The Tale You Tell

[andhiswife]

It's been a difficult week.

That's actually an understatement. But she can't let the full weight of it settle on her, not when she's out in public like this. So for as long as she's out here, doing some shopping, it's just been a difficult week.

She's told Baz and Simon about her situation. They'd offered to give her time off, but that wasn't what she wanted. The Gardens are one of the few places where she doesn't feel like climbing the walls. There's too much else going on, too many other things that require her attention. It's everywhere else that's the problem. Her apartment is too quiet and too empty and too immaculate; she can't even justify housework anymore because everything that could possibly need doing has already been done thrice over.

And she knows she has friends who would help her, who would be happy to provide company or distractions or whatever she needed. But that would require telling them. Repeating the story wouldn't make it any more real than it is already, but the thought of burdening anyone else with it -- and how could something this heavy not be a burden? -- turns her stomach. So much so that she's been politely deflecting the invitations she's received, rather than try to face anyone.

She'll say this for texting: it makes it easier to lie.

The thought of food rather turns her stomach, too, but she's getting groceries, anyway. Even if the chief appeal of cooking is making a mess that she would then have to tidy up, it's still a necessary chore. Her clothing is starting to hang a bit looser than it ought to, and she doesn't want to make new garments for what she knows, distantly, to be an impermanent state of affairs. So, groceries. She can do this.

[Find Greta looking terrible either at or en route to a grocery store, or on her way back to Candlewood. Closed unless we've spoken; hmu if you still want in.]

Comments

[numberhuang]

"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."

[andhiswife]

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."

[andhiswife]

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."

[andhiswife]

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.

[shok_ebasit_hissra]

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."

[pontmercyfriend]

"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."

[on_mans_road]

"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.

[andhiswife]

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.

[andhiswife]

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."

[pontmercyfriend]

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.

[numberhuang]

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."

[andhiswife]

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.

[andhiswife]

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.

[numberhuang]

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.

[andhiswife]

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.

[improvises]

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?"

[andhiswife]

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.

[numberhuang]

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?

[andhiswife]

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.

[improvises]

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."

[andhiswife]

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.

[numberhuang]

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."

[andhiswife]

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.

[improvises]

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."

[andhiswife]

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.