andhiswife | (Reply)

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.