Witches Can Be Right [Closed]

[andhiswife]

Greta wakes when she strikes the floor. She lies there for a few moments, winded and disoriented, hardly able to recognize her own apartment from this angle.

(She doesn't want this to be her apartment. She doesn't want this to be all she has.)

It was all lies. It had to be. She fell, but she didn't--she's alive, and if she hadn't landed in Manhattan she'd--she'd remember. Wouldn't she? Maybe it wasn't even really the Witch, but a figment of her own imagination, some Witch-shaped conglomeration of all her worst fears about what might be happening in her absence. The real Witch would have been able to give her real answers, not a few awful details and a shrug.

(Could those details have really come from her own mind, though? Would she ever have imagined Jack...?)

Greta lurches to her feet and pauses, waiting for her head to stop spinning. She needs answers, real ones, not the words of a Witch in a nightmare. It's not yet dawn, but the ambient light of the city is enough for her to find a shawl by. She wraps it around her shoulders, grabs her keys.

Her phone sits on the bedside table. Iman--she'll probably text her as soon as she wakes. But even the thought of sympathy is almost enough to break her. She needs to know if it's true before she can bear to accept anyone's apologies or concern. Even Iman's. Greta presses her lips together, turns her back on the device, and steps barefoot out into the hallway, squinting against the artificial glow.

A minute later, she's outside the Balladeer's door. She lifts a hand, then hesitates for a moment. It's so early. Can she really ask this of him?

She doesn't care. She has to.

Greta knocks.

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[andhiswife]

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.

[singthesong]

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.

[etherthief]

"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.

[andhiswife]

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.