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FRABLE | DUPLICITY AU
Both Nate and Francesca have managed to avoid many of the harrowing parts of Duplicity, but it's like running through a minefield and their luck was bound to run out. Nate comforts himself with one thought, that it could be worse. That she could have been spirited away.
Instead, he came back from work to find her sleeping on the couch. Unable to rouse her and ruling out a medical emergency, he ascertains that she's experiencing one of Duplicity's mines. The long sleep residents occasionally fall into-- something they don't talk about enough. He feels ill-prepared for it.
He moves her somewhere more comfortable and he struggles on a daily basis not to sit at her bedside. Like a loyal, old dog. He knows it would upset her terribly if she woke up to find him wasting away, so he does the things he needs to do every day. It allows him to feel no guilt when he spends hours by her side, holding her hand.
It's not like he's ungrateful, either. It could be worse, she could have been sent home-- but he always knew he'd have to come to terms with that. Unlike Duplicity and his world, he can be assured in the fact that she'll be relatively safe. Unless she contracts tuberculosis. Or smallpox. Or Cholera. But she's a privileged woman-- usually the last to experience contagious disease. Usually.
His mind wanders to the other possibilities. Just like he's always known she'd go home one day, he's also always known that when she did she'd be resuming her life, getting married and having more rich, little kids. If she even remembers him, which she probably wouldn't, he can only hope she'd have the sense to keep it all a secret. That kind of talk could get her institutionalised.
These are the thoughts he has while he's holding her hand. He's dozing in a chair beside the bed, a book in his metal hand. His flesh hand is enveloping her hand gently, hoping it helps her feel connected somehow. It certainly connects him to her, because he rouses abruptly when he feels her fingers twitch.
Instead, he came back from work to find her sleeping on the couch. Unable to rouse her and ruling out a medical emergency, he ascertains that she's experiencing one of Duplicity's mines. The long sleep residents occasionally fall into-- something they don't talk about enough. He feels ill-prepared for it.
He moves her somewhere more comfortable and he struggles on a daily basis not to sit at her bedside. Like a loyal, old dog. He knows it would upset her terribly if she woke up to find him wasting away, so he does the things he needs to do every day. It allows him to feel no guilt when he spends hours by her side, holding her hand.
It's not like he's ungrateful, either. It could be worse, she could have been sent home-- but he always knew he'd have to come to terms with that. Unlike Duplicity and his world, he can be assured in the fact that she'll be relatively safe. Unless she contracts tuberculosis. Or smallpox. Or Cholera. But she's a privileged woman-- usually the last to experience contagious disease. Usually.
His mind wanders to the other possibilities. Just like he's always known she'd go home one day, he's also always known that when she did she'd be resuming her life, getting married and having more rich, little kids. If she even remembers him, which she probably wouldn't, he can only hope she'd have the sense to keep it all a secret. That kind of talk could get her institutionalised.
These are the thoughts he has while he's holding her hand. He's dozing in a chair beside the bed, a book in his metal hand. His flesh hand is enveloping her hand gently, hoping it helps her feel connected somehow. It certainly connects him to her, because he rouses abruptly when he feels her fingers twitch.
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She has dread every waking since the moment her world came to an abrupt stop. Waking up every morning, so heavy, like she drank too much the night before.
Even now, she fights it. Not again, not another day. Asleep, she does not have to remember what awaits her. She does not have to exist. To spend every moment with heaviness on her chest, in her limbs. Feels like drowning, like when she first learned to swim and the water got in her lungs and she choked up saltwater.
( Her new baseline, she knows. Facing the next minute, the next hour, the next thing that is a milestone in that she must do it without her John at her side.)
In the seconds that pass, she can barely move. Her head turns to the side, sinking into the pillow, eyes tight. Her body is lead.
She's slow to register the light, casting through the spaces of a curtain. Slower to feel the warmth of a hand squeezing her own.
When she turns to the figure, blinking sleep from her eyes, she expects to find — ]
John?
[ The name parts her lips, voice rusted, so much hope bundled within. Wishful thinking. Even half-asleep, a voice whispers this. She's wrong.
Not John. Her heart sinks. She doesn't know this person — her brows furrow, confusion, some anxiety — but she does know him. She does. Like she knows herself. The honed eyes, the cut of his jaw. ]
Nathan.
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He swallows his discomfort, keeping his voice even and squeezing her hand.]
Welcome back, Francesca. [Her name feels cold, he calls her bunny more than anything these days. But he wants her to know-- he knows who she is. Does she know who she is.]
You've been asleep for a few days. [And this feels terribly similar to the end of the Wizard of Oz, only he's still a tin man and the whole "there's no place like home" message really muddles when your mind has two homes.]
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Shakily, she pushes herself up to sit, fighting through the grogginess. Her head aches — so much pressing in, overlapping. Two worlds bending to meet. She had heard of this happening. Her sister had been through this more than once, she suddenly recalls.
The memories are a slow filter, initially, a sinking stone inside her belly. Surreal. Bright flashes of color and emotion. She's sad, but she doesn't know why —
And then she does. ]
Oh.
[ Whispery. Softly, too softly, a breath from her throat. Her face angles down, gazing at his hand still clasping hers. Her stomach twists. Part of her wants him to let go. Part of her wants to latch on. ]
A few days...
[ Repeating. It doesn't feel like days. Because to her, it wasn't. She shakes her head. Pulls her hand free, looking down at her palm. It shakes.
She can't touch him. She can't. ]
It's been ... it's been much longer than that. For me, that is.
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He's not given to insecurity, generally. He's fairly self-assured. Probably to a fault. But there's no position more insecure than the one he's in now. Oblivious and uninformed. He doesn't like the way it feels.
What they have here has always been tenuous-- especially since he's married. So he can hardly be angry-- and he isn't. But he feels it. Insecurity.
He swallows it down.]
That's usually the way it goes. [Not to downplay it, he's trying to be reassuring here.]
It's been long enough that you need a meal and something to drink.
[He moves to stand, giving her some space.]
Think you can stand?
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And of course he would think of those things. As he always did.
It's a slow-going process. Mute, she moves her legs to dangle over the side of the bed. She tries to stand on her own, but she's woozy, shock and exhaustion and weakness. He has to support her, and she looks up, meeting his eyes, lingering, before she jolts and strays from him a few steps in.
She can't handle touch right now. Not even his.
Maybe especially his.
He makes her eggs and bacon, a piece of toast, sliced strawberries. She picks at her plate, chewing but not tasting. They pick at conversation, if it can be called that. He's concerned, she can tell. As she breaks more out of the fog, she sinks further into herself. Barely able to follow what he says, staring blankly at the scalloped edges of the plate, the design she had picked out for their dining room, when only hours ago she was in another. ]
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It's the touch avoidance that sits with him. It's thinking the name John over and over that's fucking with him. He knows her brothers names now. Her parents didn't get all the way to 'J'.
He's starting to soft launch their break-up with himself already. Imagining that she's a married woman who doesn't want to be cohabiting with an old man. He doesn't feel ready for life like that though, so he's certainly not broaching it yet.
But he does lean back in his chair, looking with evaluating eyes before his expression softens.]
You can tell me things straight, bunny. You don't need to bottle it until you think it's palatable for me.
[He tries very hard to keep his movements and tone soft and gentle. Like he's scared he'll spook her.]
I know you've got a lot of processing to do. You should do it outloud.
[Just dump him now, spare him the anguish so he can work on winning her back.]
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I don't want to do it aloud.
[ A thread there that hadn't been before — something hard and bordering cold. Different. Not so like the young, dew-eyed woman she may have been, inexperienced and unmarred by time and troubles. ]
I should like to do something else, actually. [ Announcing, she pushes herself up to stand on steadier legs and forces a smile at him, mangled and false. Trying to be normal. If she's normal, maybe she will forget. Maybe she will be whatever he wants, whatever she's supposed to be here. ]
A jigsaw, perhaps?
[ A beat. Her breath hitches out, her throat squeezes shut. ]
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His brow can't help plucking upward curiously. He was letting her walk a few paces ahead, now he's reaching for her wrist again. Pulling her back toward him.]
You don't have to tell me. You can show me.
[That's a unique service he offers. Though, admittedly, a vulnerable position to be in. But he doesn't let go of her wrist.]
If you want me to see it.
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When it registers what he means, she turns still. Her blood ices over. ]
Don't — [ Eyes wide and wild, she rears backward, trying to extricate herself of his grasp. As if he threatened her. ]
Don't!
[ Fran stumbles backward, freed, and holds her wrist. Her voice came unnaturally high, the anger of desperation, of danger.
She backs up, up, up — right into the wall across from him. Nearby, a plant clatters on a side table. Her head falls, equal parts shame and desperation cloying at her. She tries to level her voice. ]
I cannot do it. Not again. I can't — Please — [ Her mouth wobbles, the first sob breaching containment. ]
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He can't hide the hurt in his expression, even if it's a brief flash before he schools himself.]
You don't have to see what I see. You can see something else. [He offers-- then realises it probably won't make much sense. He feels compelled to over explain.]
I've been practicing-- telepathy. Things like multi-tasking-- But I'm only offering. You don't have to do anything-- show me anything. I just want to help.
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Even so. She shakes her head. She doesn't want him in her head right now. He doesn't need to feel what she's feeling, not the jumbled emotions or the agony. More than that, she doesn't want him to know what she feels about being — here.
Because it doesn't feel right. In this room. Near him. Wanting him, having him.
But he deserves answers. He deserves ... some explanation for this behavior. ]
My ... [ her mouth twists; the word balls up in her throat, shame coursing through her veins. She forces her eyes up, briefly. ]
My husband. He is ... gone.
[ Gone. Deceased. Dead. How many times had she spoken those words of late? They come out robotic, an automatized response. Flat, most of the emotion scrubbed of it. He might as well have asked her about the weather. ]
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Jesus, Bunny. [He desperately wants to touch her. He steps forward, slowly. Hands by his side, no funny business.]
That's a raw deal. [He should know. He even understands the difficulty trying to process it and being here. He feels he ought to say more-- but he doesn't feel like she wants words. She doesn't even want to feel the pain right now.
He hopes in that, there's a compromise. They're better at communicating without words, and he desperately wants to reassure her. His fingers reach out, gently working their way around hers. Not fully holding hands, but hooking them both together by linking fingers.]
It's alright to feel what you're feeling. [His voice is a little tentative, like he's trying not to sound like he's telling her how she should feel.]
I know it. I've been there.
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[ She was still and silent while he came to terms with it, studying the knots in the wooden floorboards. She didn't flinch away from him, though. A start.
Because he does understand. They have this in common now. Dead spouses.
The admission deflated her; she accepts the touch, her fingers interlaced with his. Comes with guilt, heavy on her clavicle, but she craves it all the same. No one knew how to comfort her the way Nathan did — save for John.
His eyes are sad when she meets them. She can't bring herself to keep eye contact. ]
His name is — [ Abrupt pause. Correction. ] Was John. John Stirling.
[ She smiles to herself, so very sad and wistful. Feels her eyes start to wet again. ]
I did not imagine I would be a widow so young?
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But within his ideal plan for Francesca to live happily without him, he did not allow for her future husband to die. He's had terrible nightmares about her dying back home without him-- he supposes it never occurred to him that another loss could damage her.]
No. Why would you. [He remarks, still a little baffled. His fingers squeeze around hers, he moves a touch closer. They're alone, but it helps to make the moment feel even more private.]
You loved him? John? [It could be misconstrued as jealousy-- it isn't. It's a genuine question. He finds himself feeling hopeful that she did, even if there's a part of him that will always ache about it.]
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A nod, small jerks of her chin, her gaze faraway and tortured. She did love him. She loves him. There was no stopping that, not even in death. She would carry him with her always. ]
Yes.
[ She feels dead, too, much of the time. Like a part of her died with him — and it hadn't stopped when she awoke here. It wouldn't. ]
But he is gone. For always. I shall never see him again. So, what does it matter?
[ Bitterness, unlike anything she'd harbored before within her. It escapes the thin lines of her mouth. She begins to pull away from him, physically and emotionally. ]
It is no less than I deserve, I suppose. To think I might be happy, I might get to keep somebody that understood me. Why should I be allowed happiness?
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There's that little part of him that feels hurt by it, on a personal level. He shouldn't receive it through a spurned lens, but it's a lot of new information coming very quickly and he now doesn't know where he fits into this.
Somehow comforting her as a lover feels invasive, so he's losing many of the options he knows she finds comfort in. No firm hand on the back of her neck, no pulling her in as close as she can so she can feel safe and secure against him. He doesn't even want to try suggesting that she should get into her cage.
His mouth twists. He's thinking, but he still responds.]
That's grief talking. Don't get pulled into that. [He can't think of anyone who deserves to feel this way less than her. She is in no way such a loathsome presence that she could deserve this. Hardly anyone deserves it. But again, he's biased, and he thinks she makes everything better by just being there and that she makes him terribly, agonisingly happy.
As a non-threatening gesture, he releases her hand and nods toward the stairs.]
Why don't I run you a bath? [He pauses to see if she wants to be carried, since that's normally how they'd manoeuvre this. If she moves past him, he'll step aside for her.]
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[ It comes out in halves. Half sardonic, half desperate. Seeking an answer, not a rhetorical question, but perhaps one he cannot give her. Perhaps he's at a loss as much as she is. Because he looks it.
He offers to run her a bath. It feels nostalgic, familiar. This is how they would solve things. How he solves them. A bath.
She doesn't have to look to know she is causing him pain. Rejecting his touch. She can't quite bear that either. Hates that she is causing hurt when hurt is now her constant companion. ]
Okay.
[ A defeated whisper. Doesn't occur to her that he might carry her, not until she's already moving in the direction of their bathroom.
She lingers at the vanity while he messes with the taps — staring at herself, feeling peculiar in such light colors, out of heavily dyed fabrics of black and mourning. Methodically, she undresses herself, a moment's hesitation before she sheds the final layer to stand naked in front of her reflection, and him.
It's not the first time, but it feels like a first time. The first since she was wed to another man, and then lost that man. ]
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He doesn't much like the idea of teaching her to harden herself to the world. He didn't fall in love with her because she was innocent, but her gentle nature is something he considers a true value of hers. He'd like to protect it as much as he can-- but he can't stop her from being mentally whisked away and he can't alter her future.
He can take care of her now, at least. Talk her through it. Maybe he can absorb some of the pain, somehow. He's not sure how that looks in practice. Ideally, not the way it does now. He feels pain when he glances at her naked figure, correcting himself when he glances too long.
It's not an entirely lustful gaze. It's wistful, too. He's missed her presence deeply. Until a few weeks ago, she was practically his shadow. Almost always by his side.
It's hard not to reach out and touch her, make it feel real.
Instead he focuses on fixing her a damn good bath. It looks almost as tantalising as her, when he's done. Hard not to want to sink inside it, but it's for her to enjoy alone.
He clears his throat gently, holding out a hand if she'd like to use it to guide herself up into the bath.]
Can I get you something to drink?