andhiswife | The Tale You Tell

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The Tale You Tell

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.]

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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.

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The Tale You Tell

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