bigapplesauce | Witches Can Be Right [Closed]

The Balladeer is a light sleeper, and wakes with a start.

Not even the pale light of dawn is filtering through his window. He doesn't usually wake this early, and for a moment he rubs a hand over his eyes, committing the dream of the garden to memory before it can fade. He made a friend; it'd be cruel to forget.

But whatever brings someone to his door this early must be important, so it's only a second before he rises and makes his way down the hall to go open the door. No need to look through the peephole; he could hear Greta outside before he got there, this time apparently without any amnesiacs in tow.

"Hey." His brow furrows as he sees the state she's in. "What is it, is something wrong?"

"Yes." There's no point in even attempting to hide it. She's barely decent (at least by her standards), hair in disarray, and she's knocking on his door in the wee hours. Of course something's wrong.

Greta draws the shawl a bit tighter around her shoulders. "I... I need a favor." Before she can lose her nerve, she barrels onward: "I need you to listen to my song, and--and tell me how it... would have ended. If the Rift hadn't taken me."

It's a tall order. She knows he prefers to respect other's privacy. And goodness knows what this will mean for her - will he hear everything, or just tune in to the part that matters?

If he's willing, then she'll just have to risk it.

"Can you do that?" she asks, shifting restlessly. "Please?"

The Balladeer opens his mouth, then closes it slowly. There seems to be a sudden chill in the room, and he's certainly fully awake now. What could have brought this on? When they last talked about it, she'd wanted the exact opposite. She wanted him to tell her he wouldn't do that.

And she's the only person here to have seen him at work. She knows how songs end. Guiteau chose his own path there, but there's only one destination.

"Why...why don't you come in?" He asks, replacing his real question with an invitation. These aren't talks to have in the hall where anyone could hear. Her song is a constant on the edge of his awareness, just as ever, but for the time being he puts it out of his mind.

He leads the way towards the couch, moving his guitar aside so they can both sit. He won't need it; listening is one thing, but to play it for her would be ghoulish. Instead, he just looks at her for a long moment, curious and measuring. "Are you sure?" he asks finally. "I can do it, but you know I can't take it back again. I'm going to know more than just the end." Listening to a certain portion is something he's never exactly tried before, but he doesn't want to give her hope that he can just to disappoint her afterwards. People don't come with fast-forward buttons.

"And I'm going to tell you the truth." Even for a friend, there will be no kind lies. These things are too important.

Greta follows him in, sinking gratefully onto the couch. She's surprised him - well, of course she has - but at least he's not refusing her. She doesn't know what she'd do if that happened.

Granted, he doesn't seem particularly eager, but that's to his credit. Greta forces herself to meet his eyes and consider his question. Even if he's careful, even if he can get away with not hearing everything, she's not proud of what happened so shortly before she fell. He'll know about the Prince. She hasn't even told Iman about that, and he'll know.

But what's a dalliance with a Prince compared to the murder of a president? And what embarrassment could outweigh the question of whether she has a home to return to? It's one thing for them to assume she's dead because she vanished, but if she--if there's...

Greta shuts her eyes and bows her head, thrusting the fear aside. That's why she's here, to find out for certain, to get the truth from someone she trusts.

"I'm sure," she says, lifting her head and meeting his gaze levelly. "I... I need to know."

He holds her gaze a moment longer before nodding. "Okay."

On the outside, it doesn't look as if he's doing anything at all. He just looks down at his hands for a second, clasping them to stop from reaching for his instrument out of pure habit. Inwardly, he just starts paying a little more attention. It's easy as anything.

There's the simple melodies of childhood, quickly glossed over. There's a good-natured man, and years spent with hands caked in flour, working and waiting and wishing.

There's quite a lot of wishing.

It's not until a Witch sweeps in with a disquieting musical motif that he starts to attend a bit more carefully to the story. It feels invasive. Greta never told him about this; will she mind that he knows? It never mattered before, but she's his friend, not a responsibility to deal with. She didn't kill anybody. At least she knows he won't tell anyone, even if he thinks he's getting a feel for what kind of story this is. It'd be suited to performance. Tales like that always begin with witches.

And woods - no, Woods. Even from here, they sound like they deserve the emphasis.

Things work out as they always do in fairy tales, and then they promptly fall apart all at once. He guesses giants do that to a place - and he can't really say her anger isn't justified. That doesn't make what she's doing right either, but maybe people should have just avoided theft and murder altogether and it would've been alright. Well, he's not here to moralize this time...

...oh. Ohhhhhh. Okay, now he really wishes Sara Jane hadn't harped on so much about princes.

And then, while he's still mired in embarrassment over what he just heard, it just - cuts off. The song picks back up after a second, with the discord he's starting to recognize as the Rift, but the Balladeer has spent most of his life describing death. He knows its variations well.

So that's it, then.

It seems as if it would take a while to listen to an entire life's story. But only a few seconds after speaking, the Balladeer sighs and slumps back against the couch, running a hand over his eyes again. He has to tell her. He wishes he didn't, but denying the truth won't change it. How much does she know already? Where to begin?

"You fell," he ventures, watching for a reaction. His eyes are darker than when he last looked at her, and his shoulders not as straight, but he's at least trying to approach the subject delicately.

He just doesn't have much of a poker face.

Greta isn't sure how long it will take, but she presumes quite some time. Her hands twist together in her lap, catching in the loose weave of her shawl, and she shrinks in on herself a little like a child awaiting chastisement. Which isn't to say she's expecting judgment - that's not what she came for, or asked for - but how could he not? How could he know the things she's done and not?

He sits back far sooner than expected, and Greta looks up at him as he heaves out a tired sigh. Was that it? Did he manage to just hear the part she asked for, or did he get her whole life in a matter of moments?

"Yes," she says quietly, and the look in his eyes is far too close to sympathy. She might shatter under a look like that. Greta drops her gaze back down at her hands, trying to brace herself. "... And?"

Don't just tell her. Don't just tell her.

The Balladeer's never thought of himself as an unkind person, exactly, but he knows he's been harsh with the assassins before. He took their pasts, just like this, and then he used his knowledge against them. Even now he doesn't feel guilty about that; what's a few barbs compared to a gun pointed at your head? But he's not there anymore, and Greta doesn't deserve cold, sharpened truths.

Of course he heard that she made mistakes. Everyone does. It's what you do with yourself afterwards that matters. Maybe she didn't get a whole lot of afterwards there, but she's always been kind to him. She took care of Daniel when she didn't have to. Things like that matter. Her life here matters.

"And." How do you tell someone they've died without hurting them? It isn't the kind of news you can sugarcoat. He swallows and tries to find the right words, not quite looking at her anymore either. "That was...the end. I'm sorry."

The end. It sounds so tidy, put that way. The last page of a storybook. The last words of the tales she would have told her son. The end.

But it didn't end there, not for her, and not for them. They still had a Giant to defeat, and she... she had to wait, like a Princess in a tower. If she was patient enough, and good enough, she'd be allowed to return home, back to the people who needed her. It might be awkward and hard to explain, but it would happen. It had to.

It won't.

Returning from a mysterious disappearance is one thing; returning from the grave is another. Her husband hasn't been waiting for her, holding onto even the slimmest hope that she might return to him. He knows she's gone. They've buried her, and she is suddenly angry--no, furious--to think of them mourning and moving on with their lives while she's just been sitting here, waiting patiently for a reunion she didn't know she couldn't have.

This is fine. Fury, she can work with. It's better than falling to pieces. That would just be embarrassing, and she's asked so much of the Balladeer, already.

Her hands are shaking. She notes it with dispassionate distance, as if they're not even hers, as if they belong to someone she doesn't particularly care for. Let them shake. It doesn't matter.

Greta rises to her feet. No point in staying; she has what she came for. Beneath the static, there's an awareness that she doesn't want the Balladeer to worry about her, or regret doing as she asked, and she lays one of her hands on his shoulder. "Thank you," she says quietly, unable to look at him directly, "for telling me." She pats his shoulder, then pulls her hand away.

Time to go.

It's too late. The worry's already here, along with perhaps a few regrets.

The Balladeer feels the trembling in her hand, and stands quickly as she pulls away. "Wait. Where are you going?" He doesn't know what it is he fears, but he doesn't want to leave her alone now. It doesn't seem right for him to blow through like a sudden storm, shatter things with only a few words, and then just let her pick up the pieces by herself.

Greta stills halfway through her slow, steady shuffle towards the door, more thrown by the objection than she should be. Part of her wants to snap at him: what does it matter where she goes? She's not going home. That door is barred to her, that corner ripped off the map. No amount of petulant whining about the unfairness of it all will change that.

"My room," she replies at length. Because that's all she has anymore; that is her pathetic little portion: a barren room on an island that she will never leave. Better than nothing, probably, but she's not inclined to look on the bright side just now. This isn't what she wished for, or worked for; she didn't ask for it and doesn't deserve it. It just... is, as cruel and senseless as a Witch's curse but nowhere near as breakable, and she hates it.

The Balladeer hesitates, feeling suddenly, sharply guilty. Maybe he should have just lied to her? But he'd have still known. The truth always comes out eventually, and it'd have been worse for the deception.

He doesn't make a move forward. As much as he thinks it's a bad idea, he can't really stop her from leaving. "Is there...do you want company?" he asks, not a little helplessly. "We don't have to talk." He's said quite enough for the morning. He just thinks Greta ought to have someone - and he'd understand, too, if she didn't want it to be him. She just doesn't seem like she's about to go call anyone else.

Why is he making this so difficult? Sharp as her anger might be, she can't bring herself to direct it towards him. He did precisely what she asked him to do, and with far more kindness than the Witch had displayed. She can't throw that back in his face, as if he doesn't already feel terrible (and she can tell, by his tone, that he does).

She can't push away one of the only friends she has left.

It's the too-considerate offer to just sit with her in silence that ultimately tips her over the edge. Greta presses a hand over her mouth, but it's not enough to mask the sharp intake of breath, or soften it into anything but an obvious precursor to a sob. Squeezing her eyes shut won't stop the tears, either, but she does that, too, and nods.

The Balladeer nods, and then because she's closed her eyes, adds a quiet, "Okay." He's still in his bedclothes, but that doesn't matter. It's only down the hall. He's not sure now if he should acknowledge her tears, so after another second of hesitation, he just brushes past to retrieve his keys from the kitchen counter. He'll wait until she's ready to follow her out the door.

Greta might not notice, but he sees the waiting figure down the hall right away. Iman. She didn't even have to call after all. Normally he might greet her, but now he just looks to Greta for a cue.

Iman comes to Greta's building as quick as she can and is forced to pace outside for a moment before being let in by another tenant. She heads up to Greta's apartment and knocks on the door, but there is no answer, not even the sound of anything inside. She fidgets frantically, chewing on her thumb, trying to keep herself together. After a dream like that Greta isn't going to be acting like she usually does, and Iman feels sick to realize she has no idea where Greta would go. Should she find Rush? Maybe the Balladeer? Should she just wait here in the hall like an idiot, trying desperately not to panic?

It turns out she doesn't have to wait long. She spots Greta and the Balladeer down the hall and freezes, staring at them, at Greta, how small she looks, how run down.

This is bad.

Maybe she shouldn't have come.

Suddenly feeling like the world's biggest intruder, she takes a faltering step forward. "Greta?" she says softly.

Greta trails after the Balladeer, part of her wishing he'd put his arm around her or something, the rest of her appalled at the thought of asking for more than she already has. He answered her question, and he's not asking any questions of his own. That's more than enough. Besides, she might just collapse at the first hint of physical support.

Her eyes are fixed on the ground, and she's barely paying attention to the distance they've covered. She doesn't realize how close they are to their destination, let alone that anyone is waiting, until she hears Iman's voice.

She's here. She came running. Even without a call.

Greta takes in Iman's anxious expression, wonders how many desperate texts were sent, and hates herself for leaving her phone behind. Iman can't have been here long, but still. She must have been terrified, because she cares, and this is the worst time to be mistreating the people who haven't been irrevocably placed beyond her reach.

Greta swallows, pointlessly dashes away a few tears as if they won't be immediately replaced, and pulls in an unsteady breath. "It's true," she says brokenly, taking a few steps forward. "It's all true."

The Balladeer, meanwhile, is feeling rather like an intruder himself. Iman's likely better at this. Anyway, it's -

Well. It isn't his fault. He just hasn't been making things much better.

He hangs back as Greta approaches Iman, shooting the other woman a brief pained look and a nod over Greta's shoulder. They haven't spoken since that dream, so he doesn't know if she remembers when he explained what he could do. Even if she does, things that happen in dreams aren't always true. But that part was, and he doesn't want her to try comforting Greta with uncertainty. Not when it is certain.

Iman already knew it was, and that's the worst part. She'd understood the dream's mechanism well enough, she'd heard the certainty and truth in the Witch's words, much as it had been hateful and cruel. She's able now to piece together that the Balladeer must have confirmed it for her - she does remember that dream quite well, and there's enough here to assume he can do here what he did there, at least to some degree. At least she got it from a friend.

Not that it helps much, she expects.

"Oh, Greta," she says sorrowfully, going forward to meet her, wrapping her arms around her and pulling her close, one settling into her hair. "I'm so, so sorry."

She glances past at the Balladeer, gives a subtle jerk of the chin, trying to beckon him forward. Not that she expects him to join the hug, but she doesn't want him just ducking away, either. Not when he's looking so miserable himself. Nestling her cheek back against Greta's head she murmurs, "Let's all go in and have a sit-down, okay?"

Greta slumps into Iman's arms and buries her face against the other woman's neck, clinging to her as if... well, as if Iman is all she has. Which isn't far wrong. For a few moments, all she can do is shake with silent sobs, both mortified and absurdly grateful for Iman's presence. When she makes her suggestion, though, Greta pulls herself together enough to lift her head and nod.

"Yes," she agrees, swiping at her cheeks again, though the gesture's about as effective as sweeping the walk two minutes into a snowstorm. Glancing back over her shoulder, she manages an encouraging nod for the Balladeer. She wouldn't blame him for wanting to retreat from this whole mess, but she doesn't want him to think she's upset with him, or that he's unwelcome.

She unlocks the door on her first try (probably thanks to her Rift Power) and switches on the light. The bed is in considerable disarray, most of the sheets dragged to the floor when she fell, but at least the rest of the place is tidy. Ignoring the compulsion to straighten out the bedsheets, she instead shuffles towards the couch. Sitting down is about all she feels equipped to handle just now.

Edited 2015-09-03 02:23 (UTC)

The Balladeer had been entirely ready to turn and slip back into his apartment, but the encouragement has him following instead. It's not as if he was going to go back to sleep or anything; he'd just figured he wasn't needed anymore. Maybe he can still be helpful.

He keeps his silence as he enters the apartment, leaving the seat next to Greta for Iman and picking the other end of the couch instead. It's not such a large couch, but he imagines they'd want to be close. Hugging, why didn't he think to hug her? But hey - he shouldn't kick himself. Now he knows, and he'll do better the next time something like this happens.

Hopefully that won't be anytime soon.

If Iman is going to take up the charge here, he ought to still do something. Sitting still and quiet isn't in his nature. The Balladeer glances quickly around the apartment, then stands and returns with a box of tissues. That's a start.

Iman smiles gratefully at the Balladeer when he brings over the tissues, taking the box and offering it gently to Greta. She keeps her other arm wrapped around her shoulders; god, but she's glad she has both of them working again.

"Met someone from home in last night's dream," Iman tells the Balladeer quietly. "She was a huge asshole." She rubs Greta's back slowly, keeping her eyes on her. She doesn't know what to say. She can pretend to be strong here, put on a brave face for the Balladeer, offer Greta all the comfort she can, but there's still nothing to say.

Sorry about you being dead and all.

Ugh.

"I'm here," she whispers, and presses a brief kiss to her temple. "We're both here for you. We're not going to leave you."

"The Witch," Greta offers by way of explanation, voice hollow. She assumes the Balladeer heard enough to know who she is. Or... was. Relegating the Witch to the past tense might be some comfort, if she hadn't just shown up in a dream and casually torn her world apart (again). For all any of them know, the Rift might bring her here, too.

Though if it did, at least Greta might get to see Iman call her a 'huge asshole' to her face.

She leans heavily against her friend, cradling the box of tissues in her lap and mopping at her face. Her mood swings sluggishly from anger and sorrow over what she's lost to gratitude for what she still has, and from there to bitterness over how tenuous even this feels. As long as they're under the Rift's metaphorical thumb, 'I won't leave you' isn't a promise any of them can make and keep. There's no pressing reason either of them couldn't go home. The Balladeer might be happier here, but there's still a place for him in his universe, a role to fulfill. And Iman came here on purpose; she wasn't snatched away mid-calamity, or--or resurrected. The Rift could send either one of them back where they came from, and there wouldn't be a thing any of them could do about it.

Greta, on the other hand, probably won't be going anywhere. There's nothing for her back home. And everything she has here could be gone in an instant.

"Why couldn't the Rift have just left me?" she mutters. It's not a question she entirely meant to voice, but she's too tired and heartsick to take it back.

"Ah." The Balladeer nods; that explains a lot. It fits well with what he knows of the Witch, though he's only ever seen her through Greta's eyes.

He doubts he'd use exactly that term, but he wouldn't mind saying a few things himself.

It's kind of Iman to say they won't leave, but that doesn't seem like a promise they can make. Seth just went back; what's to stop it from happening to either of them? He's only recently stopped expecting to wake in Washington every time he goes to sleep. Some day, he suspects, his vacation time is going to run out. But he keeps his silence, because they both know that just as well as he does.

"Would you have wanted that?" he asks quietly, angling his head at Greta's quiet question. He knows his perspective is skewed. Death's always been a fleeting thing in his world - most of the people he knows are more or less in Greta's situation. They don't care. They wanted to live forever, if only in memory. But Greta's not a preening narcissist, so maybe she feels differently!

(He knows how he feels. At least about her death. But his opinion isn't the most important one.)

Oh, god. It's good that the Balladeer interjects as he does, because there's no response to that Iman could come up with that would be remotely productive. Her lips tighten into a thin line and she reaches out to clutch Greta's hand, waiting for her answer.

She understands the sentiment behind it. The idea of being gone altogether might seem more comforting than having to live with the knowledge that you are completely without home.

There is so much she could say, wants to say, if things were different. That any life is better than none; that Greta is strong and she will recover from this upheaval even if that seems impossible now; that she has made all of this worth it; that as long as she has a say in the proceedings, Iman will never, ever leave her behind, no matter what.

She can't say any of this. She just rests her head gently against Greta's shoulder.

There's no implicit judgment in the Balladeer's tone, though she wouldn't blame him if there was. Death is a very different thing in his universe. Even if it wasn't, 'I'd rather be dead than here with you' is a bitter, cruel sentiment, and she's ashamed of voicing it.

It's not even that she wants to be gone. Death is a different thing in her universe, too. She might have been a shade haunting the Woods. Watching her family from afar, or drawn up out of the mist by the power of their need for her. Waiting for a longer delayed but more assured reunion.

It's not that hard to imagine. Simple, straightforward, perhaps the way things ought to have been. It's not that hard to want it, on those grounds.

But you can't do much as a shade but whisper and wait. She's never been good at the former, and she's weary of the latter.

Here, she is alive. There is a pulse beating in the hand Iman is clutching so tightly. She is alive, and she has friends, and she's been useful, hasn't she?

In all the time she's spent fretting over how her family is getting along without her, she's never considered how Iman or the Balladeer or even Rush would get along without her. Or, rather, she's never thought of it outside the grander context of everyone going home, back to their former lives and families: the ultimate balm to ease the pain of parting. Now, she wonders how the Balladeer would have handled his cold without her help, or who would put food in front of Rush when he was too distracted to think of feeding himself, or how Iman would have coped with the loss of her arm.

Can she really say she'd rather deprive her dear friends of everything she's been to them, just so her family could have an echo in the Woods?

"No," she says softly, squeezing Iman's hand and leaning her cheek against the top of her head. "Not really." She pulls in a breath and lets it out as a long sigh, then lifts her free hand to Iman's cheek. She's not the only one in need of comfort. "Not more than this," she adds, somewhere between a confession and a promise, her thumb tracing an apologetic arc from the ridge of Iman's cheekbone to the edge of her scarf.

That's a relief to hear.

The Balladeer just nods, watching the two of them for a moment before leaning back against the couch again. He'd rather she were here too, and not only for his own benefit. She died for nothing - the giant probably didn't even notice. What a senseless waste. Her family would have lost her either way, but at least now she gets to go on.

He's come to the conclusion, since that one dream, that close cuddling isn't really as casual as it seemed there. But he doesn't mind being here while Greta and Iman hold each other for a while. If they need anything, they don't need to get up.

Well, that's something. It's too much, actually, not the answer but the contact - she's too long been taking advantage of Greta's naturally affectionate tactile nature, and now it feels cheaper and more manipulative than ever. After a moment she ducks her head down, shying away from Greta's hand, taking it instead between hers.

"I know this is unbearable," she says. "I honestly can't imagine. But... as long as we can be, as long as we're allowed, we're your family." She looks up, willing herself to meet Greta's eyes. "And as long as I'm here to make this decision, no one is getting left behind."

She feels an uncomfortable little jolt when Iman ducks away from her. It's like a faint echo of the feeling you get when you're ascending a staircase and there's one step less than you'd anticipated, the floor seeming to drop from under you even though it's exactly where it's always been, leaving you startled and feeling vaguely foolish. But she's only left reeling for a moment before Iman takes both of her hands, grounding her.

Greta's eyes fill again, as if Iman's reminder that this is unbearable makes it so, and she drops her chin and presses her lips together. It's hard to know whether she ought to be grateful for Iman's carefully worded promises or frustrated that this is all they can do: skirt around the Rift's absolute authority. That's all any of them have ever been able to do, of course, but that doesn't make it easier to swallow, now. Not when she so desperately needs all the reassurance anyone can offer.

And if Iman could work around the Rift... then what? What is it she would offer, if all doors were opened except the one that would take Greta back home? "There's nowhere else for me to go," she says with a weak attempt at brisk practicality, freeing a hand so she can reach for another tissue, pulling it from the box with one sharp, efficient tug.

"I don't know," the Balladeer muses. He's thinking along somewhat similar lines. Greta's alive here - if she just went back to her own world, what would be the problem with that? It'd be like stepping out of a door, as she is now, regardless of what happened before.

That might just be the way it'd work in his world. He can't make that promise.

But being dead at home obviously hasn't meant she has to be dead everywhere. "Maybe you could go to some other world." It isn't an offer. As much as he dreads returning, he'd balk at subjecting anyone to his own home. If the Rift ever did decide to release everyone, though, maybe she could hitch a ride with somebody else rather than being stranded here alone.

"But that's exactly what I mean," says Iman, sitting up a little straighter. "When I say you're not getting left behind, I mean here. Greta, you can go anywhere. None of the places are home, but - you can make a new home." She tilts her head, trying not to look too hopeful. "You could come with me."

What is she supposed to do with such a surplus of choices? The thought of having her pick of any universe - save one - is even more overwhelming than the thought of never going back to that one in particular. Given the challenge of adjusting to Manhattan on top of the exhaustion already pressing down on her... she can't even imagine doing it all again. New universe, new customs, new everything, possibly stranger than what she's already seen here. It's too much.

Greta's somewhere between blowing her nose and composing some sort of objection when Iman's offer strikes her. Well, 'strikes' might be the wrong term. It soaks into her, the initial surprise fading as the idea slowly, gently infuses its way through her fog of misery.

She could go with Iman. She could make a new home with Iman.

She forgets to weep. For a moment or two, she even forgets to breathe. Imposing herself on another Rifty in such a way - following them home like some sort of stray animal - is unthinkable. Accepting an invitation... that, she thinks, she could manage.

But it's such a big invitation.

"Wh-" she starts, glancing at the Balladeer as if to confirm that he heard it, too. Her hands drop into her lap, twisting the already abused tissue between them, as she returns her astonished gaze back to Iman. "... Really?" she finally says, faint and incredulous, and with an echo of the same wistfulness her tone had carried the first time Iman had invited her someplace exciting and new.

The Balladeer smiles encouragingly at Greta, inclining his head in a slight nod. There it is! He'd been hoping Iman would say something like that, though of course he wasn't about to make the offer for her.

What's Iman's world like, anyway? Who cares? She wouldn't have offered if she thought it was too dangerous, and more than that, he's sure she wouldn't let anything more happen to Greta. He's not sure how much of that dream was true (if one of those arms really IS a prosthetic, it's remarkably life-like), but her general strength of character shone through.

"Of course," she says softly, managing a soft smile. "I'd be honored if you came home with me."

Honored, overjoyed - Rush's annoying advice that she 'deal' with this is starting to make more and more sense. She can't drag Greta into her homeworld without being honest about her feelings and she definitely can't open up about that for now.

At least there's not exactly a deadline they're trying to hit.

"You're my friend," she says, settling for half-truths now. "You're important to me. I'm not gonna leave you stranded."

Honored. Greta can hardly get her head around the enormity of the offer, and Iman is calling it an honor, as if--as if the monumental obligation of resettling her would be on par with hosting visiting royalty for a fortnight.

How on earth is she supposed to respond to that?

She doesn't know, and she's too overwhelmed for any kind of coherence, anyway. She ends up making a strangled little sound and tipping forward to rest her head on Iman's shoulder, a complete mess of gratitude and mortification and persistent sorrow.

The Balladeer smiles and shakes his head, turning away. Let those two have their moment.

...man, maybe he should've just gone back to his apartment. He remembers as well as anyone what Iman confessed to the entire network that one day. It's pretty obvious, too, that Greta never found out. There's talks those two ought to be having that he's dead sure will never happen in front of other people.

Oh, well. They've got time.

His normal life is pretty voyeuristic as is, so he's not terribly flustered. All the same, he doesn't think he needs to be here. Careful not to disturb the others, he stands and moves into the kitchen. Maybe he'll just get them all drinks or something. Give the two of them a bit of space. Things like that!

Iman wraps her arms around Greta and holds on tightly, watching the Balladeer as he excuses himself. She knows he knows what's up here, and that must be a barrel of fun for him, but at least he doesn't seem too uncomfortable. God, but she's a lucky fuck for having so many people willing to not involve themselves in her bullshit.

Still, though. Doesn't sit well to have him retreating like that, like he's giving them space to... something. "Do you want some tea?" she asks Greta softly. "Tea always helps. Beth here can probably make us all some tea, right, Beth?"

She's glad she's alive. She doesn't want to die. But she can't help wishing everything would just stop for a while, give her time to catch her breath and catch up, because this is all too much. The thought of Iman taking her to her own universe, taking care of her indefinitely. The thought of being one more universe removed from home, which shouldn't make a difference when she can't go home, anyway, but it still makes her ache.

The thought of never going home, ever. Never seeing her family again. Never even knowing if they survived, because the Witch couldn't tell her. And if it's only when they die that the Rift takes interest in them, she can't even look forward to the possibility of seeing them in a dream. It would only confirm her worst fears.

Oh, god, she saw Jack in a dream already. What does that mean?

And he found her body. He wept over her. As if she was his own mother. She was never anything of the kind. But she'd promised, and she'd meant it, and she could have been.

Greta can feel herself teetering on the edge of another breakdown, and she can't let it happen, can't subject her friends to it no matter how little they'd mind. Think about something else. Think about nothing. Just stop this. She's only just begun to mourn and she's already so tired of it.

The offer of tea is well timed, and she seizes onto it. Tea. The Balladeer is going to make tea, and she's going to sit up and drink it like a grown-up. Until then, she allows herself to keep clinging to Iman like a child, all but curled up in her lap, her face hidden in the folds of her scarf where no one can see how close she keeps coming to crumpling up again.

"Yes," she manages.

There's a short, quiet chuckle from the kitchen. He always manages to forget about the Beth thing between his conversations with Iman. "Okay."

Greta's got a lot more varieties of tea than he keeps. He selects the one that says "soothing" in the biggest letters and goes to boil some water. It's already making him feel better just to do something. While the kettle's heating, he gathers some cups and then pokes around some of the other cabinets as well. Any little sweet snacks or anything?

Iman sits with Greta for a while, holding her, stroking her hair, while she listens to the Balladeer prep things in the kitchen. Once the kettle is whistling, she tilts her head to try and catch Greta's eye.

"You wanna take this to the table or keep it here?" she asks gently.

The Balladeer should have no problem finding snacks; there are biscuits in a jar. Whether Greta will be able to bring herself to eat anything anytime soon is another matter. At the moment, she feels more than a little bit sick.

At least the soothing motion of Iman's hand over her hair gives her something tangible to focus on. She does her best to shove the more unpleasant thoughts aside - helped, in part, by the practice she's had these past few months. If she can just forget, for the time being, how permanent and final the loss has become... maybe she can at least get through a cup of tea without losing her head completely.

Iman is here. Iman will take care of her. She's not alone. She has a family. Iman's hand is in her hair. It's okay. She's okay.

She still feels sick. But there's a numbness swaddling her grief, now, enough for her to push it a little to one side, glancing at it sidelong instead of staring it down. Her breathing steadies. Better. Still bad, but better.

Iman shifts in such a way that Greta can guess she's trying to look at her. Part of her wishes she wouldn't, that she'd just let her keep hiding in her hijab, where it's safe. She makes herself lean back a little until her face is visible, but she can't quite meet Iman's eyes. She feels so small.

"Here, I think," she says quietly, her voice a bit ragged around the edges. Her current, tenuous equilibrium might not withstand a trip across the room or an unsupported spell of sitting in a chair. Sitting up and not crying will be enough of a challenge. She watches the Balladeer get the tea ready, one corner of her mouth ticking upwards into a halfhearted impression of a smile. He's picked that up quickly, hasn't he? Think about that, about things that have been gained, not lost.

Ugh. She lets her head tip back down onto Iman's shoulder with a weary little grunt and shuts her eyes for a few moments, then lifts her head back up. She can do this. She'll get through this cup of tea, and then... she can't even think about what comes after. She'll just take each moment as it comes.

Quiet as she is, the Balladeer hears Greta from where he's pouring out the tea. She likes honey in it too, right? He fixes Greta's first and brings it out, pressing it into her hands with a faint smile. "You want honey?" he asks Iman quietly.

Whatever the answer, he comes back a few seconds later with her cup balanced carefully alongside his own, along with the cookie jar, which he sets down on the table. He's not going to try and make Greta eat, given that it's a weird hour anyway, but it's there if anyone wants any.

He settles back in his spot and warms his hands around his mug. There, see? Better already.

"Yeah, thanks." Iman accepts her mug with a smile, and looks back at Greta, watching to see how she's handling this little bit of normalcy. She's going to be shaky for a while, and Iman suspects this won't get any easier, not for a while. All the more reason to emphasize that they aren't going anywhere.

"I'll stick around however long you want," she says softly, and reaches out to take a biscuit.

Greta takes the tea, acknowledging the Balladeer's smile with a wry, joyless twist of her own lips. He's trying. They both are. It's not their fault things have broken beyond anyone's ability to repair. She stares dully at her cup for a minute or two, waiting for it to cool, watching the ceiling light's reflection wobble and jitter over the tea's surface.

She is not going to cry. She is done crying. At least in front of her friends. They don't expect her to be good company, but that doesn't mean she has to be a wreck. She doesn't trust her voice in the least, though - her grief might be a swaddled thing, but that doesn't mean it isn't struggling, and her voice is too open an avenue of escape. The only reply she can manage to Iman's quiet offer is to unclasp one hand from around the teacup and tuck it into the crook of Iman's arm, giving her a gentle squeeze of gratitude.

The tea has cooled enough that continuing to ignore it would be conspicuous, so she takes a little sip. For a brief moment, just a blink, she fears it'll come right back up again, but it doesn't. So, there's tea successfully handled.

Maybe she'll be able to handle the next moment, too.

Witches Can Be Right [Closed]

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