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.]

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[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.

[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.

[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.

[improvises]

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."

[andhiswife]

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.