kingdomsofrain | tfln open post

Don't worry about it. I texted Wallace while you were storytelling. He shooooould be here in 15 or so. Freedom is on the horizon, and then you're in some REAL trouble.

For breaking the law.

Unless you want to really impress your wife and beat him to the door. I want to come back to bed. c:

Maybe I'll let you off the hook.

What if I tell Wallace NOT to let you out of the bathroom?

What if I tell him my wife is going to throw the law at me and he has to protect me??

What if this Fish likes the hook you've got him on?

I don't think you'd be that cruel. But hypothetically speaking? I'll be a sad wife because my husband wants me to stay locked in the bathroom instead of coming back to bed. What a horrible thing to do to your me when all I want is to be with my you.

And also, if you tell Wallace not to let me out of the bathroom, I'll tell him you gave me his Swedish fish.

[...]

You can stay on the hook if you want to. ;)

I wouldn't tell Wallace that. :c

Wouldn't want you to stay in there. Also, I don't think Wallace would listen to me. He likes you too much.

Also his Swedish fish. He likes them too much, too.

But if he's coming to get you, I guess I can go back to sleep. Nice and cozy fish taco time.

That is, ummm, I'll keep the bed warm for you. Yeah.

[ What's that he's actually doing? Propping himself up and rubbing at his face, trying very hard to find the wherewithal to stand? Sitting fully upright with a few sick turns of nausea? This isn't cozy fish taco time, at all! ]

But if you go back to sleep, who's going to flirt with me until Wallace gets here?

~~I can't believe you remember the fish taco thing, you were wasted~~

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

[ That's one very sleepy Fish, huh?

One very sleepy Fish who's managed to get his feet on the floor but can't quite get his head out of his hands because yes the room is nice and dark but his head's not so nice, and it's not nice and dark beyond the door.

But hey, he'll get there. Anything for his wife, best wife. He just. Needs another minutes of pretend zzzzs. ]

:c :c :c Nooooooooooooo wake up, talk to me.

Please?

I don't want to be alone in here :c

[ If it isn't readily apparent, she absolutely doesn't expect him to come let her out. ]

Zzz. c:

[ Okay.

Okay okay okay, he can do this, this... Is gonna ache, but hey, he's been through worse, right?

Up.

Over.

Open the... Fuck, that sure is morning out there, isn't it? He's just going to squint and shield his eyes, fingers pressed hard against his forehead. All right, well, this is... miserable? Miserable.

That's okay. That's the bathroom door, sans any sign of a sign. That's him leaning against the wall, knocking on the door lightly, once then twice. ]

Flirt police.

[ Okay fine so his voice sounds pretty ragged so what the flirt police had probably a lot to drink last night, it happens. ]

[ She begins to text another set of pleas, Treavor please don't play stop playing no no this isn't funny, but the sound of a knock - one, then a second - freezes her.

He got up. He got himself out of bed and came to rescue her! (...Granted, from the problem he probably caused. But still!)

She's up like a shot, spilling Swedish fish all over the floor, and presses her hands to the door. One taps quietly but insistently, flat-palmed on the wood. Out, out, let me out - even so, she can't help herself. ]

You'll never take me alive.

[ Stage whispered, stage laugh-whispered, of course, for the sake of his head. He must be miserable, Poor Fish. ]

I have hostages. A bunch of Swedes.

[ Jeeesus. He pushes his head against the wall and that's a little better, a little pressure relieved, and doesn't she have aspirin in there? Also whiskey. Shit, she's got the good stuff.

He'd like to just. Open the fucking door. But she's playing. But he started this, and maybe he shouldn't cut it down so fast. So he tries out a response, still hoarse, eyes screwed shut, head doing its damnedest to pummel him down. ]

You fiend. You wouldn't.

[ He sounds - rough.

She should go easy on him.

Then again, he left her locked in here for a very long time. She should draw this out -

No. Uh uh. No making him suffer.

Still, it doesn't escape her notice that he tried. ]

I'll make a deal with you. Let me out of here, say nothing about the dead fish on the floor, and I'll hand over my cache of aspirin.

But I'm never giving up my life of flirt crime.

Dead fish on—?

[ You know what. He'll just. Let that stand as-is. Say nothing about the dead fish, sure, can do, only he gets the sense that somebody's going to need to explain that one to Wallace.

Let the dastardly flirt take that on.

He maneuvers himself so that he's leaning against the door frame, which isn't quite as good as the wall and leaves him a little queasier, but it'll serve his purpose for the moment. Probably. Maybe. ]

You strike a hard bargain, little lady, but it's a deal I'll have to take.

[ And yes, that's the door pushing open, and yes, that's Treavor, head pressed against the frame, looking for her with mock scrutiny. ]

Easy now. No sudden movements.

[ She, barefoot and buttoned up in one of his shirts, surrounded by the red long-past-five-second-rule bodies of Swedish fish, backs up to allow the door to swing open, then peers out at him.

Smiles at him, then feigns a look of pity and nods in agreement: no sudden movements, no loud noises. ]

I'll go quietly.

[ With that, she reaches for the aspirin, whole-fisting the bottle to muffle any ricochet of the pills within.

Game's over, he looks too ragged for more of this. The next thing she reaches for is him, to help him back to bed. ]

Come on, Officer. You look like the stakeout didn't go too well.

[ Oh thank Christ.

He relaxes visibly, accepting her helping and trying not to lean too hard on her but definitely, definitely leaning some, definitely pressing the side of his head against hers.]

Hey, you said something about whiskey?

[ Not that he wants to put off going back to bed much longer, but look, if it means getting just a drink, just one drink to start the day, he can wait another moment.

Also, those are... Those sure are Wallace's Swedish fish all over the bathroom floor. ]

You really did kill those fish, huh?

[ She should. Maybe redirect his attention away from the alcohol. Get him going with the day sober just for a little while, just a few hours.

Slow and steady. ]

Mmmm - I think bed, water, and aspirin first.

[ A glance back at the chaos of fish gummies, sad and scattered. ]

I got excited when I heard you and they fell to their deaths. It's probably the biggest tragedy since the Great Eggo Disaster. Their sacrifice won't be forgotten.

[ And she's going to try steering him away from the bathroom - and the whiskey - and toward the darkened bedroom now. ]

[ Hey, no... No, that wasn't what he asked. And no he doesn't need the whiskey, but he'd like it and it would help and why is she pretending he didn't say anything, or ignoring what he said?

He doesn't want to be difficult, he really doesn't - and his head would prefer very much to be back against a pillow - but he resists just a little, tries to stay right where he is. Not for long, just. Just. It wouldn't be so hard to grab the bottle, would it? ]

Shouldn't you at least take it with us?

[ ...idea! ]

In case Wallace tries to destroy it as revenge for the gummies.

[ She doesn't. Want to have a hard conversation with him right now. Not while she's in his home, wearing his shirt, with her arm snaked around his waist. Not after the messages he sent - the story he told.

But she also isn't going to help him start drinking at whatever early hour this is.

So she turns in towards him, pressed close, earnest and firm and utterly certain of her words. ]

No. You don't need it.

[ Isn't this her? Her style of writing, razor sharp clarity, the protagonist with words that can't be trusted, but possessed of complete conviction?

She has conviction. It might not be true, but she can make him believe it. She can try. ]

Trust me. I'm here, and Wallace is going to be here, and you don't need it.

[ He wants to trust her. She says 'Trust me,' and he always wants to trust her.

But he also wants a drink.

Now that the idea's in his head, now that he's thinking about the bottle and she wouldn't have lied about the bottle and it's true he has vague memories of sometimes leaving bottles in the bathroom for himself, he would very much like a drink. A drink would absolutely help his head. A drink would absolutely stabilize the world a little bit.

Why is she withholding that from him? He's... confused? Concerned. A little bit hurt.

There must be a reason. She wouldn't act without a reason. She loves her Fish, he knows this, but why deny something as simple as a drink?

Maybe she's worried he'll drink it all? ]

Just one. Just half of one. I promise. Hey. Hey, you can be keeper of the bottle.

[ Her heart clenches.

He didn't ask for her help. She doesn't get to unilaterally make this decision for him. If he wants to quit - not just the drinking, but the job, this fucking city - he needs to make the choice.

She's not Tricia. She's not his brothers, either. She's not going to force him to do this.

One hand strokes back through, over his hair, comforting while giving her a heartbeat to form a reply. ]

I'm not going to stop you. [ Tacitly, implicitly, neither is she going to help. ] But I don't think you need it. I think you can hold on for a little while without it.

[ Katrina pulls away a little, backing away from him towards the bedroom; there's an invitation, a welcome in that movement, without demand or reproach. It's his choice.

And she won't let herself be disappointed if he can't manage it. ]

[ Oh. That's distance between them now, just a little more. Is she—? No, she isn't disappointed. That's against the rules, and all right, maybe those rules sound silly, sound stupid, but the rules she makes matter and she means them. She can't be disappointed in him. Won't be disappointed. That isn't what this is.

But. But, something. But she'll be something.

She isn't going to help him, certainly; she's turning away. Why doesn't she...? She doesn't want him to have the whiskey. He still can't figure why.

He's left watching after her, mind on the bottle - it's in the bathroom, the bathroom isn't far, and if he can just make it there and back (it wouldn't even take a minute, not even if he has to dig for it) he can be in bed before the world turns intolerable. He should follow her, but what if. But what if, first, he went into the bathroom, got hold of the whiskey?

Yes, that's a fair idea. That's what he'll do. He'll just bring it. Just in case. Maybe he won't even drink any of it, but he's going to bring it, because he can't just leave it behind, leave no whiskey behind ever, shouldn't that also be a rule?

He's shuffling his way into the bathroom when he pauses, hand on the frame, and turns just enough to catch her eyes. Because there's something snagging him. Because there's a reason she didn't come with him or grab the bottle herself. ]

Why?

[ No disappointment. Resignation, perhaps: they tried. She tried, anyhow. Tomorrow will be another chance to try again, and the day after that. There's no shame or reproach in this. Still, her smile when she dips her chin, looks away, has some lingering sadness to it.

She does start to turn away then, mind already on going back to bed for a little while, useless bottle of aspirin in her hand and rattling as she fingers the cuff of the shirt she dragged on. Sleep a little longer, get up and start her day properly, maybe get some writing done. Hasn't she had an idea, something good that won't loosen its hold on the creative centers of her brain?

It's not giving up. She's not giving up on him. But -

A single word interrupts her, slices hope through her thoughts, and she fixes him with her full attention.

Why.

Because.

Because it's a step away from incoherence and disengagement. Because it means he can get out from under his brothers. Because she and Wallace can't do this every night for the rest of his life. Because they could get away from all of this, dependent on whether he can get this under control.

Because she loves the man who wrote her half a haunting story this morning. (And because she loves him no matter what he does.)

All of that. All of that, and - ]

Because I don't think you want to keep living this way.

[ There's a sharp thought, brief and fleeting: 'I don't think you should tell me how I want to live.'

The way it cuts, its very content surprises him, and he blinks, flinches minutely inward. That isn't fair. She isn't... She isn't imposing anything on him. Isn't doing anything beyond answering the question he'd asked.

But she doesn't know. Doesn't know how he wants that whiskey and maybe doesn't understand how much it helps him, how it'll ease the pain away and set him up to make it through another morning afternoon evening. That isn't on her. That's no mark against Katrina.

(Does he want to keep living this way? And he doesn't need to think far about what she means by that. Understands the implications and their scope, and he hasn't always lived like this, not exactly, but it's hard to mention living any other way.)

He lets the thought sit before responding, giving his head the ghost of a shake (even that fires the aching further, even that causes further pain). ]

I don't know.

[ There's another moment before he gives in to the pull, turning toward the bathroom and finding the whiskey readily enough. It feels like failing her, somehow, to wrap his fingers around the bottle's neck, to right himself and move back toward the bedroom carrying his, his... Prize, finding, life preserver, god knows what. But he can't leave it. He'll only keep thinking about it. One thought on top of another on top of a splitting headache.

So he takes the bottle and makes his way toward the bedroom, no precisely looking at anything, doing his best to avoid her gaze. ]

[ He's thinking it over. She can tell he's thinking it over, because he's not going straight for that bottle. She's careful not to push too hard, not to spark a fight here or say something to make him spiral. Careful to give him that moment of thought.

Because even if he considers it and still gives in to the desire, the need-want of it, it's a step in the right direction.

She can't ask anything more than that.

And 'I don't know' is a fair answer, isn't it? 'I don't know' isn't a refusal of her statement, a rebuff of her efforts. It's an open space in thought where her comment can settle and have some weight, and maybe tomorrow he'll think a little harder about it, and maybe the next day, and one of these days it won't be 'I don't know'.

As he passes her with that bottle - not looking at her, that's not all right, this isn't about shame or condemnation - she catches him gently, a hand flat to his chest. ]

I love you.

[ It's not an argument against his decision. There's no reproach in it. It's a still, it's a promise against disappointment. And an explanation for why she had to try. ]

It's all going to be okay.

[ There's a wash of warmth, and he's looking into her eyes before he can think to stop himself, her voice catches him so immediately, hooks him so down-deep. She's very good to him. She's better than anybody should be. (Better than he deserves, and yes he thinks she's telling him otherwise, but no he can't keep the thought entirely at bay, can't help himself from thinking how she hadn't wanted to help, how she never leaves him without reason, how what he's done must be against her wanting. How he's never made too many good decisions.

Except staying married to her. There's that, at least. There's that.)

He tries to smile. A little, just a little, and what he manages is the slightest upturn of his lips, a quirk that flutters quickly out. She's a very good wife. He's... Well. He's something. ]

Maybe we should go to bed.

[ That's also not fair, though. That's incomplete, and he stops himself from turning away, finds her eyes again. ]

I love you too, kid.

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