Black olives and mushrooms please Don't forget the garlic sauce
[ At around 9:14 PM, knock knock knock. This is the transition to action you get as I phone tag. (Details to come next tag.) For what it's worth, only one shadow falls across the front door of his living space. ]
( Through a combination of dedication and happenstance, Frank's managed to find the one good pizza joint in this whole goddamn city. As far as he's figured out, it's somebody's great-great-grandfather that came over from some version of New York, and passed the recipe down from generation to generation, shunning any member of the family that suggested they try switching to Chicaco style sometime.
Anyway, the point is, the pizza's already there by the time she is. He answers the door, gestures her in, and maybe shoots a cursory glance around the parking lot just to make sure no hint of motorcycle has dared to tread in his biker-free domain.
He's already half-way to the fridge when he asks: )
You want a beer?
( Assuming that's a yes by default. He'll get into the whole reason he invited her over in a minute, he's gonna give her two goddamn minutes to settle in first. )
[ Once let in, Nash treats the place like she lives there. Her bag is dumped carelessly on the floor; only the table leg keeps the contents from spilling out. A pair of mid-heel pumps aren’t kicked off — she isn’t a monster, after all — but they are tugged off her heels and abandoned in the entry way, right in front of the door. Most mercifully, the humiliating mini-skirt and low-necked camisole that’s part of the evening job’s “uniform” has been covered up by a ratty grey hoodie with GALBADIA GARDEN HOCKEY TEAM emblazoned on the front in dark red.
Does she grab a plate? Not this time. The lid of the pizza box is flipped open, baring its paper grease stains for all the world to see, and her hands descend to slice number one like a hawk swooping toward an abandoned hamster.
She gets through a few bites before she glances over her shoulder and—
Oh, yeah. Probably shouldn’t do that anymore.
Some sheepishness colours the way she turns back, ducking her head. ]
So, what’s up? [ She barely leaves him enough air for a syllable before continuing. ] Oh, Tera at Rayne’s said to tell you thanks for getting that guy out the other week. She also said—
[ Around a mouthful of pizza, Nash reconsiders relaying Tera’s true message. Smartly, perhaps. Chew, chew, swallow, and: ]
—that you are now in the lifetime “two-for-one beer” club.
( He starts in as soon as she goes about pizza time like an absolute monster — but it's that automatic dad reflex that ends in a sigh, as he puts forth exactly zero effort into enforcing the use of plates like civilized human beings. Matter of fact, he joins her on her level and, once he thunks the beer down across from her, takes to eating his half of the pizza directly out of the box as well.
Then comes the question, which he opens his mouth to answer, only to find himself cut off abruptly, and — does he know who the hell Tera is? There's a pause, a blink, and then a huh kind of shrug.
Two-for-one beer's a goddamn deal. )
Shit, alright...
( Gonna be real awkward trying to remember which one Tera is, but he'll figure it out. He could obviously ask Nash now, but —
He waves his hands vaguely, dismissing the whole thing, intent to get back on topic. To demonstrate the Seriousness of this whole thing, he even drops his slice back into the box and wipes his hands on a paper towel before he starts. )
I owe you an apology.
( Straight up, like a man. No beating around the bush, no ego, just the level truth. )
The way I acted the other day when you told me- everything, it wasn't okay. I know it wasn't. I didn't handle it well, I lost my shit, and I scared you. I didn't mean to do that, and I want you to know that I wouldn't- ( He falters here, because... shit, if he says I'd never hurt you and she doesn't look like she believes him, it's gonna rip a hole in him. ) The point is, I'm sorry. And I got you somethin'. It's not- I'm not trying to buy you off, I just wanna. You know.
Does she catch it gracefully or smoothly? Absolutely not. It bounces off her extended hands and falls awkwardly into her chest, nestled against the folds of the stolen hoodie and the friction of the fading lettering. When she tries to grab it, it dislodges from its perch due to her utterly disrespectful act of moving slightly and tumbles down toward the floor, desperate to be free of this life. She snatches it with both hands and sets it down on her plate with an undeserved, unearned triumph. Frank, it seems, doesn’t get any.
Wiping her mouth with the heel of her hand (and not a napkin, which are probably around here somewhere), she exhales. It’s something less than a sigh. Tucking her arms against the table, her body language sags slightly. ]
Look, honestly, you didn’t need to. I get it. It’s— a lot, and I clearly don’t know how to talk about it—
[ A shrug. ]
So, I don’t. I— I didn’t. I won’t.
[ Pushing some hair out of her face, she starts to peel open the plastic covering off the dipping sauce container. ]
I’m sorry I couldn’t help. But don’t— waste your money on me. This city is bleeding us all dry.
( What a captivating display of physical prowess. Truly it is a wonder she didn't get that basketball scholarship or WNBA recruitment she'd been hoping for.
She wipes her hand across her mouth. He pushes a paper towel her direction automatically, expression unimpressed. Instinct, old habit. Once upon a time it was followed up with a spaghetti sauce covered grin from either of his kids, and it's hard not to let that flash through his mind. Especially after the conversation they had the other day. )
Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter how you delivered it, I shouldn't have lost it on you. That's on me.
( Firmly, factually, beyond questioning. He's a grown god damn man. She's a young woman, a young woman who was in a scary situation with a guy she barely knows — one she's absolutely seen outright kill people before. The fact that she's even still willing to come around and be alone with him is insane, but then, she'd been willing to invite those drunk assholes to ride in the back seat of her car once upon a time, too. Her judgment's not always the most sound, if you ask him. )
Anyway, money's already spent, so.
( Too fucking bad. Take it anyway.
He produces a brown paper bag from the empty seat beside him, where it had apparently been lying in wait since before she walked in. It's sizeable, hefty. He pushes it across the small table her direction, and then pointedly goes back to eating his pizza.
She can look at it now, she can look at it later, whatever she wants. It's hers, and he'll feign disinterest for the sake of not pressuring her.
Inside is a leather-bound (faux leather, actually, because she strikes him as the type to give a shit about that sort of thing) refillable sketchbook, with the letter N embossed on one of the flaps.
He manhandled hers, and then commandeered two pages out of it, so.
It's supposed to be practical. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Either way, it's not like it cost an arm and a leg or anything. Wasn't cheap, but it wasn't egregious either. She can spike it into a dumpster if she wants for all he cares, it's hers. )
[ Nash uses one of the pointedly-pushed-forward paper towels to wipe her hands of pizza grease before she reaches into the bag. Her manner, in reaching for the item, is somewhere between tentatively excited and politely pretending not to be; at no point does she approach it with ginger uncertainty, like there might be a snake in the bag or something. Her fingers touch leather, pull out the book.
She blinks, runs her fingers over the faint indent of the embossed N.
It definitely isn't going to be spiked into the dumpster. A belated need for some sort of decorum is the only thing keeping her from reaching into her bag and displacing all the pages from her current books. Her expression is soft and open and slightly uncomfortable.
Gently, her voice roughened with some emotion she can barely name, she says, ]
Thanks, Franklin. I love it.
[ She puts it back in the brown bag, tucks inside her tote.
When she sits back up straight, she has something else in her hand. Cheap sketching stock, folded into fours. There's a tear, a small chunk ripped off from the middle of the side to the bottom corner. This time, she doesn't recklessly open it and shove it under his nose. Folded, the colours and pencil lines tucked away, it's set down for him to take... or not take. ]
I have something for you too. You didn't make it to the other page, so— [ A little gesture, a not-quite-careless flick of her fingers to fill the space she doesn't have words for.
If he opens it, he'll see Maria — as she looked in life, not in death. Colour is put back into her skin, her lips. Her smile is based off of Frank Jr.'s. ]
( He's honestly all set for the conversation to end there. Her soft gratitude, his quiet grunt of acknowledgement because it's better than giving any kind of indication that her reaction meant very much to him. All set to let things veer back into whatever stupid nonsense it is she wants to talk about, or not talk at all and instead focus on shoveling down pizza. That's what he's braced for.
Instead, he gets to have a nice challenge demonstrating the sincerity of his apology by being put back in the exact same position for a second time.
She slides forth a sketch of Maria.
He hadn't asked. It had been a deliberate choice not to ask. He didn't want to know.
But now he does anyway.
Does that make things better or worse? Knowing that she's been watching him fall apart, knowing that she's seen what he's become — though, he thinks, part of her already knew what he was. She knew all along. She married him anyway. Maybe none of it is surprising to her, only saddening.
Absurdly, stupidly, he thinks... at least she's there to take care of the kids. If the three of them are together —
There's a deep, dark rabbit hole here that he needs to do everything in his power not to jump down.
He stares down at the crease lines in the paper, and the way it gently distorts her form.
Then reaches for his wallet. Pulls it out. Silently folds the paper back into a square, and slips it in alongside the other sketches. Then tucks the wallet away again. Better that he doesn't spend too long staring. Better that he doesn't-
Better that he doesn't.
He clears his throat and, after that lengthy, pregnant quiet, finally breaks it to give her what he feels like he might owe her: an explanation. The story. )
We were together when it happened. The four of us. We had this ritual, any time I got back from deployment... the next day, we'd go to Central Park. Have a picnic, you know, let the kids ride the carousel. That whole thing. The music's going, the kids are laughing, and then the next thing you know there's gunfire. Them, everyone around us- everyone. Took a bullet to the head myself, but- you know- it uh. It didn't stick.
( His fingertips idly slip into his hair to find the scar, an absent touch, the rest of him preoccupied. He's wondered, off and on, if she thinks he did it. If that's part of why she asked, after Amberly. If she thinks they got swept up in some violence he initiated — which, he supposes, in a way, they did. Just... not like that. )
I just figure... if you've gotta see 'em like that, you should at least get to know why.
[ She's patient as he talks, giving him her unwavering, undivided attention.
Nashua had never once entertained the thought that he hurt his family. Whatever had gone down, they've never regarded him with fear or trepidation. The regard has always been warmth, always been a subtle sort of longing. They stare at him the same way he stares at the pictures she drew.
By the last few words, she reaches for his hand. Squeezes it. Her skin is strikingly dusky compared to his, her fingers slight and hand small in comparison. But a peek of her palm, where her skin's melanin stops and leaves with her a patchy peach, the calluses below her knuckles an infant version of his own— well, that's not so different, is it? It isn't lost on her that this is the first time she's initiated any sort of physical contact. Despite her forcing herself into his life over the last handful of months, it's always been with careful inches between them. Mindful of his power (where she has none) and his reach (where she has none). ]
What happened then is none of my business.
[ It's softly said, sympathy in her syllables. It's not a rejection, it's letting him off the hook. It's giving him back whatever shreds remain of his privacy. ]
You don't owe me any explanations. But— [ She's not going anywhere. ] Thank you for telling me.
[ Still holding his hand, she looks toward the empty side of the room. Down a smidge. Her gaze doesn't move for several seconds, her brow furrowed with concentration. ]
( He stills under her touch as though arrested. For one long moment he does nothing, like he's waiting for her to change her mind, waiting for her to realize some mistake she's made, waiting for her to get uncomfortable enough to pull back. When, at length, it seems like she's determined to hang on, only then does he finally respond. It's terribly careful, the way his hand curls. Barely anything, just enough to wind calloused fingers around her much smaller ones, more than a hint of reciprocity, but not by much. Delicate as it is, she could yank her hand away easily any time she wants.
He's a man of many contrasting facets. As physically domineering as he is in a fight, he could not possibly be gentler than he is right now.
His eyes stay fixed on the table's surface between them. Not at any one specific spot, just its general direction, looking without seeing. He finally drags them up at the tail end of it all, so he can look her in the eyes when he says: )
You're welcome.
( Sincerely, and in the most gracious sense of the term.
Her eyes peel away. He follows her gaze, sees nothing at all, and the confusion that stirs only lasts for a second before the realization hits. His fingers twitch beneath hers, some unconscious, aborted tic like pulling a trigger.
[ A flicker of a smile, meant to reassure, as she turns back to him. ]
Just girl talk.
[ Knowing Lisa's name has made it harder to shut her out, but Nashua keeps that to herself. Up until the other day, she had figured he would react to his children the way she reacts to the occasional memory of Tommy; she's learned, since then, she has no rudder to steer with when it comes to a parent losing their child. She doesn't understand— and probably never will now, in this city.
She gives his hand another little squeeze and then gives him his fingers back. Reaching for her beer, she tries to untwist the cap barehanded, tries to untwist it with a fistful of hoodie for additional friction, and then slides it over to Frank when none of her previous efforts bear fruit. ]
Since it's share-time: when I was, like, twelve or thirteen, I went through a phase where I didn't believe anything that was unquantifiable. If the Easter Bunny wasn't real, neither were ghosts or jackalopes or— or princesses.
[ The one of these is not like the other is slid in there deliberately, to ease the tension of his sadness; give him something to roll his eyes about. ]
Obviously, with that logic, the only solution for me was a brain tumour. I did what any kid would do in that situation and told all my friends I was dying. They threw a little pre-death funeral party for me in the woods behind the reservation. Tyler, who was sixteen, stole three cases of beer from the store where his brother worked. I demolished a whole case by myself and then projectile vomited everywhere.
( Girl talk, Christ... does he wanna know what that is? Does he wanna ask? It's a can of worms for sure, it's just-
If he cracks open Pandora's box, there's no closing it again. He'll get obsessed with it, the thought of his family being just there, right out of his reach. Living in a dimension just to the left of his own, just a hair beyond his fingertips, with Nash as the only connecting bridge between the two points. She deserves better than the ways he'd use her curse to wallow in his grief with the dead.
And the more he thinks about how they're all right there, the more he thinks about how easy it would be to join them. He could. He could do it in a way that wouldn't even be traumatic for Nash to look upon later, he knows exactly where in his thigh to stick something sharp and let it all go.
He won't. That's not him. Not the man he wants to be for his kids, his wife, but — the thought lingers, tempting, insidious, whispering.
He pushes all of his focus back onto her, back to her story. Forces himself to let out a halfhearted snort at the widely-known fictional belief in princesses, like he knows she's expecting him to. By the time the story's actually done, he's more or less reoriented himself with a foot on solid ground again, entirely through sheer force of will alone. )
Brain tumor... ( He murmurs, shaking his head slowly. ) You told your parents about it? What'd they do? They believe you?
[ Exhaling over the mouth of her beer, she takes a moment to figure out what she wants to say.
The joy of the stupid story fades from her words. Her voice is rougher now, more honest. ]
There was an incident... once. I saw something I didn't understand, and told a family friend and then— I dunno. CPS got involved, everyone was upset, I felt responsible. I learned to keep my mouth shut to them after that. Everyone figured I was lying about the brain tumour anyway.
[ Another brief, flickering smile. She stares down the neck of her beer for a second before reaching for another slice. This one isn't beset upon like a beast resurfacing from a six month hibernation, but she does happily ruin the dipping sauce by poking the bottom point of the slice into it and leaving bits of sauce and mushroom debris behind. ]
You're the only person I've ever told about... being a freak.
Hey— ( He cuts in firmly; it's not a bark, not jarring, just a steady, terse reprimand. ) Do not call yourself that.
( Like he's just gonna sit here and let her put herself down like that, hell no. She's got enough on her plate to deal with without battering her own self-esteem along with it. He's not here for that shit, and if he heard anyone else call her that he'd be having a much harsher conversation right now. )
Look- where I come from... there are people who can do all kinds of shit. I didn't luck into that, that's not me, but- it's not all that uncommon. People with gifts, people who can shit other people can't do. Stuff you wouldn't even believe. It's 2018, shit like that's the new normal.
( It is definitely not 2018 in Diadem, but he's still operating on former Local Time in the back of his mind, so. Whatever. Sue him. )
I'm sorry you didn't have anybody in your corner for it before now. Seems like the kind of thing that can leave you feeling alone, but- you're not a freak. You don't need to treat yourself like one anymore.
[ It's equal parts appreciation and bashfulness, wrapped in a thin cellophane of nonchalance. There's some extra colour about her nose. She doesn't know how to respond it such a sentiment earnestly — it goes against twenty-five years of lived experience, after all — so she just... doesn't.
Instead— ]
So, you didn't hear this from me, but I'm pretty sure Nan has a new boyfriend. This one is even younger than you.
[ The next hour, as they finish off the pizza and she declines a second beer, is filled with mindless fluff and gossip along the same lines. She's only slightly hesitant to leave, having felt him flicker to air and mourning and back for a brief moment earlier in the evening, but he assures her that he's good and she's tired enough to leave it at that.
By his insistence, she does message to let him know she got home safely. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
262 – 4396
You busy?
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At work.
Everything okay?
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Fine.
Come over after if you want.
I'll buy dinner.
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She does it anyway. ]
Got this biker gang worshipping me religiously this week
Okay if they come too?
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no subject
We'll be by after 9
Black olives and mushrooms please
Don't forget the garlic sauce
[ At around 9:14 PM, knock knock knock. This is the transition to action you get as I phone tag. (Details to come next tag.) For what it's worth, only one shadow falls across the front door of his living space. ]
no subject
( Through a combination of dedication and happenstance, Frank's managed to find the one good pizza joint in this whole goddamn city. As far as he's figured out, it's somebody's great-great-grandfather that came over from some version of New York, and passed the recipe down from generation to generation, shunning any member of the family that suggested they try switching to Chicaco style sometime.
Anyway, the point is, the pizza's already there by the time she is. He answers the door, gestures her in, and maybe shoots a cursory glance around the parking lot just to make sure no hint of motorcycle has dared to tread in his biker-free domain.
He's already half-way to the fridge when he asks: )
You want a beer?
( Assuming that's a yes by default. He'll get into the whole reason he invited her over in a minute, he's gonna give her two goddamn minutes to settle in first. )
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[ Once let in, Nash treats the place like she lives there. Her bag is dumped carelessly on the floor; only the table leg keeps the contents from spilling out. A pair of mid-heel pumps aren’t kicked off — she isn’t a monster, after all — but they are tugged off her heels and abandoned in the entry way, right in front of the door. Most mercifully, the humiliating mini-skirt and low-necked camisole that’s part of the evening job’s “uniform” has been covered up by a ratty grey hoodie with GALBADIA GARDEN HOCKEY TEAM emblazoned on the front in dark red.
Does she grab a plate? Not this time. The lid of the pizza box is flipped open, baring its paper grease stains for all the world to see, and her hands descend to slice number one like a hawk swooping toward an abandoned hamster.
She gets through a few bites before she glances over her shoulder and—
Oh, yeah. Probably shouldn’t do that anymore.
Some sheepishness colours the way she turns back, ducking her head. ]
So, what’s up? [ She barely leaves him enough air for a syllable before continuing. ] Oh, Tera at Rayne’s said to tell you thanks for getting that guy out the other week. She also said—
[ Around a mouthful of pizza, Nash reconsiders relaying Tera’s true message. Smartly, perhaps. Chew, chew, swallow, and: ]
—that you are now in the lifetime “two-for-one beer” club.
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( He starts in as soon as she goes about pizza time like an absolute monster — but it's that automatic dad reflex that ends in a sigh, as he puts forth exactly zero effort into enforcing the use of plates like civilized human beings. Matter of fact, he joins her on her level and, once he thunks the beer down across from her, takes to eating his half of the pizza directly out of the box as well.
Then comes the question, which he opens his mouth to answer, only to find himself cut off abruptly, and — does he know who the hell Tera is? There's a pause, a blink, and then a huh kind of shrug.
Two-for-one beer's a goddamn deal. )
Shit, alright...
( Gonna be real awkward trying to remember which one Tera is, but he'll figure it out. He could obviously ask Nash now, but —
He waves his hands vaguely, dismissing the whole thing, intent to get back on topic. To demonstrate the Seriousness of this whole thing, he even drops his slice back into the box and wipes his hands on a paper towel before he starts. )
I owe you an apology.
( Straight up, like a man. No beating around the bush, no ego, just the level truth. )
The way I acted the other day when you told me- everything, it wasn't okay. I know it wasn't. I didn't handle it well, I lost my shit, and I scared you. I didn't mean to do that, and I want you to know that I wouldn't- ( He falters here, because... shit, if he says I'd never hurt you and she doesn't look like she believes him, it's gonna rip a hole in him. ) The point is, I'm sorry. And I got you somethin'. It's not- I'm not trying to buy you off, I just wanna. You know.
( Vague gesture.
Make up for it. )
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Is it the garlic sauce?
[ That's it.
That's the whole tag. ]
1/2
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You know, sometimes adults have these things called 'serious conversations'. You should try it out.
( ...but he did actually remember the garlic sauce, which he fetches from the damn counter and chucks at her.
What a god damn gremlin. )
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Yes!
Does she catch it gracefully or smoothly? Absolutely not. It bounces off her extended hands and falls awkwardly into her chest, nestled against the folds of the stolen hoodie and the friction of the fading lettering. When she tries to grab it, it dislodges from its perch due to her utterly disrespectful act of moving slightly and tumbles down toward the floor, desperate to be free of this life. She snatches it with both hands and sets it down on her plate with an undeserved, unearned triumph. Frank, it seems, doesn’t get any.
Wiping her mouth with the heel of her hand (and not a napkin, which are probably around here somewhere), she exhales. It’s something less than a sigh. Tucking her arms against the table, her body language sags slightly. ]
Look, honestly, you didn’t need to. I get it. It’s— a lot, and I clearly don’t know how to talk about it—
[ A shrug. ]
So, I don’t. I— I didn’t. I won’t.
[ Pushing some hair out of her face, she starts to peel open the plastic covering off the dipping sauce container. ]
I’m sorry I couldn’t help. But don’t— waste your money on me. This city is bleeding us all dry.
no subject
She wipes her hand across her mouth. He pushes a paper towel her direction automatically, expression unimpressed. Instinct, old habit. Once upon a time it was followed up with a spaghetti sauce covered grin from either of his kids, and it's hard not to let that flash through his mind. Especially after the conversation they had the other day. )
Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter how you delivered it, I shouldn't have lost it on you. That's on me.
( Firmly, factually, beyond questioning. He's a grown god damn man. She's a young woman, a young woman who was in a scary situation with a guy she barely knows — one she's absolutely seen outright kill people before. The fact that she's even still willing to come around and be alone with him is insane, but then, she'd been willing to invite those drunk assholes to ride in the back seat of her car once upon a time, too. Her judgment's not always the most sound, if you ask him. )
Anyway, money's already spent, so.
( Too fucking bad. Take it anyway.
He produces a brown paper bag from the empty seat beside him, where it had apparently been lying in wait since before she walked in. It's sizeable, hefty. He pushes it across the small table her direction, and then pointedly goes back to eating his pizza.
She can look at it now, she can look at it later, whatever she wants. It's hers, and he'll feign disinterest for the sake of not pressuring her.
Inside is a leather-bound (faux leather, actually, because she strikes him as the type to give a shit about that sort of thing) refillable sketchbook, with the letter N embossed on one of the flaps.
He manhandled hers, and then commandeered two pages out of it, so.
It's supposed to be practical. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Either way, it's not like it cost an arm and a leg or anything. Wasn't cheap, but it wasn't egregious either. She can spike it into a dumpster if she wants for all he cares, it's hers. )
no subject
She blinks, runs her fingers over the faint indent of the embossed N.
It definitely isn't going to be spiked into the dumpster. A belated need for some sort of decorum is the only thing keeping her from reaching into her bag and displacing all the pages from her current books. Her expression is soft and open and slightly uncomfortable.
Gently, her voice roughened with some emotion she can barely name, she says, ]
Thanks, Franklin. I love it.
[ She puts it back in the brown bag, tucks inside her tote.
When she sits back up straight, she has something else in her hand. Cheap sketching stock, folded into fours. There's a tear, a small chunk ripped off from the middle of the side to the bottom corner. This time, she doesn't recklessly open it and shove it under his nose. Folded, the colours and pencil lines tucked away, it's set down for him to take... or not take. ]
I have something for you too. You didn't make it to the other page, so— [ A little gesture, a not-quite-careless flick of her fingers to fill the space she doesn't have words for.
If he opens it, he'll see Maria — as she looked in life, not in death. Colour is put back into her skin, her lips. Her smile is based off of Frank Jr.'s. ]
no subject
Instead, he gets to have a nice challenge demonstrating the sincerity of his apology by being put back in the exact same position for a second time.
She slides forth a sketch of Maria.
He hadn't asked. It had been a deliberate choice not to ask. He didn't want to know.
But now he does anyway.
Does that make things better or worse? Knowing that she's been watching him fall apart, knowing that she's seen what he's become — though, he thinks, part of her already knew what he was. She knew all along. She married him anyway. Maybe none of it is surprising to her, only saddening.
Absurdly, stupidly, he thinks... at least she's there to take care of the kids. If the three of them are together —
There's a deep, dark rabbit hole here that he needs to do everything in his power not to jump down.
He stares down at the crease lines in the paper, and the way it gently distorts her form.
Then reaches for his wallet. Pulls it out. Silently folds the paper back into a square, and slips it in alongside the other sketches. Then tucks the wallet away again. Better that he doesn't spend too long staring. Better that he doesn't-
Better that he doesn't.
He clears his throat and, after that lengthy, pregnant quiet, finally breaks it to give her what he feels like he might owe her: an explanation. The story. )
We were together when it happened. The four of us. We had this ritual, any time I got back from deployment... the next day, we'd go to Central Park. Have a picnic, you know, let the kids ride the carousel. That whole thing. The music's going, the kids are laughing, and then the next thing you know there's gunfire. Them, everyone around us- everyone. Took a bullet to the head myself, but- you know- it uh. It didn't stick.
( His fingertips idly slip into his hair to find the scar, an absent touch, the rest of him preoccupied. He's wondered, off and on, if she thinks he did it. If that's part of why she asked, after Amberly. If she thinks they got swept up in some violence he initiated — which, he supposes, in a way, they did. Just... not like that. )
I just figure... if you've gotta see 'em like that, you should at least get to know why.
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Nashua had never once entertained the thought that he hurt his family. Whatever had gone down, they've never regarded him with fear or trepidation. The regard has always been warmth, always been a subtle sort of longing. They stare at him the same way he stares at the pictures she drew.
By the last few words, she reaches for his hand. Squeezes it. Her skin is strikingly dusky compared to his, her fingers slight and hand small in comparison. But a peek of her palm, where her skin's melanin stops and leaves with her a patchy peach, the calluses below her knuckles an infant version of his own— well, that's not so different, is it? It isn't lost on her that this is the first time she's initiated any sort of physical contact. Despite her forcing herself into his life over the last handful of months, it's always been with careful inches between them. Mindful of his power (where she has none) and his reach (where she has none). ]
What happened then is none of my business.
[ It's softly said, sympathy in her syllables. It's not a rejection, it's letting him off the hook. It's giving him back whatever shreds remain of his privacy. ]
You don't owe me any explanations. But— [ She's not going anywhere. ] Thank you for telling me.
[ Still holding his hand, she looks toward the empty side of the room. Down a smidge. Her gaze doesn't move for several seconds, her brow furrowed with concentration. ]
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He's a man of many contrasting facets. As physically domineering as he is in a fight, he could not possibly be gentler than he is right now.
His eyes stay fixed on the table's surface between them. Not at any one specific spot, just its general direction, looking without seeing. He finally drags them up at the tail end of it all, so he can look her in the eyes when he says: )
You're welcome.
( Sincerely, and in the most gracious sense of the term.
Her eyes peel away. He follows her gaze, sees nothing at all, and the confusion that stirs only lasts for a second before the realization hits. His fingers twitch beneath hers, some unconscious, aborted tic like pulling a trigger.
He swallows. Forces himself to ask— )
You're lookin' at 'em now, aren't you?
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[ A flicker of a smile, meant to reassure, as she turns back to him. ]
Just girl talk.
[ Knowing Lisa's name has made it harder to shut her out, but Nashua keeps that to herself. Up until the other day, she had figured he would react to his children the way she reacts to the occasional memory of Tommy; she's learned, since then, she has no rudder to steer with when it comes to a parent losing their child. She doesn't understand— and probably never will now, in this city.
She gives his hand another little squeeze and then gives him his fingers back. Reaching for her beer, she tries to untwist the cap barehanded, tries to untwist it with a fistful of hoodie for additional friction, and then slides it over to Frank when none of her previous efforts bear fruit. ]
Since it's share-time: when I was, like, twelve or thirteen, I went through a phase where I didn't believe anything that was unquantifiable. If the Easter Bunny wasn't real, neither were ghosts or jackalopes or— or princesses.
[ The one of these is not like the other is slid in there deliberately, to ease the tension of his sadness; give him something to roll his eyes about. ]
Obviously, with that logic, the only solution for me was a brain tumour. I did what any kid would do in that situation and told all my friends I was dying. They threw a little pre-death funeral party for me in the woods behind the reservation. Tyler, who was sixteen, stole three cases of beer from the store where his brother worked. I demolished a whole case by myself and then projectile vomited everywhere.
[ That's her best and greatest story. ]
cw: suicidal ideation.
If he cracks open Pandora's box, there's no closing it again. He'll get obsessed with it, the thought of his family being just there, right out of his reach. Living in a dimension just to the left of his own, just a hair beyond his fingertips, with Nash as the only connecting bridge between the two points. She deserves better than the ways he'd use her curse to wallow in his grief with the dead.
And the more he thinks about how they're all right there, the more he thinks about how easy it would be to join them. He could. He could do it in a way that wouldn't even be traumatic for Nash to look upon later, he knows exactly where in his thigh to stick something sharp and let it all go.
He won't. That's not him. Not the man he wants to be for his kids, his wife, but — the thought lingers, tempting, insidious, whispering.
He pushes all of his focus back onto her, back to her story. Forces himself to let out a halfhearted snort at the widely-known fictional belief in princesses, like he knows she's expecting him to. By the time the story's actually done, he's more or less reoriented himself with a foot on solid ground again, entirely through sheer force of will alone. )
Brain tumor... ( He murmurs, shaking his head slowly. ) You told your parents about it? What'd they do? They believe you?
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[ Exhaling over the mouth of her beer, she takes a moment to figure out what she wants to say.
The joy of the stupid story fades from her words. Her voice is rougher now, more honest. ]
There was an incident... once. I saw something I didn't understand, and told a family friend and then— I dunno. CPS got involved, everyone was upset, I felt responsible. I learned to keep my mouth shut to them after that. Everyone figured I was lying about the brain tumour anyway.
[ Another brief, flickering smile. She stares down the neck of her beer for a second before reaching for another slice. This one isn't beset upon like a beast resurfacing from a six month hibernation, but she does happily ruin the dipping sauce by poking the bottom point of the slice into it and leaving bits of sauce and mushroom debris behind. ]
You're the only person I've ever told about... being a freak.
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( Like he's just gonna sit here and let her put herself down like that, hell no. She's got enough on her plate to deal with without battering her own self-esteem along with it. He's not here for that shit, and if he heard anyone else call her that he'd be having a much harsher conversation right now. )
Look- where I come from... there are people who can do all kinds of shit. I didn't luck into that, that's not me, but- it's not all that uncommon. People with gifts, people who can shit other people can't do. Stuff you wouldn't even believe. It's 2018, shit like that's the new normal.
( It is definitely not 2018 in Diadem, but he's still operating on former Local Time in the back of his mind, so. Whatever. Sue him. )
I'm sorry you didn't have anybody in your corner for it before now. Seems like the kind of thing that can leave you feeling alone, but- you're not a freak. You don't need to treat yourself like one anymore.
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[ It's equal parts appreciation and bashfulness, wrapped in a thin cellophane of nonchalance. There's some extra colour about her nose. She doesn't know how to respond it such a sentiment earnestly — it goes against twenty-five years of lived experience, after all — so she just... doesn't.
Instead— ]
So, you didn't hear this from me, but I'm pretty sure Nan has a new boyfriend. This one is even younger than you.
[ The next hour, as they finish off the pizza and she declines a second beer, is filled with mindless fluff and gossip along the same lines. She's only slightly hesitant to leave, having felt him flicker to air and mourning and back for a brief moment earlier in the evening, but he assures her that he's good and she's tired enough to leave it at that.
By his insistence, she does message to let him know she got home safely. ]