Rosie Wilson (
forthsofar) wrote2020-01-20 09:11 am
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
Entry tags:
in days to come when your heart feels undone
At first, she'd given that late-night text from Caleb--a friend in trouble, Caleb okay but out of school for the week--a healthy amount of sympathy, but no real concern. She sought out Clint in the senior hallway and divvied up the task of collecting assignments and notes from Caleb's classes, ignoring to the best of her ability the vague sniggers about sex cults she overheard from a few of the other members of the team as she walked away.
It was all working rather smoothly, with very little room for worry--until she stopped by Caleb's apartment that night and actually saw him. Whatever had happened, it left him drawn and tired, something almost lost behind his eyes. Rosie hadn't pried, despite the flurry of questions that rose to her mind, just handed over the collected assignments and made the appropriate vague noises of sympathy before he pushed the front door slowly shut again. Still, the sight was enough to make her worry, to increase that faint concern from before to something far harder to ignore.
Clint had agreed to drop things off the next two days, leaving Rosie time to think--and to plan. By Thursday, she had at least the seed of an idea, something that might provide Caleb with a little more comfort after a situation that had so clearly rattled him. She got Clint's half of the assignments from him after school, then stopped by the small market a few blocks from Candlewood to pick up a few additional things before heading home.
That night, she loads everything into a few tote bags she and Neil had picked up from one Darrow event or another and heads downstairs. She knocks once, twice, then tries the knob, finding it unlocked and barging in before she can quite stop herself.
"It's just me," she calls, nudging the door shut with her foot.
It was all working rather smoothly, with very little room for worry--until she stopped by Caleb's apartment that night and actually saw him. Whatever had happened, it left him drawn and tired, something almost lost behind his eyes. Rosie hadn't pried, despite the flurry of questions that rose to her mind, just handed over the collected assignments and made the appropriate vague noises of sympathy before he pushed the front door slowly shut again. Still, the sight was enough to make her worry, to increase that faint concern from before to something far harder to ignore.
Clint had agreed to drop things off the next two days, leaving Rosie time to think--and to plan. By Thursday, she had at least the seed of an idea, something that might provide Caleb with a little more comfort after a situation that had so clearly rattled him. She got Clint's half of the assignments from him after school, then stopped by the small market a few blocks from Candlewood to pick up a few additional things before heading home.
That night, she loads everything into a few tote bags she and Neil had picked up from one Darrow event or another and heads downstairs. She knocks once, twice, then tries the knob, finding it unlocked and barging in before she can quite stop herself.
"It's just me," she calls, nudging the door shut with her foot.
no subject
For awhile, everything feels blue and deep, like Adam's ocean, and he'd love to just... sink into that, and stay there. And maybe that's cowardly, but he doesn't have it in him to care, right then.
But she doesn't go away, because she's a good friend. She comes inside, because he'd forgotten to lock the door (Michael would kill him if he knew), and she announces herself as she nudges the door shut again.
He's laying on the couch, sprawled down the length with his ankles up on the arm opposite his head. He's sort of blankly staring at the ceiling, hair still wet from the shower he's taken. On his chest is a plate with a half-eaten Hot Pocket, still in its microwave pouch, like he'd just... set it there and forgotten it.
no subject
"Hey," she says, coming into the living room. "There wasn't much in the way of homework, just some history readings Clint made copies of in the library at lunch and a French worksheet, but...I brought things to make dinner, if you want it." She stops by the couch, looking down at him as that plate on his chest rises and falls with each breath. "Just pasta, nothing fancy."
no subject
Neither of them need that extra guilt.
He blinks, sort of resetting himself as he feels her concern poke and prod at him. He shifts in place, like it's a physical sensation. It makes the Hot Pocket slide on the plate, and he absently reaches up to grab it. It's cold.
"You don't have to do that. I already ate," he points out, even though the thing is half-eaten.
no subject
She doesn't join him on the couch, but the coffee table looks solid enough for her to perch on, if only for a moment. She sits, trying to resist the urge to reach out and take his hand, to provide a little more reassurance. "You don't have to do anything. You don't have to talk, or help, or...you can stay just as you are, but I'm not leaving until you've actually had a proper meal."
no subject
"It's... it's been a hard week," he adds, because that is true.
no subject
"Can I ask if your friend's alright now? Or...getting there?"
no subject
"He'll... I don't know. I hope so." Fuck, he hopes so, so much it almost hurts. "I don't... think I'm gonna be in school this week, either," he admits. "I'm sorry..." The idea of walking through those hallways, of sitting in those desks, surrounded by kids whose problems are nothing compared to what Michael's going through... It feels fucking laughable.
no subject
"Don't be sorry," she murmurs, still sitting there on the coffee table, staying close even without the link of their hands. "I'll talk to Clint tomorrow, we'll make a plan for next week." One corner of her mouth lifts. "Or, I'll make a plan and tell him, and he'll go a bit wide-eyed and go along with it. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was afraid of me."
no subject
no subject
Her sly, playful amusement falls away in an instant as she sees the way his expression falters, his eyes filling with tears before he turns his face away. "Oh no, oh, Caleb," she murmurs, holding tightly to his hand. "I'm not going to tell you it's okay, it's not, but...I'm here."
no subject
So he does. He doesn't let go of her hand, but he curls away from her on the couch, so his arm is stretched back behind himself, and he's this ball of emotion on his couch, anchored to this one sturdy point.
He either doesn't notice the Hot Pocket and its plate slide down between his torso and the back of the couch, or he doesn't care.
no subject
It's a little awkward, but she gets onto the couch behind him, trying to curl herself around the tight ball of his body. He's larger than her, taller and broader even folded in on himself like this, but Rosie does the best she can. "I'm so sorry," she says, letting go of his hand only so she can wrap her arms around him. "Whatever happened, I'm so sorry you had to go through it."
no subject
When he's finally cried himself out, he slowly rolls to face her, fingers still tangled, and gently arranging their hands so neither of them are twisting or awkwardly bending.
His face is wet, eyes red and drawn, but he doesn't look so lost. He traces her palm with his thumb, sniffles, and offers a weak, wet, "Thank you."
no subject
As he starts to turn, Rosie gives him space, rearranges the tangle of their arms and legs as he settles again and faces her. Her own eyes are a little bright, sympathetic tears gathering that she blinks away hard. "Sorry," she whispers, a slight and wobbly smile flickering on her face for a moment. She glances down at the slow, soft brush of his thumb along her palm, a faint and involuntary blush pinking her cheeks. "And you're welcome."
no subject
He feels... better... he thinks. Like a pressure behind his breast bone has released, and he wonders if this is what people mean when they call crying 'cathartic.'
Sitting up jostles the plate away from the back of the couch and behind his back. The Hot Pocket flops after it, and he's really glad it's cold, otherwise he would've ruined this couch, he's pretty sure.
"Fuck, I'm such a pig," he mumbles, managing a huffed laugh.
no subject
Caleb levers himself back up into a sitting position, his hand on her shoulder, and Rosie does the same once he settles, shifting to the other end of the couch and pulling off her boots before drawing her feet up beneath her. She sees the plate go wheeling behind his back along with the half-eaten frozen turnover that had been resting on it, and though it's not funny she still lets out a faint and unladylike snort.
"Do you want the honest answer to that, or the tactful one?" she murmurs, looking up at him with an easy, fond grin.
no subject
Then he closes his eyes for a second, and turns to busy himself with the plate and the pastry and the small mess it'd left on the cushion, because he's too drained for panic, but not too drained for self-recrimination.
Maybe she won't get it. Maybe she'll assume it's that weird, perceptive thing he does at school.
no subject
"What do you mean?" she asks, even as he turns away to deal with cleaning everything up. "You're not a mind reader, are you?"
no subject
He places the plate and Hot Pocket on the coffee table, then rolls his shoulders a little. He can feel Rosie puzzling him out, feeling another certainty slot into place. Fuck, he's sloppy.
He wants to say 'mind readers aren't real,' but that'd be a lie, and a disservice to Chloe, besides. So he doesn't, just offers Rosie a lop-sided smile that's a little tight at the corners, then stands.
"What was that about pasta?" he deflects.
no subject
As she talks, she cleans up the counter a little, putting plates and glasses into the sink, flattening empty boxes and sticking them into the recycling bin beside the trash. "And then there's other people who just had something mad happen to them even before they showed up in Darrow."
She grins, thinking of Anterwold and wondering vaguely if Caleb will pick up on the fact he's talking to one of them now.
no subject
On the one hand, he should feel relieved that she's already got some precedence for this, right? But he's still so afraid of just telling people. But... she's not people. She's Rosie. He swallows, then sighs.
"I'm not a mind reader," he says again, and this time, there's no nervous laugh, no strained smile. Because that's the truth. "I'm an empath. I... can feel people's feelings."
no subject
She studies him for a moment, thinking, then decides to take the chance. "A secret for a secret, then. Darrow's not the first time I wound up somewhere different and didn't expect it. Back home, my neighbor had this...I thought it was some stupid sculpture thing in his cellar, but it turned out to be a doorway to another world."
no subject
He drifts closer, hugging himself a little. "You believe me," he says. "Just... Like that."
no subject
Caleb drifts closer, some bright surprise flickering on his face as his arms wrap around his middle, and she grins. "I believe you. And you believe me?"
no subject
It feels weirdly good, that she knows, now. He doesn't have to fight to keep that secret, to be careful and not do or say certain things.
And maybe she'll be a good ally, like Mr. Burgess.
"Oh. Do you know Mr. Burgess?" he asks.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)