The Baker's Wife (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
andhiswife) wrote2017-06-19 10:04 pm
andhiswife) wrote2017-06-19 10:04 pm
Entry tags:
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.]
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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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.
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"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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
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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."
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"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.
no subject
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.