asks, hoping food might prove another distraction for her.

It's a bit of a struggle to focus on what Marius is saying, but she makes the effort. Engaging in small talk feels absurd, but it's firmer ground than what she's been stumbling over for the past week. So, his studies are going well, which is a good thing, and she gives his arm an approving pat.

If listening is a struggle, actually talking is worse. She has to pull in a slow, bracing breath, silencing the horrible little voice inside that's all too eager to point out that she'll never see her bakery again. "At the Gardens, yes," she says after a moment. "There are enough children there to keep me rather busy, these days."

Thanks to Demelza, she's spent about as much time outside the kitchen as in it. They've been swapping duties whenever she found herself a little too much in her own head, and in need of more distraction than dishes might provide. It's easy to feel guilty for sticking her friend with the duller chores, but Demelza has been so insistent on helping however she can that Greta can't really justify anything but gratitude.

"You work at the Gardens too?" Marius asks, a curious and delighted smile brightening his features for a moment. He notices the way she draws in breath, as though bracing for something. He doesn't want to make her feel worse, but he also feels as though to get her to talk is his best course of action. "I'm glad to hear it. One of my friends and former coworkers works there now as well. Demelza Poldark. Do you know her?"

Marius really likes all he's heard of the Gardens; it seems a natural fit for Greta, from what he knows of her. He hopes the atmosphere of the place has been helping with the way she currently seems to appear.

Greta looks momentarily nonplussed, before remembering that of course Marius and Demelza would know one another. "Right, you were both at Tintern." She nods, brightening a little. "Yes, I know Demelza. We've been friends for some months, now. It was a pleasant surprise to find ourselves working in the same place."

Demelza's been a godsend this past week in particular. Work has been holding Greta together (there are days when it feels like the only thing holding her together), and that's largely thanks to her friend's willingness to swap duties or cover for her without question.

"Oh, how wonderful is that," Marius says, noting the way Greta appears to brighten, just a tad, at the mention of their mutual friend. "I do miss having her as a coworker myself but I'm glad she has you to work with now. You both seem really well suited for such a place."

He keeps meaning to visit, as Grantaire also works at this place. Now that he has so many friends who do work there, he thinks he really ought to make the effort.

This is relatively sturdy conversational ground, and Greta's happy to cling to it for as long as it takes them to get somewhere less public. "I'd apologize for stealing her away, but I can't take the credit," she says as they make their way to the check-out lanes. It had been a happy coincidence, not something she would have thought to orchestrate. "I had no idea she'd been hired there until I ran into her while we were both working."

And even that had happened well into her shift. She's usually getting started in the kitchen long before the children even get out of bed. Rising early has long been her habit, anyway, but it's been of particular use recently. At least it makes the sleepless nights shorter.

"You should visit sometime," she suggests. "I'm sure Demelza would be happy to see you. And the children like it when anyone new shows up."

"I wouldn't blame you, either way," Marius says with a soft smile as they put their groceries up on the counter to be priced. "But I do miss her cheerful disposition during some of our busier hours." He shakes his head. "We are all the more grumpy for her lack of presence at work. But she must go where she is happiest. And I'm glad she has you working there with her.

Marius nods, smiling, as the cashier finishes ringing up his purchases. He pays with cash, though he is used to the plastic cards, after so long.

"I think I will, as soon as I can," he says. "It would be nice to visit you both."

She manages to get through the whole transaction with more ease and grace than she originally would have anticipated (though either way, she wouldn't have expected any probing questions from a cashier), and there's nothing in her bags that need to go straight into the fridge, or that will be worse off for spending some time in Marius's apartment.

She doesn't think any of it will even prove to be tempting to his cats, though she knows better than to make any presumptions on that front. Cats might get into something just for the sake of it, not because it's especially enticing.

Still, the closer they draw to his apartment, the more anxious she feels. Even if she could keep up a semblance of normalcy, it wouldn't matter -- she was clearly in a bad way when he first ran into her, and that hasn't changed. She'll have to tell him something, which means she'll end up telling him everything. And then he'll know. God, she wishes there was some way to share this without feeling as if she's doing a disservice to anyone who might still be in Darrow after she's gone.

Marius leads them to his apartment, carrying his groceries and letting silence fall between them. He knows, from experience, that sometimes one just needs to let their thoughts gather. And he doesn't want to force any sort of conversation on Greta that she doesn't want.

Soon enough, they're at Dimera and Marius is holding open his apartment door to Greta.

"If you have anything that needs to go in the fridge, please feel free to use mine," he offers as he follows her inside and shuts the door. He moves to begin putting groceries away and setting out some wet food for his cats, who obediently come calling when they hear the door.

"Don't mind them," he calls out to Greta with a smile. "They'll wax poetic about their tragic lives if you let them."

He soon begins pulling out the sweets he promised Greta and begins preparing to make tea.

"What sort of tea would you like? Or coffee? Or cocoa?" He ventures to ask her.

"These should be all right," she says, setting her bags up on the counter. She's seen enough of Pawvus' antics to know that there probably isn't anywhere she could put her bags where the cats couldn't get at them, but the creatures seem far more interested in the food Marius has put out than anything else.

Coffee is right out -- she's made no attempt to develop a taste for the stuff after trying it once -- and while she normally loves cocoa, it feels a bit too rich for the weather or her stomach. "Just tea, I think," she says, smoothing her palms down her skirt and wishing she had something practical to do. "Whatever's easiest to find." She doesn't know Marius's tea-drinking habits, but her own cabinet -- even when it's well-organized (as it is now) -- is crammed with enough varieties that some are always harder to dig out than others.

The conversation will already be troubling. She doesn't need her beverage order to be difficult, too.

One of the cats, an almost ludicrously fluffy creature with striking blue eyes, eventually abandons the food to investigate the new visitor. Greta drops into a slow crouch, offering a hand, and the cat inspects it for a few moments before butting its head against her. "You're a friendly thing," she murmurs, giving its head a gentle scrub with her fingers.

"Tea it is then," Marius says with a soft smile, nodding. He pulls out one of his favorite blends, one designed to help ease anxiety and tension and one that also happens to taste good, a rare combination. He moves to prepare their drinks, as well as grabbing out the cake he promised Greta, along with some whipped cream.

"Please, make yourself at home," he insists, wanting his friend to be as comfortable as possible.

He turns back over when he hears one of the cats approaching Greta. He smiles when he sees who it is.

"That is Courfeyrcat," he says. "Named for my best friend. He takes after him in more than just his name." He offers Greta a smile.

Greta glances up at Marius in some surprise, forgetting to pet the cat until it makes a soft chirruping sound and rubs itself along her shin. "Does everyone name their cats after people they know?" she asks, mostly rhetorically.

Granted, it's not as if she's met many cats here. But this is the second one she's met sporting someone else's name twisted into a cat-related pun. It's beginning to seem like some sort of Darrow-specific cultural quirk.

"What's the other one called?" She's not sure she knows anyone whose name would lend itself to such a scheme, and goodness knows how many acquaintances they have in common. Demelza Purrdark seems like too much of a stretch.

"I can't speak for everyone," Marius admits with a sheepish grin. "But I know I like doing so. It's comforting, in its own way, I think."

"Well, there's two more," he says, flushing a bit as he does so. He's used to the teasing he's gotten, from friends and otherwise, about his abundance of cats.

"The one with one eye is Poly, and the other one is Shelley," he says. "I only named Shelley. Poly has had his name from his original owner, before he disappeared." His face falls momentarily as he thinks of Rat, heart twinging a bit as it always does when he thinks of him.

As the water finishes boiling, Marius pours them tea, moving to bring their mugs over before opening the cake between them. "Please, feel free to dig in," he tells her.

Oh, goodness, there are two more. She hadn't seen one behind the other. But three cats doesn't seem too excessive, as long as Marius is happy to care for them. It's not as if they're too big for the apartment, and while very few buildings in Darrow seem to have pests of any kind, it's probably helpful to have a few little hunters around to deal with any bugs or spiders that might get in.

Besides, it sounds like Poly was an unexpected addition. She can't blame Marius for taking in a vanished friend's cat.

Greta straightens, then slides into one of the dining room chairs. Without the immediate distraction of the cats, she remembers why she's really here, and her stomach turns over. She doesn't think she can bear food just yet -- not while her story is still this lurking, unspoken thing. But she draws her cup of tea close, letting the mug warm her fingers while she waits for it to cool enough for drinking.

He'd looked so pained, even just mentioning his absent friend. How is he going to look after she tells him what she's learned about herself? It's like those hypotheticals about attending your own funeral, which are easier to entertain when your death is hypothetical, too. Hers is certain, and the fact that it's already happened, and she's still standing, doesn't really make it easier to bear. It just makes it something she has to bear.

"Sorry, I'm... out of sorts," she says, keeping her voice steady and her eyes fixed on her cup. "I, er. Had some bad news." The last four words come out in a rush, with an edge of humorless laughter at what a colossal understatement that is. "But I don't want to--to burden people with it."

"You have nothing to apologize for," Marius assures her, offering her a smile, sober though it may be, as he takes a seat next to her with his own mug of tea. He always does like this part, when the liquid is still too warm to drink, when he can simply cradle the mug and feel the warmth sink into his hands. Such a sensation is its own kind of intimacy, a comforting gesture, whether in the middle of July or on a cold winter's night.

His expression grows concerned at her words, not to mention the harsh sound of her laughter.

"I'm sorry to hear you've had bad news," he says. "I promise, if you want to talk about it, you won't be burdening me with anything. Promise."

He's not the only one to insist that it won't be a burden before hearing it, but it's not a promise he's truly in a position to make. He can't know how bad it is until he knows everything, and by then, it will be too late.

But it's too late no matter which way you slice it. 'Oh, never mind, let's just eat this apple crumble and pretend everything's fine' isn't an option. She has to tell him something.

"There are people here who... who know my story," she says quietly. "Not all of it, not every moment, but... enough. It--it ends badly, for me." She takes in an unsteady breath, shoulders hitching in a shrug. "I suppose that's the shortest way to explain it."

Marius listens as Greta begins to talk, explaining the circumstances leading to her current state. His eyes widen when he begins to realize what she means by others here knowing her story.

"You mean, they know your world? And what's happened within it, even without being from it themselves?" He asks, voice quiet. He can only imagine the confusion and hurt she must feel, especially when she goes on to say that she seems destined for a cruel fate. He can only imagine how much that pain must be amplified by hearing it spoken out loud by someone else.

"Greta, I'm so sorry," he says, wishing he had more adequate words for the situation. Instead, he walks over to where Greta sits.

"Can I hug you?" He asks, feeling shy and oddly out of practice with his manners.

She nods. It's not the knowing that had bothered her, not when Jack and Rapunzel and Cinderella had their stories told and retold over the centuries. It would've been worse if they'd somehow fallen through the cracks and been entirely forgotten. Or that's what she would have insisted, back when she was just nursing her wounded pride over being edited out of the narrative.

Now, she's not so sure. There might be some comfort in knowing her family is safe, that the children are all right, but it's all laced with bitterness. She'll never share in that triumph of defeating the Giant, or enjoy the well-earned Happily Ever After. Instead, she's here, living on borrowed time until Darrow tires of her. Maybe bringing her here was a rare moment of mercy on the city's part, but she still wouldn't characterize Darrow as kind, and she doesn't trust it to do her any more favors.

But there's something terribly endearing about Marius's awkward question, and she lets out a single, damp, and slightly incredulous huff of laughter. "Oh, I--yes, of course." It might be a little weird with her still sitting in the chair, though, so she braces a hand on the table and pushes herself upright. When he puts his arms around her, she leans against him gratefully, her forehead resting on his shoulder. "Thank you," she adds, her voice a bit muffled.

I know that I actually get out more than I used to, but these days it feels like I don't really have time for me anymore. I don't really get the chance to go to the mall and enjoy a frozen yogurt (or better yet, a chipwich). I don't really get any times when I can just disconnect from my work and feel like I can take a break. It's both wonderful and terrible. Wonderful because I've never felt more productive than I do these days.

Terrible because sometimes my brain does want a break.

But today, it looks like I might have an excuse for not heading straight back to my office after talking at one of the local elementary schools. I see Greta rushing back in the direction that I think she lives in, and so I step forward so that I'm in her line of sight. If she's in a hurry to get somewhere, that's fine, but I want to check that she's okay.

"Greta? Is something wrong?" I ask her, trying to meet her gaze.

Jessica is one of the friends she hasn't needed to work to avoid. She's so busy with her new job that even if Greta had wanted to impose, they probably would have had to schedule a time to squeeze her in. Up until now, it's been something of a relief to think that at least one of her friends wouldn't be in a position to notice how bad things are -- not until Greta has had time to get herself back together.

So much for that.

"Um." She pulls up short, groceries tucked over one arm. Something is wrong; obviously so, if that's the first question out of Jessica's mouth. There's not much point in denying it. She just doesn't doesn't know what to say.

Surely Jessica has more important business to attend to than her. She certainly looks the part of professional councilwoman, all trim and neat and put together in a way that throws Greta's own general disarray into sharper relief. God, she must look a mess.

She exhales, then lifts her shoulders, unable to meet Jessica's gaze. "I don't... you must be terribly busy."

"No, you don't get to use my being busy as an excuse to duck away," I warn her, reaching my arms out to help her with her groceries. It reminds me of the first time we met, when she helped me with my many bags. If you leave me to myself, I will always keep myself busy, I will always have more things I want to do than I actually have the time to get done.

But that doesn't mean that I can't make time for a friend. And making sure that she's fine is more important to me than the other things that I could be doing today.

"My work isn't going anywhere, it will all be waiting on my desk until whenever I get to it. Come. I'm clearly not spending enough time looking after you if you're so upset and I had no idea," I tell her, wrapping one hand lightly around her arm and guiding her in the direction of the nearest coffeeshop. One that also has amazing pastries.

Greta surrenders her groceries without a fuss. Arguing about something so trivial would require more energy than she has at her disposal. It's almost a relief to just let Jessica take over, steering her along. It's not as if she knows what to do with herself; might as well let someone else have a go.

When she realizes she's being steered towards a shop, though, she balks, stopping dead in her tracks. Visions of losing her composure in front of dozens of bewildered, pitying strangers flash through her. She can't allow that, can't subject Jessica to that secondhand humiliation.

"No, I can't--not in a shop," she pleads. "I just..." She almost says 'need to get home,' but she knows if she even tries to voice that, she'll end up sobbing in earnest. It's all she can do to hastily clamp her mouth shut, fighting to hold herself together.

I turn on my heel as though I wasn't planning to go to the store at all. I know that sometimes, the noise of the public is helpful. I usually like to go to crowded spaces when I'm upset, because when people are packed together, no one's going to notice that I'm having an off day. Or if they do, they'll figure that whatever, I just really know where I want to be.

But not everyone is like me and not everyone likes the noise, and I'm not about to tell Greta that she's wrong for not wanting to go inside that coffee shop. We'll find some other place. Totally fine.

"Okay, then let's go to my apartment. I've got some coffee and tea there. Also chipwiches," I tell Greta with a firm nod. "Which are delicious and you should have one. I'm only a couple blocks away, anyway. And I can give you a ride home after if you want. Sound good?"

To Jessica's credit, she immediately changes direction without question. Greta knows that she owes her friend an explanation, by this point -- and even if she didn't, she's such a terrible liar that the truth is the only viable option. But that doesn't mean she wants to try and explain any of this out in the street, where anyone might bear witness.

Her nod of agreement is far less firm than Jessica's, but it's about all she can manage. She's been to Jessica's apartment before; it's familiar territory. And it'll be quiet, and private, which are the most important things.

Whether she'll be able to manage a chipwich is a bit more in doubt, but she wonders if it might be easier to eat if someone with a surplus of willpower was standing over her and telling her she had to. It's humiliating to think such a thing might be necessary, but practically speaking, she knows she could use all the help she can get.

"Sorry," she says at length, once she trusts her voice. "I'm a... bit of a mess."

When Greta's finally able to say more, we're already halfway to my apartment, and I open up the app on my phone to turn off the security system from a distance. (Yes, I have become pretty good with a lot of technology since arriving in the city. The phone is very useful, in spite of its small size. I can find many videos that help me learn just about everything around here.)

"Don't worry about it. All of us have off days, especially around here, where things are crazy so much of the time," I tell Greta with a wave of my hand. I know that she probably does not feel great. Nobody likes to fall apart, and nobody likes to be a burden on their friends (at least, I think they don't, but sometimes my sister makes me think otherwise).

"If you're going to be a mess, probably makes more sense to be a mess in private anyway. Who wants to air all that dirty laundry?" I say with a shrug of my shoulder. I assume she wants to wait until we're in my apartment before she explains, so I keep our pace quick.

Having her current state summarized as an 'off day' coaxes a humorless huff of laughter out of her. That is an incredibly charitable way of putting it. Not that Jessica has any way of knowing just how bad things are, of course, and she's probably fully aware of the understatement she's making.

But there's something oddly reassuring about having her own obvious misery waved off. It doesn't feel like a dismissal of her problems, but of her anxiety over what a wreck she is. Pathetic as she might feel, she can't help but think that if Jessica really had a problem with her behavior, she wouldn't make a secret of it.

"That's been the aim," she admits. The awareness that she's completely failed at it is implicit, tucked into the dryness of her tone. "But I can't seem to help myself." She can't quite bring herself to meet Jessica's gaze, but she does reach over to lay a hand on her arm. "Thank you." For being understanding, and for getting her out of public.

"This is why you have friends, so they can bring you inside if you're about to make a mess," I tell Greta with a small nod. Honey has done it for me a few times. I've probably done it for her many more times than that, because well, I am the kind of person to naturally watch out for others. It's in my genes. Or maybe it was practiced from a young age, with how much I had to steer Connie out of trouble.

(I think sometimes Connie liked to get in trouble just to make sure that she got some attention from mom. Which is totally the wrong tactic. Mom only starts to pay attention when she feels like she isn't putting all of her energy towards keeping people in line.)

I sigh as soon as we pass the front door of my apartment complex.

"Okay, that's much better. Come, this way. I should actually just invite you over to my place more often, that way you can stop by if you ever need to when you're in this part of town. Although these days, I am spending lots of hours at the office," I tell her, before taking us down the hallway to my place. "What do you want to drink? Water, juice? I've got many different kinds of tea. Coffee, too, but I don't have milk in the house so that would be very bitter."

Greta's used to being the one who cleans up messes, both literal and metaphorical, which makes being the mess a bit harder to bear. There aren't many people in the city she'd expect -- let alone trust -- to pick her up from the heap she's in. But if anyone could at least make a decent go of it, it's Jessica.

There's no small amount of irony inherent in the way being safely indoors makes her feel steadier, less likely to break into pieces. It might only be a temporary respite, but at least it gets her into Jessica's apartment without a scene.

"Tea would be nice," Greta says. It'll take some time to prepare, which doubles as time she can use to try and get ahold of herself. Or get her story straight. She has no intention of lying to her friend, but the truth isn't an easy thing to tell. She's yet to come up with a script that she can trot out whenever necessary, a tidy way of telling it. Instead, it tends to fall out of her in fractured, ugly pieces, the horrible conclusion leading the way and trailing explanatory bits behind it. "Anything... soothing." She might as well suggest it outright, rather than have Jessica conclude that it's what she clearly needs.

Soothing. Okay, so that means no green tea, and probably no oolong tea either — while they're both nice to curl your hands around on a cold day, they're also both caffeinated. Maybe not as much as coffee, but I doubt that Greta's picked up the habit of drinking coffee, so that means I should keep the caffeine levels low.\

"Make yourself comfortable," I tell her as soon as we step into the apartment. I slip out of my shoes and into a pair of slippers, and I grab another pair from my shoe cabinet that I think will fit Greta. Not that I would take offense if she wore her shoes into my house — but I just feel better when people wear slippers instead. Feels less dirty. Feels like I could go around barefoot and not get any dirt on my feet.

Setting Greta's bags down by the dining table, I search and rummage around in my cabinets, before I find a tea that I think will work perfectly. Chrysanthemum tea. I set the tea box on the counter, then start boiling some water in my electric kettle.

"You don't have to tell me everything if you don't want," I add, glancing up to look over in Greta's direction. I'm trying to figure out how much she wants me to talk, or if I should just listen. She looks like she could really stand to get some things off her chest. "But I'm pretty good with advice. And I'm even better at tracking people down if they need to be told off — if someone did something to you."

She blinks down at the slippers in momentary bewilderment, but it's clear enough what she's meant to do, even if the point eludes her. Being in Darrow has been something of a crash course in following others' leads, whether you understand the underlying reasoning or not. So she nudges into the slippers without comment, then shuffles over to sit at the table.

The ostensible assurance that she doesn't have to account for her behavior glances off her without leaving an impression. Yes, she does. She can't act like this without offering some sort of explanation, and she's a miserable liar. The offer of advice is kind, but she doubts it will come to much; this isn't a problem to be solved or a puzzle to navigate -- or a Curse to break. It just is.

It's the last bit that strikes home, and Greta winces. "No, no, it's not--he told me, but only because I asked." She buries her face in her hands for a moment, then puffs out a breath that might have passed for a laugh, if there was any humor in it. "There are people here who know my story. All of it." Right up to the very end.

The kettle starts to rumble, and it probably won't take much longer before it's boiling, but what Greta says feels pressing enough that I can't just finish making the tea without sitting by her and getting the whole truth out first.

People here know her story. All of it. It's actually not too much of a surprise to hear, considering she told me about this guy, Jack, who sounded like he was from the story of Jack and the Beanstalk. And even though I don't know anyone personally who falls into this category, I have read enough about the city that I know that sometimes people's lives are fictional in other people's worlds.

Like it's completely possible for someone from Melrose Place to make their way to the city. Not just the actors, but the actual characters brought to life.

But now that I actually have someone I know who is affected by this, I can't help but wonder how I would feel if my whole life was just a story to someone else. It would be... unnerving. (I would probably ask for the story's ending right away.)

"Wait, when you say they know your story, you mean... everything about your life?" I ask, just to be sure.

Greta drops her hands, but remains hunched forward over the table, her weight on her elbows. "No, not--not everything. Not my childhood or anything like that." It's a small detail, barely relevant, which makes it easier to focus on. She could tell Jessica the precise moment when her story began, from Jesse's perspective, but it doesn't matter.

"But he knew how it ends," she says, her voice thick and her throat aching. Her eyes fill, a far too familiar sensation, blurring Jessica's apartment into a meaningless smear. "I don't... make it." She buries her face in her hands again. "I asked," she says again, the words falling out of her in a miserable rush, "because I had--I had to know if everyone was all right, and they are, they are, but I'm..." she scoffs, or tries to, but there's really no disguising the fact that it's more of a sob.

It's so stupid, is the thing. God. She can't believe she just... fell. It's not as horribly undignified as what Jesse thought had happened to her, but it comes close enough.

It's good that not all of Greta's life is known. I guess people only know as much about her life as they know about most characters in stories. Not much about the childhood... but maybe a lot about her romance.

Hopefully her romantic life isn't too juicy. I don't know who would read or watch anything about my life with Louis and the boys. We're so boring and normal.

But then she tells me that she doesn't make it. That the people who know her life story know how it ends. And that's when I stop in the middle of my tea prep and walk over to her, reaching to give her a hug.

She's not the first person I know who has died in their home world, but this — this must be the worst way to find out.

"Breathe, breathe," I murmur softly. "It's okay to cry. That must have been such a shock."

Already, I'm judging the person who told her all of this. Why did Greta need to know that she dies? What kind of naive person revealed that to her?

She had been mortified to realize her dalliance with the Prince was... well, implied, certainly. That might even be worse, leaving it up to the audience's imagination, when what actually happened wasn't that explicit, when all was said and done. Though one could certainly argue that she broke faith with her husband, and that being the case, does it really matter to what precise degree?

Of course, it's hard to be upset about that when it was only a preamble to being told she was dead. Whether her husband ever found out or not, it's not as if she'll ever be able to ask his forgiveness.

Jessica isn't the first to offer sympathy, or the first to tell her she has every right to be upset. But she lays it out in such simple, sensible terms, and Greta leans against her and cries like a child. Like what she's suffered is the worst possible thing (she knows that it isn't), like the injustice of it all ought to split the world in half (she knows that it won't).

But she doesn't have a child's bottomless well of energy, and she can't keep it up for long. Within a matter of minutes, the tears slow, and her breathing steadies. She even manages to fish a handkerchief out of her pocket so she can mop herself off a little. "I just wanted to go home," she says, her voice a miserable croak. "I was just... waiting." She spits out that last word as if it tastes sour. She hates waiting, always has, and to have it all be for nothing is almost unbearable.

While Greta cries, I pet her hair. I think it's just mother's instinct anymore to comfort someone when they're crying. Not the kind of crocodile tears people cry when they want sympathy — no, Greta's crying because this is traumatizing. It really is. To have someone tell you that they know your life, that they know your future, and to realize that you don't have as much life ahead of you as you thought you would.

I don't know how I would handle it, if I knew that I wouldn't get to live for long going back. I don't think you can know that and go back to the way things were. It changes your perspective.

It changes the way you live.

"I won't tell you that it's okay, because obviously it's not," I say when she breathes more easily, giving her hair another soft rustle before I return to the kettle and ready the tea. The dried chrysanthemums start to spread as soon as the water hits them. Almost like they're blooming.

A little something optimistic to help lighten the situation.

"But at least you are here. Your life is changed for being here, you know. You're not the same person. You took a different path. And maybe that means what happens in this other... this other version of your life, maybe it doesn't have to happen for you," I say thoughtfully, bringing the cups back to our table. "Careful with that, by the way. It's hot."

Jessica's good at this, at offering comfort, which she supposes shouldn't surprise her. She's a mother, too. It's just that she'd put Greta more in mind of Jack's mother: not tender as much as fierce. The kind of mother who would be too busy destroying whatever had threatened or upset her children to spend too much time wiping their tears. She's both sorry and grateful to be wrong -- or wrong enough.

She's never seen tea behave quite this way before. It's a good excuse to stare into her cup, watching the dried chrysanthemum slowly bloom open in the hot water, like magic, but reassuringly benign. Jessica's words wash over her, and she nods along. It's more of an absent gesture at first -- yes, yes, things could be worse, Darrow could be a second chance. She recognizes the truth in these reassurances, but it's like recognizing that there's a fire in the hearth when you're still stuck out in a snowstorm. She knows it, but she doesn't feel it.

'Took a different path' sinks in more than the rest, though. It's a very home-like thing to say, and it surprises her a little, as if Jessica had suddenly slipped into an accent that perfectly matched her own.

"I'd be surprised if such a thing happened here," she says at length. She almost doesn't say it at all, as if Darrow would summon a Giant just to spite her. It's not impossible. "But it's still..." she pauses, frowning as she tries to get her thoughts in order. "There's nothing for me, back home. And it's only a matter of time before Darrow tires of me. So whenever I tell someone here, it's... I feel as if I've taken something from them. From you." It would have still been a lie, if any friends she left behind told themselves that she'd finally gone home to her family, but at least they could have believed it.

I think about what to say to Greta. I don't want to make her think that I definitely believe in the best possible outcome. Because I don't think that's the only possibility. I am not the kind of person who likes to hope — I prefer to do, to have control in my own hands, to make my own choices and see the result of it all. I don't like to wait for things to come my way.

So I can understand that maybe Greta feels a little bit hopeless. I have seen people get the worst of news from back home, and I can't imagine what it would be like to be in their shoes. I have not had any of my children die. I have not had my sibling or my husband, or even my parents die. (Louis' father passed away, which is the closest that I have felt, and even that felt more crushing than I could have imagined.)

I can't give her false hope because that's not what I am about. But I can tell her the truth.

"There's a chance that Darrow will no longer be a place for you, it's true. But I find it... more and more, I find it feels like there might be some place after this for us. It's too weird to think that nothing here matters, right? If we really go back to exactly where and when we came from, then what happens to all the time here? Why are we here? Yes, maybe we are some kind of experiment, but to me it seems naive to think we're all supposed to go back to exactly where we were. It's what I want the most, don't get me wrong," I say, waving my hand, frowning as I think of my boys. "But that doesn't mean that's what I think will happen."

"An after-afterlife?" Greta manages to sound amused, albeit in a weary sort of way. Well, that's what it might be for her, but she can't believe that everyone here is secretly dead. Denial would only get someone so far, and she's spoken to too many people who arrived from moments far less fraught than her own.

Besides, it wouldn't be the first time such a thing had happened. Sam's told her a little of the island he was on before he and Jordan arrived here. Maybe that's just how it works: one world finishes with you, and you're shunted on to a different one. Such an arbitrary notion wouldn't catch on amongst the religious sect, so she's not surprised that it's never come up before, but that doesn't make it wrong.

"I suppose there are worse ways for the universe to work," she allows after giving it a few moments' thought. "But there are better ways, too. People who have a home to go back to... they ought to be allowed that." Assuming 'home' isn't relentlessly awful, at least. She has friends from nasty enough places that she'd as soon they just stuck around Darrow forever, though Jessica isn't one of them. For her sake, she can't just throw herself behind the idea that there's some other random world waiting for them after this one.

"You are... how do they say it? You are preaching to the choir," I tell Greta. There is very little that I believe more strongly than making sure that every one of us has a way to go back home. Has a way to continue the lives that we lived before. I know some people here who died back home and they like having more time here, they want to stay here if they can. But everyone deserves a choice.

(Also, even though I would never say it to them directly, I think it's more important to give the living a chance to go back than to give the dead a place where they can continue. Maybe that's cruel of me. But it seems worse to take a life from a person who still had one to live.)

"I'm going to keep looking for that. Or at least making sure that the researchers who are doing the best job continue to get funding for their work. But... I guess the important thing is, try not to lose all hope yet," I tell Greta, reaching for her hand. "You have every reason to be angry, to be upset, to be sad. But this is not the end. You know?"

It isn't that he's lurking, exactly. For one, that would be creepy, and two, it would definitely be overstepping several boundaries. Greta is a friend, someone who's become important to both him and Jordan, but she's got a life of her own, and it isn't his business to infringe on that. Still, it's been longer than usual since he's heard from her, enough that Jordan has started to ask after her and when she'll next be coming over, which is reason enough — as if he didn't have one already — for him to want to see what's going on and make sure that everything is okay. It's strange, this absence, and there's a part of him that he knows is probably irrational but can't turn off anyway that's wary about Jordan forming connections to anyone who'll wind up leaving. She's lost enough as it is.

So, while it hadn't occurred to him when he first left the house to run errands, when he finds himself in the vicinity of Greta's building, he figures he may as well swing by on the off chance that he might catch her coming or going. Nothing weird or stalker-y or uncomfortable, just one friend hoping to run into another friend, wanting to make sure she's alright. That can't be such a bad thing. If it were the other way around, he tells himself, he would probably appreciate it, in fact. Eden almost certainly would have tracked him down by now, though they at least have the benefit of years of friendship, with her being the closest thing to family he's got, other than Jordan.

It's enough of a justification that he doesn't feel too out of place heading past her building, stopping in a nearby coffee shop for something to drink. When he does see her, it almost comes as a surprise — he'd figured it was unlikely that he actually would see her here, but there's something of a relief in it, too. At least she seems physically alright, not hurt or sick or anything.

"Greta, hey!" he calls, crossing the street to where he's spotted her. That relief fades quickly once he really gets a look at her, the expression on her face. "What's going on?"

Oh. Oh, no. It hadn't even occurred to her that she might run into Sam; their respective buildings are far enough apart that she wouldn't expect errand runs to overlap. If she'd known, she might not have left the apartment at all. Explaining herself to her friends -- any of her friends -- is a miserable prospect, but with Sam, it's almost incomprehensible. He's already lost so much. How can she tell him what her loss would mean? It would be too cruel. She'd hoped she might pull herself together before she saw him again. She'd hoped to avoid telling him altogether.

But scurrying off isn't an option, now that he's spotted her, so she stills and waits for him to cross the road. The real, bitter irony of it all is that part of her is glad to see him, has missed him (and Jordan, of course) despite the necessity of her avoidance. She hadn't realized how much time they were really spending together, but a week apart has felt wrong, and empty, in addition to all the other wrongness and emptiness she's been drowning in.

He sounds cheerful enough when he first calls out to her, but once he draws close enough to get a good look at her, his concern is immediate and apparent. God, it's already too late, isn't it? Even if she could pull herself together and lie convincingly (and she knows she can't), he knows something's wrong, he knows it's serious. And he's one of the dearest friends she has here. The thought of trying to put him off is just as repulsive as the thought of telling him the truth. Either way, what sort of friend does that make her?

She has to say something, offer him something, and she opens her mouth to fumble out a greeting. But she's miserable and exhausted, and the frustration of being trapped between two horrible options is too much, and her throat tightens before she can get any words out. Oh, god, this is just brilliant. Her face crumples, and she turns aside, as if that will make it any less obvious that she's moments away from bursting into tears in the middle of the sidewalk. She hates this.

Somehow, everything seems to happen at once in slow motion and too quickly. Her face falls, and Sam doesn't need to know the cause of it to tell that she looks like she's about to cry, and his breath stutters a little for it. She hadn't looked right, once he'd gotten close enough to really get a look at her expression, but God knows he couldn't have expected this. While she seems drawn in on herself now, he's reminded abruptly of that day it stormed, how she'd thrown herself at him so abruptly, seemed so shaken for reasons she didn't seem to understand any better than he did himself. In a way, that was easier. He doubts he was able to make that much difference, but he could at least feel useful somehow, try to help. Now, he's even more at a loss, and he wants — God, he wants to reach for her, to draw her into his arms like he did then, but he doesn't have a clue if that would be welcome, not when he doesn't have the first idea what might have prompted this.

"Hey," he says again, soft this time, hands held out in front of them before he gently, hesitantly, rests them on her arms. It seems like a reasonable compromise, offering comfort if she needs it, not getting too close if she doesn't want it. "Hey, it's okay." He doesn't know if it is or not, but he isn't about to press for answers under the circumstances. If just asking her what's going on has, somehow, been enough to elicit this sort of reaction from her, he doesn't want to ask even more pointed questions and risk making this even worse. There's still clear confusion written in his frown, but he doesn't act on it, not now, not yet. Better to get more of a sense of what she needs first, and then try to figure out what he can do.

It's not 'okay' in the least. She almost envies his ability to say it so easily. Or she would, if she thought she could get through the day without bursting that particular bubble in spectacular fashion. He won't be harboring any misconceptions about her okay-ness for much longer. And goodness knows she won't be doing him any favors by telling him.

But his hands are on her arms, steadying her. The temptation to just pitch forward and let him catch her is almost overwhelming. He's done it before; he could do it again. Probably would, too. But she can't quite bring herself to accept his comfort when he doesn't even know what it's for. She needs to--to account for herself.

She takes a few deep breaths, then gives her head a little shake. "I didn't want you to see me like this," she admits in a rush, as if getting the words out quickly will make them easier to say. It doesn't; even that relatively small admission makes her want to curl up in a hole somewhere. "I just..." she lifts her hand to grasp his forearm, the only concession she'll allow herself. "Can... can you get me home, please?" Her voice quavers, but at least she's holding herself together, even if it's only by a thread.

Sam doesn't even need to think before he nods, still fighting off the temptation to pull her closer, to step forward and embrace her or at least tuck her under one arm. Even without knowing what's going on, though, it's clear that it's something serious, and doing what she's asked simply goes without saying. She shouldn't have to stand out here on the sidewalk looking on the verge of tears anyway. If she didn't want him to see her like this, then he can't imagine that she would want any passersby to, either. Besides, they're already close to her place. He'd have walked her halfway across the damn city if that was what she needed, but at least it will be easy to get her back there, and hopefully without too many eyes on her. That seems like the last thing she needs right about now.

"Of course," he says, nodding seriously, taking the smallest of steps back as if to start them in that direction. "Come on, we'll get you back, and..." That, he isn't quite sure how to finish, not wanting to assume that she'll want to tell him whatever has prompted this, but wanting to make sure she knows that she can if she wants to. If she doesn't know that already, though — and he hopes she does — then that, too, can wait until they've gotten somewhere a little more private. He isn't going to ask her more than he has to when she seems to be in such an unsteady state, barely holding it together, nor is he going to put her in a position to say more than she needs to. "Well, you can sit down, and we'll take it from there."

Of course, he says, clearly trying to help, to make things as easy as possible. Which is a lost cause, really, but she's grateful all the same. She just wishes she could pull herself together. The lump in her throat is comprised of frustration as much as anything else -- anger with herself for not being able to spare him all of this.

She's probably being too hard on herself. She can imagine the look Demelza would give her if she saw her trying to treat her own misery like some sort of disservice, as if her sorrow is a terrible affliction she's spreading to anyone unfortunate enough to get too close. But it's hard to shake that conviction, not when she can see the impact this has on the people she tells. If she vanishes, that'll be it for her. She probably won't even know it's happened. It's everyone she's come to care for in Darrow who will have to deal with what her disappearance truly means.

God, she really, really hates this.

But she nods in agreement, and when Sam takes a tiny step backwards, she follows, as if he has her on a string. She can at least get to her apartment without causing a scene; she owes him that much. Part of her wants to take his hand, like a child. She settles for sticking close by his side, almost literally in his shadow, letting him hide her from at least some of the other pedestrians.

Candlewood is mercifully close. Her throat aches by the time they reach it, but her mortification and anxiety have congealed into a heavy sense of dread which, while still awful, at least makes it a little easier to not burst into tears. Once they're inside her apartment, she lets out a breath, rubbing her hand over her face. "I'm sorry about this," she says quietly, referring both to what's already happened and what she hasn't gotten around to, yet.

It's all Sam can do not to wrap his arm around her shoulders as they walk, less because of any physical instinct and more because she seems to need it. Whatever is wrong, whatever has her in this state, she seems to be more than a little rattled, and until they're inside, he doesn't have the first idea what else he can do about it. He can't be sure that it would do any good, though, so he suppresses the impulse, just keeping close beside her, hoping that it might help at least a little for her to know that he's here if she needs him to be. She may have been radio silent for a while, but he's beginning to suspect now that it isn't just because she's been busy and it isn't personal. Something else is going on here; he just doesn't know what. When she'd startled in his apartment, looking out the window that afternoon, at least the effect of it had seemed to be short-lived. She'd caught her breath a few moments later, and things had gone back to normal. This is another matter entirely, and he can't help but worry for it.

Getting inside is something of a relief, then, and he takes a deep breath, nodding when she speaks, in spite of his own following words. "There's nothing to be sorry for," he promises, frowning slightly as he looks at her, uncertain and concerned and not knowing what to do with any of it. All he can do, he supposes, still, is be here, now that he knows there's anything to be here for at all. "Are you... Do you want to talk about it?"

She doesn't want to talk about it, but she doesn't have much of a choice. She owes him an explanation. But it's more than that, she realizes, heart sinking: he deserves to know what's going on so he can decide how he wants to respond to it all. Jordan's already lost her mother. Greta had once thought it could only do the girl good to have more caring adults in her life, but now? Could she really blame him if he wanted to start weaning his daughter off of her now, while it's still possible to do it gently?

The thought is nearly enough to set her off again, and it's a visible struggle to hold herself together. But then she nods. "I think I have to."

The groceries are set on the counter, but not unpacked, and she considers trying to make tea before giving up on the idea. If she prolongs things, she might lose her nerve. Part of her wants to; he'd think she was mad and probably worry about her, but she could still cling to what they have. But that wouldn't be fair to him or to Jordan, and she'd feel horrible for that. So she shuffles over to the couch and sits, waiting for him to join her before she starts to speak.

"I met someone who knows my story." That part's almost easy, as well-worn an opening line as 'once upon a time.' It's the rest of it that's hard. She never knows what to emphasize: the simple truth of it, her own reasons for asking, that Jesse didn't mean to hurt her. "And I asked," she continues, already on the verge of tears. God. She hurries onward, "I just--I just wanted to know if they were all right, my family and--and the children. And they are, but I..." Her throat closes around the words. She hunches forward, her hand over her mouth and her arm curled around herself, as if she might be sick. As if he doesn't have enough to deal with. She takes a few deep, ragged breaths, then lifts her hand to her forehead. "... I fell." Now the tears come, and she buries her face in her hands, defeated.

It's all a little confusing, at first. What she means by her story, Sam doesn't know — it could be that she encountered someone from her own world and time, or it could be that she's from something, the way he knows some people here to be, a phenomenon he's long since stopped giving a good deal of thought to. It's just another one of Darrow's oddities, and there are so many of those — so many stranger ones, at that — that if he were fazed by all of them, he'd probably damn near lose his mind. He can adjust, and Jordan will grow up with it being normal, and as weird as that is to consider in his own right, there's a sort of reassurance in knowing she won't have anything to which she could compare being here.

None of that is the point now, though, and it isn't his business to ask what she means. All he can really do is listen, frowning slightly as he sits beside her, taking everything in, little by little. At first, it sounds fine enough, nothing that would prompt this display of emotion from her. The last, though, small as those two words might be, choked as they sound, speak volumes. He doesn't need to ask where she fell from or what happened. The finality of it, the burst of tears, they tell him everything he needs to know.

No wonder, then, he thinks suddenly and probably inappropriately, she startled so much when looking out his window, even if she hadn't actually known what happened yet.

Beyond that, he doesn't give himself time to stop and think about it yet, pulling her close instead, arms wrapped around her. Once, he's sure he would have felt nothing short of awkward trying to offer comfort in a situation like this, not exactly accustomed to being in a position to do so at all. Different as this may be, though, between the circumstances and the fact that Greta is a grown woman, he's still experienced enough in being there for Jordan that it doesn't feel as unnatural as he knows it once would have.

Some small, awful part of him — the part that spent all those years thinking that the prospect of his father being dead was easier than anything else, that remembers never knowing his mother and a slew of funerals as he grew up, that watched his father reintegrate with CLU, destroying them both — thinks it figures. This is how his life has always been. Greta is here, though, alive in Darrow if nowhere else, and it isn't fair just to group him in with others. That, too, though, he thinks is just an instinct, the same one he used to try to protect himself for all those years, to make the weight of those losses a little less heavy.

"I'm sorry," he says, soft, into her hair, because he doesn't know what else to say. There's no sufficient response for something like this, no way to make it any easier for her to bear. "God, I'm sorry."

She turns, automatic and instinctive, curling into him as if he might hide her from all of this. It's far too late for that, of course. This isn't like the last time he held her, when the solid reality of him (and the strength of her own denial) had been enough to banish the lurking memories of what had happened to her. The knowledge of her own death is still there, awful and undeniable. His attempt to comfort her is just additional, third-party confirmation of how horrible the truth is.

'Attempt' might be the wrong word for it. He is a comfort. Has been for months, really -- more than she'd realized. And the cruel irony of it all isn't lost on her. It goes without saying that they've grown closer than they should have, knowing how inevitable it is that the city would part them. Now, it's even worse, because he knows she's not going home to some happily ever after. He'll never be able to convince himself that her disappearance might be a good thing, if it happens. When it happens. After everything he's lost already. And he's telling her that he's sorry.

She's clinging to him, weeping into his shirt like a child, and she isn't even sure what she's crying for anymore. For her own losses, which are too large for an impromptu afterlife to outweigh. For her son, yet another motherless child in a world that already has too many. For her husband, who has to raise him without her, despite the self-doubt he'd heaped upon himself. For Jordan, who will lose her just as surely as she lost her mother, no matter what happens.

Or for Sam, for all of those reasons, because he shares a piece of each of them.

The cruel irony is that she doesn't deserve to be comforted by him. Not when she's only making his life harder. But she can't bring herself to pull away, either. Her tears slow, because they have to -- she's too tired to keep crying for long, no matter how much she feels like it. She loosens her grip on him, freeing up one hand so she can fish a handkerchief out of her pocket and mop off her face. But she still leans against him, letting him hold her for as long as he's willing.

Still, it's only fair to give him an out. And it's only now that she can manage it, now that she's too exhausted for a fresh bout of tears. "I understand if you want to... to see less of me," she says dully. "You've lost enough as it is. Both of you." She trusts he'll take her meaning. And she knows there's no good way to handle this, no way to make things better, but maybe they can avoid making it worse. Maybe she can ease her way out of their lives by degrees, deliberately, instead of in one fell swoop at some moment of Darrow's choosing. God knows she doesn't want to, but the option is there, and she won't pretend it isn't. Her breath hitches, a would-be sob that she doesn't have the strength for, but she makes herself sit still and wait for his response.

Helplessness has never been a feeling that's sat well with Sam. He's been that too many times in his life, and buried it by doing instead of feeling, interrupting ENCOM events and fucking with their releases for his father's sake, getting on his motorcycle and driving as fast as he possibly could, chasing anything off with an adrenaline rush. Jordan, of course, has changed that — for her sake, he has to be careful — but those instincts haven't gone anywhere, and the weight of something like this leaves him desperately restless. Sitting here and holding her seems horribly inadequate, even if he also couldn't pull away, couldn't leave her to deal with this on her own. As far as he can tell, she's been doing that for plenty long enough as it is.

God, if he'd known, if he'd tried to track her down instead of just wondering—

He can't change that now, though, so he stays put, breathing deeply, trying not to let himself grow physically tense in his need to do something. That can wait until later. Right now, she needs— Well, he can't assume she needs him, but she needs someone and he's the person who's here, arms around her, one hand moving absently over her back, even when she draws back enough to speak. When she actually does, though, when her words sink in, he stays close but stills, unable for a moment to understand her meaning, apparent as it might be.

On one count, she's not wrong. He's lost so goddamn much, and young as she is, Jordan has started to, too, an indisputable fact no matter how much he hates the truth of it. He knows it, has known it for most of his life, and for a long time, kept everyone at arm's length in an attempt to keep it from happening again. That, though, he can't manage anymore, hasn't been able to since sometime before Jordan was born, and if only for her sake now, in the aftermath of losing Andrea, he's forced himself not to fall back on old habits. Isolating himself was one thing; isolating her would have been another entirely, and not fair in the slightest.

For that alone, he could never take her up on that offer, frowning as he looks down at her and shakes his head. "Whatever... happened, back there," he says, slowly, carefully, "it doesn't make a difference here. If you disappeared, you'd be gone either way. And seeing less of you..." One corner of his mouth lifts, then, though it's an expression nowhere close to a smile. "It's not like that would be much better."

There's some hypocrisy inherent in the offer; she knows that. One could argue that it's silly to get hung up on a finer detail of this inevitable disappearance. It could even be selfish -- as if, from Jordan's perspective, what Greta might or might not be going home to would matter more than the fact that she's gone. If sparing the girl the possibility of a painful parting was Greta's only concern, she wouldn't have indulged her in the first place. But she had, because something was better than nothing.

And then nothing had suddenly loomed so large that it's been hard to really see anything else. Rather ironic, really, that she feels so much closer to death for having dodged it. This is all she has, now. Her life in Darrow is the only life she has left. And she can tell herself she's trying to do right by the friends she's made, but maybe she's not doing anyone any favors by withdrawing or isolating herself. As if there's nothing left to do but shop for a coffin and--and wait.

God, she's so sick of waiting.

Sam has his head on straight, at least. This is exactly what she needs: someone to be sensible while she's still reeling. She slumps a little after he speaks, feeling both reassured and lightly chastised, though she knows that wasn't his intent. It's more that the offer seems foolish (or pointless), now that's been refused. "Don't really want to see less of you, either," she admits.

His arms are still around her, his hand warm against her back. She can easily imagine listing back into him, tucking her face against his neck. And there's even less to stop her now than there was the other times she'd been so tempted. It trails through her mind like an afterthought, then doubles back and settles itself: no more marriage to be faithful to, no more Village-specific social mores to observe. None of it matters.

But that's been the problem for long enough that she can't quite bring herself to embrace it as a perk. Not yet. Not while she's like this, tired and grieving and all squashy-feeling from yet another crying jag. No, thank you. Besides, it's not as if they've been singing any bloody duets.

She rubs a hand over her face and lets out a quiet, exasperated groan, not unlike the sound she made after she came back to herself in his apartment (now, of course, the reason she'd panicked over the height is obvious). "I need to put the groceries away." And splash some cold water on herself. "Can I--are you hungry?" She's hungry, a feeling that tends to fade into nausea when she's miserable and then reassert itself when she's feeling a bit better. She's also itching for something to do, some small way to confirm that she, too, can be useful and pragmatic.

She also might be looking for an excuse for him to stay for a while, without having to ask outright, or act so needy that leaving would be cruel. She's had enough of the latter. But she does like having him here, and things are always worse when she's alone.

It's so sudden, such an abrupt change of tone, that Sam lets out a surprised huff of a laugh before he can help himself. If he was hungry, it isn't something he's been thinking about now, far too preoccupied with Greta and what she's told him. He'd already forgotten that she was carrying groceries when they came back here, everything having seemed to stop for a few moments or minutes or however long it's been. (Now that he's wondering, he isn't entirely sure of that, either. As long as there's someone to watch Jordan, which there is, then he doesn't particularly care.) She's not wrong, though, that it's probably a good idea to put them away sooner rather than later. It's a good idea, too, to stop and breathe for a moment, coming back to himself a little, pushing one hand over his hair as he does.

"I can't believe you're thinking about food right now," he says, about as close to teasing as he can get under the circumstances. "But yeah, if you were going to have something, I could eat." It is, maybe, a little less about actually eating and a little more about not wanting to leave her alone with this too abruptly, giving everything a chance to settle a little back into something like normal instead, but regardless, it's still true. If he were in a hurry, he wouldn't have made a point of passing by her building anyway, or coming back up here to hear whatever she had to tell him.

Sam doubts he'll be able to get any of this — any of it — out of his head anytime soon, but it wouldn't be fair to look at her and only see a ghost when she's alive here, and that's the only way he's ever known her. To the best of his knowledge, it isn't even all that uncommon a phenomenon, people showing up from a time like that, when they weren't supposed to have been anywhere at all. God knows he has the sense not to wish for anyone from his own life who died to show up here, when doing so would only likely lead to him getting hurt, but it happens, has happened, so often in his life. Sometimes he still gets stuck on that. In a strange way, with that being the case, this isn't surprising at all. It sort of almost just stands to reason.

"Here, I can help you put stuff away."

She wasn't expecting a laugh. A bit of self-deprecating humor might have been the distant goal, but she still feels too wretched to get much beyond the 'self-deprecating' part. The sound helps lighten the mood, though, and she smiles in return. It's small and shy and a little embarrassed, but it's there, and it's genuine.

"I probably haven't been thinking about it enough." There's a wry edge to that, too, because it goes without saying. One of the downsides to making your own clothes is that they fit perfectly until they don't, and then they look twice as wrong as something that was never made to fit perfectly to begin with. She hasn't lost enough weight for it to be alarming, but it's still evident in the way she fails to fill out her dress.

"But it's better with you here," she adds, going for brisk and businesslike as she rises to her feet. It's too sudden a move, and she has to pause and wait for a moment of light-headedness to pass before making her way into the kitchen. "Feeding you means I have to have something, otherwise it'd be rude." Well, maybe not rude so much as weird. Semantics. Doesn't matter.

She could add that it's just harder, cooking for one. All that effort for such small portions. Making more and freezing the extra is an option, of course, but it's one she's already taken advantage of to the point where her little freezer won't hold much more. And thawing small portions might be the only prospect more dismal than making them from scratch. Though she will admit, at least to herself, that the minimal amount of effort involved has proved fortunate on her worse days.

It's not a great haul as far as groceries are concerned -- none of it even needs to go in the fridge. It's not a task that really requires two people. But she's grateful for the offer. More than that, she's just grateful he's still here, and showing no signs of leaving.

Some small part of her is already dreading the part where he leaves.

But that's a ways off, yet, and she refuses to fixate on it. Instead, she stays him for just a moment with a hand on his arm, lingering long enough to say, "Thank you," and to meet his gaze squarely so he'll know that she means it. Her thumb skates a light arc over his skin, more muscle memory than anything conscious or deliberate. Then her lips twist in wry acknowledgment -- yes, she's being soppy, she knows -- and she releases him, moving to put the kettle on. Tea's easy to start, and then she can figure out what to tackle for food.

"D'you want some tea? Or coffee?" She still hasn't developed a taste for the stuff, herself, but she has some instant on hand for guests. "Or whatever's in the fridge," she adds with an absent flap of her hand. There are at least a few bottles of beer that she's been studiously avoiding, as if 'drinking alone' would be crossing a boundary into territory too pathetic even for her current state. But they're not out of date; otherwise, they would have fallen victim to one of her cleaning sprees.

The Tale You Tell

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