bigapplesauce | History Obliterates [closed]

Steven is finally gone, and the Balladeer is alone with himself.

He needed this. He hates to be alone, but he needed this. For days the knowledge (and lack thereof) of what he's done has been crawling under his skin like a physical itch - the one assassin he should be most familiar with, and all he knows is what Greta relayed to him second-hand, from a search somebody did on their cell phone. It's funny. It's really very funny.

One way or another, he ought to know everything about this lost assassination. Either it's his job, or it's his. So once he's alone, he takes himself to a library and gets out every reasonable book he can find, plus a few documentaries on DVD. There seems to be a lot of ridiculous conspiracy theories surrounding the whole thing; sadly, he can't quite convince himself any of them could be true. If Lee Harvey Oswald was a patsy, the Balladeer would never have any connection with him at all.

(The stop at the liquor store is an afterthought, a whim built on memories of a thousand morose drinking sessions he never joined. He wonders bitterly if Sam would laugh, and buys whiskey the man could never afford.)

He goes home and spends the day reading. At some point, he opens a bottle. He meant to eat something with it - that helps, right? - but instead he ends up putting one of the documentaries on to watch. He just needs to know.

He loses track of time.

Threaded | Flat

It's getting on towards evening before Greta stops by. Steven had texted her a couple hours ago, letting her know that the Balladeer was alone, but she'd resisted the impulse to head over immediately and make sure he was all right. He's been all right - as much as anyone could be, under the circumstances - and she doesn't want him to feel smothered, or as if no one trusts him to handle himself. It's just a few hours. A bit of alone time might do him good.

She distracts herself with baking, which at first keeps her too occupied to fret about him, and then gives her an excuse to stop over. She can't eat all of these muffins herself, so she might as well bring him some. If he seems as if he's holding together, she won't even stay. It'll be a friendly little visit, not a paranoid check-up.

A few minutes later, she's outside his door. Half a dozen muffins are wrapped in a bit of cloth and nestled in a basket (she doesn't particularly trust plastic bags, for all that they're cheaper), which she balances on her hip so she can knock. "Balladeer? Are you in? I've been baking, and I've got something extra."

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