“Five years.” He watches her closely, turning the number over in his head. Thinking it through again—dying for some unknowable future, some vision of a changed world. Discovering it had just ground on, stubbornly refusing to transform. He remembers—he's still half in love with her idealism. Those fireflies on her wall. “I'm sorry the world let you down.”
He does smile then, knowing as he does that it's woefully inadequate. Pocket change in the midst of opulence.
“A lot of this was the decorator.” He delivers it without an ounce of irony. She's going to punch him in the mouth. He'd welcome it, too—it's that kind of a sentence. William stays where he is a moment or two, hesitating between the man who belongs in this room and the one who doesn't. Crosses to Tess, reaches for her, expecting her to snap.
“Don't take shots at her,” he says, looking steadily at her. “All right?”
Tess looks at him sharply, feeling pulled in so many directions that she's not sure where to start. Kick his ass for being earnest with her when she just wants to be pissed, not pitied? Knock his teeth in for having the gall to play at cowboy when some people don't have places like this to come home? Break his fucking mirrors, yell at him that she doesn't give a shit about his stupid wife?
So when he comes into her space, she just shoves him, both hands on his chest.
"Fuck you, William," she shoots back. "Like you care about her feelings, you act like she doesn't fucking exist."
His arms drop to his sides. He lets her push him, not ragdoll loose but offering no resistance. He has his explanations, his limping excuses. “I care,” he says, the bottom dropping out of his voice. Thinks of Logan jamming that picture in his pocket. They don't fight like this, him and Juliet. They don't blow up.
He swallows, sick to his stomach. “You're the only person I've invited in here,” he says. Falters helplessly into a shrug. “And look what a mistake that was.”
Her heart’s pounding. There’s an angry glassiness to her eyes but her voice doesn’t waver.
“Yeah? If she found out you’ve moved on to your new space cowboy life, you think she’d feel cared for?”
She steps into his space again, hands fisted at her sides. She wants to keep pushing him but the lack of resistance makes her feel like shit, fucks with her momentum.
He doesn't look like a cowboy, not just then. He looks tired, diminished, a guy in a fancy outfit with no trace of dirt near his boots. His hair catches the light. “When I'm here...” The sentence floats off.
His gaze flicks to her clenched fists. “Break my nose.” A nod, strangely delicate. As though he's trying to balance something on his chin. “Go ahead. I'm not some cute little girl, they won't give a fuck.”
He pisses her off sometimes. She can't even put a finger on why, beyond grudges that linger after the score is supposed to be settled, beyond that he has shit she doesn't even let herself dream of. He wants her to break his nose?
Fucking fine. She knows (and even loves, almost perversely) a life where that violence is cheap and plentiful. Who doesn't love what they are good at? She may not have an enforcer here to pin him down and break his face and dislocate his shoulders on her behalf, but she's always been good on her own. Has to be.
It makes a noise—not like he was thinking, not a crunch. A meaty sound. His head jerks back and his weight shifts but he doesn't stagger. He's breathing hard, blood or snot pouring from his nose. Hands still at his sides. His eyes close, briefly—the blood keeps on running. It's a different kind of pain than he's used to—treks through the park, injured limbs. He feels lit up like a pinball machine.
He takes a breath, trains his gaze on her—bright but not malicious. Breaks away to grab one of the bed's half dozen pillows, careful not to drip on the bedspread. He strips the pillow as efficiently as he might slit a throat, blots at his nose with the case.
“Better?” he asks after another sharp breath, his voice muffled.
Tess stays where she is, watching him take it. There's that usual sting of the impact, familiar twice now today, and her fist trembles like she might follow through with another, bring him right down to the ground, but she doesn't. She just watches him, nearly vibrating with energy.
And then, as he goes to deal with the blood, she steels herself.
Joel is dead, she thinks. Joel is dead and he was the person she trusted most in the world, thought was most loyal to her, but he's dead and gone and he moved on from her the same way he moved on from everyone he lost.
It's the way of the world and she's going to have to deal with it, the same way she's dealt before.
She goes right back to collected, even if her heart is still racing on the inside. She's not sure it's ever going to be normal again.
William nods, slowly, pillowcase bunched around his nose like a fucked-up bouquet. Blood smeared at his wrist. Looks at her standing there all alone, squared up to something he can't see. Something a world away, or dead and gone. “I hate this room,” he says softly, the words tumbling out of him. He laughs—just through his mouth, soft too.
He beckons her over, the gesture tender or maybe just exhausted. As though he might abandon it halfway through.
"How fucking awful for you," she replies. A half dozen nasty things to say come to mind, and she fumbles over which to say first, so she doesn't say any of them.
She watches him and she knows she's supposed to be smarter than being here, and more mature than throwing punches, and colder than these fucked up tantrums. She knows that. She should go. At the very least, she should lean back on her heels, root herself there and never move again. Stop fucking engaging.
She stays put.
"The world didn't let me down," she informs him, finally. "I learned how the world works a long time ago, and you'll never understand that. Not with..."
The world works like this: you meet your rich friend at a fancy restaurant. He's late—he's always late—so you stand in the foyer (silent “r”) and compare the cut and sheen of your suit to that of every other person who walks in. Feel their eyes on you. Your friend (sometimes you despise him so much it turns your stomach, and sometimes it's yourself you despise, but the only way people will ever remember your name is in connection with his) strolls in and smooths your lapels, straightens your tie. He cheerfully informs you that you need a new suit, maybe one your dad didn't die in. You remind yourself this is what passes for affection between you.
You own two suits. It's all you can afford.
Sometimes at dinner you stare at the prices on the menu, remember your mom paying bills when you were a kid. The line of her mouth. Always at dinner you count his drinks. Keeping the bill in mind; keeping his moods in mind. He's unpredictable, but at a certain threshold—four or five—he'll become expansive, reckless. Cruel. You smile apologetically at the waitstaff. He has money, charm. His name. It's rare that you're thrown out.
Usually he pays. Sometimes, though—there's no reason to it, and if there's a rhyme it's one only Logan can hear—he'll slap on a smile and say, just a little too loud, “Billy's got this.”
You'll hand over your credit card, wondering how the hell you're going to buy groceries this week.
He doesn't say that. It's not his world anymore, and it's not the point. He tosses the bloody pillowcase to the bed—the urge is to fold it first, but she'd hate that. She hates everything he hates about himself, which is, in its way, a relief. “Tess,” he says, “you're never gonna find someone who gave up as much as you.”
It's hard to pin down, his tone. Rueful, admiring. Sad. “When'd you learn?”
It certainly feels that way, at least here –– the never finding someone. Back home she can at least look anyone over twenty-five in the eyes and know they have some vague memory of a world with nice pillowcases and pretty mirrors and mood lighting. Over thirty-five, a real shared sense of being robbed, not at gunpoint or in some base mugging, but of being left with nothing. No family, no friends, no loved ones, nothing. Anything you could make, taken again, if you ever really had it in the first place, if you don't throw it away first to spare yourself the grief.
No one here is going to get it.
Ellie doesn't even get it. That stings most, and most obviously. That kid will never understand what it's like to be in this place like this, no matter how old she gets.
Tess feels her chest tighten. Something at the base of her throat constricts like a hand's been wound around it.
She turns away, paces.
"It doesn't fucking matter when I learned when I get shitty reminders of it every day," she replies, voice lower. "Can't even get away from them here."
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He does smile then, knowing as he does that it's woefully inadequate. Pocket change in the midst of opulence.
“A lot of this was the decorator.” He delivers it without an ounce of irony. She's going to punch him in the mouth. He'd welcome it, too—it's that kind of a sentence. William stays where he is a moment or two, hesitating between the man who belongs in this room and the one who doesn't. Crosses to Tess, reaches for her, expecting her to snap.
“Don't take shots at her,” he says, looking steadily at her. “All right?”
no subject
Tess looks at him sharply, feeling pulled in so many directions that she's not sure where to start. Kick his ass for being earnest with her when she just wants to be pissed, not pitied? Knock his teeth in for having the gall to play at cowboy when some people don't have places like this to come home? Break his fucking mirrors, yell at him that she doesn't give a shit about his stupid wife?
So when he comes into her space, she just shoves him, both hands on his chest.
"Fuck you, William," she shoots back. "Like you care about her feelings, you act like she doesn't fucking exist."
no subject
He swallows, sick to his stomach. “You're the only person I've invited in here,” he says. Falters helplessly into a shrug. “And look what a mistake that was.”
no subject
“Yeah? If she found out you’ve moved on to your new space cowboy life, you think she’d feel cared for?”
She steps into his space again, hands fisted at her sides. She wants to keep pushing him but the lack of resistance makes her feel like shit, fucks with her momentum.
“You regret it so much, kick me out,” she orders.
no subject
His gaze flicks to her clenched fists. “Break my nose.” A nod, strangely delicate. As though he's trying to balance something on his chin. “Go ahead. I'm not some cute little girl, they won't give a fuck.”
no subject
Fucking fine. She knows (and even loves, almost perversely) a life where that violence is cheap and plentiful. Who doesn't love what they are good at? She may not have an enforcer here to pin him down and break his face and dislocate his shoulders on her behalf, but she's always been good on her own. Has to be.
So she swings, right for his face.
no subject
He takes a breath, trains his gaze on her—bright but not malicious. Breaks away to grab one of the bed's half dozen pillows, careful not to drip on the bedspread. He strips the pillow as efficiently as he might slit a throat, blots at his nose with the case.
“Better?” he asks after another sharp breath, his voice muffled.
An honest question.
no subject
And then, as he goes to deal with the blood, she steels herself.
Joel is dead, she thinks. Joel is dead and he was the person she trusted most in the world, thought was most loyal to her, but he's dead and gone and he moved on from her the same way he moved on from everyone he lost.
It's the way of the world and she's going to have to deal with it, the same way she's dealt before.
She goes right back to collected, even if her heart is still racing on the inside. She's not sure it's ever going to be normal again.
"Yeah," she replies, coolly. "Getting there."
no subject
He beckons her over, the gesture tender or maybe just exhausted. As though he might abandon it halfway through.
no subject
She watches him and she knows she's supposed to be smarter than being here, and more mature than throwing punches, and colder than these fucked up tantrums. She knows that. She should go. At the very least, she should lean back on her heels, root herself there and never move again. Stop fucking engaging.
She stays put.
"The world didn't let me down," she informs him, finally. "I learned how the world works a long time ago, and you'll never understand that. Not with..."
She gestures. A fucking decorator.
cw: second person 😱
You own two suits. It's all you can afford.
Sometimes at dinner you stare at the prices on the menu, remember your mom paying bills when you were a kid. The line of her mouth. Always at dinner you count his drinks. Keeping the bill in mind; keeping his moods in mind. He's unpredictable, but at a certain threshold—four or five—he'll become expansive, reckless. Cruel. You smile apologetically at the waitstaff. He has money, charm. His name. It's rare that you're thrown out.
Usually he pays. Sometimes, though—there's no reason to it, and if there's a rhyme it's one only Logan can hear—he'll slap on a smile and say, just a little too loud, “Billy's got this.”
You'll hand over your credit card, wondering how the hell you're going to buy groceries this week.
He doesn't say that. It's not his world anymore, and it's not the point. He tosses the bloody pillowcase to the bed—the urge is to fold it first, but she'd hate that. She hates everything he hates about himself, which is, in its way, a relief. “Tess,” he says, “you're never gonna find someone who gave up as much as you.”
It's hard to pin down, his tone. Rueful, admiring. Sad. “When'd you learn?”
WILLIAM :'(
No one here is going to get it.
Ellie doesn't even get it. That stings most, and most obviously. That kid will never understand what it's like to be in this place like this, no matter how old she gets.
Tess feels her chest tighten. Something at the base of her throat constricts like a hand's been wound around it.
She turns away, paces.
"It doesn't fucking matter when I learned when I get shitty reminders of it every day," she replies, voice lower. "Can't even get away from them here."