[ She's running late and she doesn't know why. Her body is off, there's something wrong and Phillipa can't understand why she's suddenly sleeping so much when just the week before and for every week before that (ever since she was a little girl) it's been a case of never sleeping enough.
(She dreams of her mother, of an open hotel window; she dreams of Francis pushing her from it, murmuring under his breath; she dreams until she wakes, sitting up with a jolt, the sound of her mother's laughter still ringing in her ears.)
It's almost half a hour past the agreed meeting time when Phillipa finally appears at the end of the block, fiddling with something in her purse. When she sees Francis she breaks into a light jog, abandoning the distraction for the time being. Her expression is apologetic and so very tired. (There are circles under her eyes, worse than he's ever seen them before.) With a hand, she reaches to touch his elbow, wanting to pull him closer and apologize proper. But her fingertips are awkward and the touch is stilted so she lets it drop away again, fingers balling to a fist her side. ]
Francis, I'm sorry, I— [ It seems weird to say. ] —I overslept.
[ In a whisper: ] It's okay. [ He means it. Whatever wrongs are ever perpetrated against him, that will almost always be his answer. He's done something to deserve it, surely, and if not, then there must be some reason. There must be. (And in this case, he wouldn't have blamed her if she hadn't shown up at all. She couldn't love you. Not her. Not someone that nice. Not someone that pretty. Not you, buddy boy.) ]
No, [ she says, and there's no force to her words, though the earnestness in her eyes is enough to convey the sentiment. ] It's not okay. [ Because for all that Phillipa and Francis are still strangers, for all that they remain ignorant of one another's ghosts (there's too much shame; they're too well hidden), Phillipa knows that what Francis lacks is worth.
(And she knows that what Francis has is guilt.)
It's enough to inspire her to reach for him again but this time her hand doesn't falter when it finds him. Fingers curling gently around his forearm she pulls (and it's permission and a request, a hold me, please). ]
—I had bad dreams. Sometimes— [ She shouldn't say anything; she should keep her mouth shut. ] —sometimes I still think I'm dreaming.
[ There's an odd dichotomy to the way the he touches her. On one hand, he touches her as though she might break if he got too close, if he held on too tightly. On the other, he holds her as though he might be able to use his own body to ward off any harm that might come to her. (On one hand, he wants to protect her from the world, and from the other, he wants to protect her from himself.) ]
Is this— is this a bad dream? [ Is he a bad dream is the question that he means, and it says a lot that he asks the question at all. He knows what it feels like, to not be able to distinguish sleep from his waking hours, and to tell the truth, he was wondered if she's felt this way about them — about him — before.
(He has never questioned the belief that she deserves better.) ]
[ At first she doesn't know what this is, if it's meant to be the dark circles under her eyes or the tiredness she feels in her bones or that hum (she can hear it, can feel it against the shell of her ear) of a lullaby her mother used to sing when she was still young and her mother was still whole. His arms form the most delicate ring around her, so delicate that Phillipa is afraid to breathe in fear of breaking it, but she shuts her eyes tight against that song, only to realize that this is this. (This is him, and them, and the meager something they've salvaged together. ]
No, [ she says, her face pressed to the collar of his shirt (he smells like chemicals, like model glue and medication and salt). ] No, Francis, we— [ Deserve better. ] —we're something good.
[ Phillipa knows that's what her mother doesn't like. Love had ruined her mother, had sent her plummeting, not just through limbo, but through the basement of her own life, though the sidewalk outside the Grand Marquis (Room 1054, just like every year). And this is a case of like mother, like daughter (at least, that's what the Shade would like). Quietly (so quiet that she hopes he doesn't hear: ]
[ (They deserve better. That alone is unquestionable. Maybe, in another life, in another time, they could have had it, something bright and wholly good as nurtured out of the love that they bear, as untainted by shame not their own and burdens they were never meant nor built to bear. What tokens of love they'd taken before are all stained by that color — the detergent Francis buys is the same one that his mother had used prior to her death, as Sal had demanded it, had refused to change, had refused so adamantly that he had made himself into someone else entirely. He should miss having an older brother, he knows, but he had been too young when things had changed to truly understand what the term meant, anyway. And so, he'd simply accepted the cards as they had fallen. He had looked at the cross hanging upon their wall and told himself that it was the will of God, as if somehow that would make things easier to bear.)
He hears her anyway. She doesn't like it, Phillipa says, and almost upon instinct, his hold upon her tightens. (Leave us alone. Please. Just leave us alone. The Shade, the phantom that lives in his own house, all of them. Please.) ]
Okay, [ he says, and it isn't that's alright; it's I'm sorry and I know. What else can he say, after all? How can you fight a thing that you cannot even see? ]
[ His arms tighten and that's how Phillipa knows that Francis has heard her. It makes her ashamed (I'm damaged goods, I know; but I'm not the one who damaged me; I was too young and I didn't know). The sensation crawls up along her spine and spreading — branch-like and ivy-like, ink through clear water — across her back and round her front, the tendrils digging deep into her lungs, threatening to wring a sob out of her though she's determined not to cry. (I'm tired, Francis. I'm just tired, it's okay.) ]
Okay, [ she manages, a little thinly, and it's don't be sorry and I know that you know. And that last point is one of the great comforts of her life (it's also one of the great sorrows). When Phillipa pulls back her face is flushed with the effort of not crying though her brow pinches in a way that makes it seem as if she will at any moment. ]
I'm sorry, I know we were supposed to go out, but— Can we— can we just not and say we did?
[ They're both damaged goods; stuffed animals with just one button eye each, with a limb torn off or stuffing falling out, not because they were loved too much but simply because they came off the manufacturing line that way. ]
Okay. [ (Sure, this time around. Sure and please don't cry and you're not just tired and you're not okay but I love you anyway.) ]
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(She dreams of her mother, of an open hotel window; she dreams of Francis pushing her from it, murmuring under his breath; she dreams until she wakes, sitting up with a jolt, the sound of her mother's laughter still ringing in her ears.)
It's almost half a hour past the agreed meeting time when Phillipa finally appears at the end of the block, fiddling with something in her purse. When she sees Francis she breaks into a light jog, abandoning the distraction for the time being. Her expression is apologetic and so very tired. (There are circles under her eyes, worse than he's ever seen them before.) With a hand, she reaches to touch his elbow, wanting to pull him closer and apologize proper. But her fingertips are awkward and the touch is stilted so she lets it drop away again, fingers balling to a fist her side. ]
Francis, I'm sorry, I— [ It seems weird to say. ] —I overslept.
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You l-look— tired. [ Sorry. ]
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(And she knows that what Francis has is guilt.)
It's enough to inspire her to reach for him again but this time her hand doesn't falter when it finds him. Fingers curling gently around his forearm she pulls (and it's permission and a request, a hold me, please). ]
—I had bad dreams. Sometimes— [ She shouldn't say anything; she should keep her mouth shut. ] —sometimes I still think I'm dreaming.
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Is this— is this a bad dream? [ Is he a bad dream is the question that he means, and it says a lot that he asks the question at all. He knows what it feels like, to not be able to distinguish sleep from his waking hours, and to tell the truth, he was wondered if she's felt this way about them — about him — before.
(He has never questioned the belief that she deserves better.) ]
no subject
No, [ she says, her face pressed to the collar of his shirt (he smells like chemicals, like model glue and medication and salt). ] No, Francis, we— [ Deserve better. ] —we're something good.
[ Phillipa knows that's what her mother doesn't like. Love had ruined her mother, had sent her plummeting, not just through limbo, but through the basement of her own life, though the sidewalk outside the Grand Marquis (Room 1054, just like every year). And this is a case of like mother, like daughter (at least, that's what the Shade would like). Quietly (so quiet that she hopes he doesn't hear: ]
—she doesn't like it.
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He hears her anyway. She doesn't like it, Phillipa says, and almost upon instinct, his hold upon her tightens. (Leave us alone. Please. Just leave us alone. The Shade, the phantom that lives in his own house, all of them. Please.) ]
Okay, [ he says, and it isn't that's alright; it's I'm sorry and I know. What else can he say, after all? How can you fight a thing that you cannot even see? ]
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Okay, [ she manages, a little thinly, and it's don't be sorry and I know that you know. And that last point is one of the great comforts of her life (it's also one of the great sorrows). When Phillipa pulls back her face is flushed with the effort of not crying though her brow pinches in a way that makes it seem as if she will at any moment. ]
I'm sorry, I know we were supposed to go out, but— Can we— can we just not and say we did?
no subject
Okay. [ (Sure, this time around. Sure and please don't cry and you're not just tired and you're not okay but I love you anyway.) ]
You don't have— you don't have to be sorry.