bigapplesauce | And your heart is lead, and your stomach stone [closed]

Jay lifts himself up with creaking bones - jesus, how long has he been sitting here? - and heads downstairs to let Greta in, shoulders hunched in tight, fingers twitching and fidgeting. Was this a mistake? Dragging yet another friendly person into their neverending epic bullshit? Too late now.

He opens the door for her and gives her a faint nod, a little flicker of transient eye contact. That's about all he can manage right now.

"Hi," he says. Cool. What next. 'How've you been?' 'Thanks for coming.' 'This way!'

Normal people would know what to say. Jay just turns and leads her silently toward the elevator.

She can see Jay with perfect clarity, which makes it impossible to deny how awful he looks. The dark circles beneath his eyes are worse than usual, and he holds himself stiffly, as if he's favoring some hidden injury. No less a ghost now than when he was tenuously outlined in flour dust. She resists the urge to touch him, half-afraid that the contact would upset him, half-afraid that her hand would go right through him.

"Hello," she replies automatically even as her brow furrows in growing concern.

She follows him to the elevator, wincing a little at the tinned music playing through a speaker. It's not loud, but she can't bring herself to talk over it, especially when the topic at hand is so serious. It's only when they've stepped back out into the hall that she ventures, "How long have you been back?"

"Uh." He hesitates, a little surprised, not by the question but by the answer: "Just since this morning. It's been kind of... a day."

He walks her to Tim's apartment and unlocks it with minimal fumbling. He feels a little weird letting a relative stranger to Tim into his apartment, but oh well.

"I was starting to get better at being, you know, visible," he says. "Then one of the cats showed up, threatened to take me back. So Tim struck a deal. It was probably their plan all along."

He wraps his arms around himself briefly, looking and feeling very small. He nods toward the bedroom, the door of which is slightly ajar. "he's in there."

Greta lets out a soft sound at the mention of the cats, somewhere between a tsk and a huff. She hasn't had much dealing with them outside of that one awful dream, but that was plenty. Everything she's heard about them has been unsettling, and this is no better. To think that they put Jay through all that misery, and it wasn't even really about him...

Some small part of her wonders if she's really any better. How many people did she manipulate in pursuit of her wish? But this is different. She's different, she has to be. She never hurt anyone, not really, not like this.

She glances toward the bedroom door as she sets down her bag, but Tim can wait another moment or two. It's Jay who worries her most just now, hunched over and curled in on himself. Jay, she can reach.

Her hand doesn't go through him, plunging her fingertips into an icy patch of air; it rests solidly against his arm. "I'm sorry," she says quietly. And it's not enough. She saw the way he'd curled his arms around himself, a halfhearted attempt at self-comfort. And now he's just standing there, looking both older and younger than his actual years, and she can't stand it.

Greta steps forward and wraps her arms around him, pulling him into a hug. He's too stiff and too skinny, but at least he's here. "It's going to be all right," she murmurs. As if either of them have any say in it.

He twitches slightly at the touch, but he doesn't move away. This is why he called her over, right? Because she's good at this. At comfort, at caring for people. Weird as it was in that dream where she thought he was her son, it was kind of nice too.

God, how long has it been since he saw his mom? Not calling or visiting kind of became the norm, but - christ, do they even know he's dead?

That thought will actually unravel him if he examines it any further, so it's good that she offers the mind-erasing distraction of a hug. He goes even stiffer and just freezes the fuck up for a minute. What is this. How does he handle being this close to another person - who isn't tackling or strangling or tying him up? What does he do with his hands? How long is it supposed to last?

He wants to pull away but he can't. The promise she can't keep, the warmth of another person who actually gives a shit, wants to help and is here to help, not some cold anonymous audience - it's all too much. The stiffness goes out of him and he crumples against her, trembling.

Don't cry. Oh god. Don't cry.

It's too late, try as he might to muffle it, he knows she can feel the way his shoulders shake, the unevenness of his breath.

For a moment, she's certain she's been too forward (yet again), too stubbornly insistent that she knows what someone else really needs, too willing to wager their actual comfort against the rightness of her guess. Jay stands rigid, as if stunned by the simple, maternal gesture, and the fact that he doesn't push her away means nothing. He's not Johnny.

He's not Jack, either, but when he slumps against her, she can't help remembering when she'd seen the lad in that dream, and how startled he'd been when she'd shown him a little kindness. She'd thought the boy just knew better than to expect anything like that from her - when had she ever treated him so well before? - but it wasn't that. He hadn't expected anything like that from anyone. That's why it surprised him.

How little warmth has Jay had, if this is enough to melt him down? Where is his mother? She knows better than to ask, and it doesn't matter, anyway. She's the only one here.

"It's okay," she whispers, referring not to the larger situation, but to this smaller, more immediate tragedy. He's probably mortified, the poor lad, and she won't have that. She shifts her grip on him to something less tentative and more supportive, lifting one hand to the back of his head, smoothing down his hair with the steady stroke of her palm. "It's okay. I'm here, and I'm not leaving you."

She's already made that mistake, leaving people who need her. And he, she suspects, has been the one left behind. Well, not this time. This time will be different, and she takes his tears with dry-eyed resolve, rubbing patient circles against his trembling back.

That's worse, that gentle, solid contact, he trembles beneath it and drags his hands up to cover his face, still crumpled up against her shoulder. Everything bubbles up at once, the still too-recent pain of losing Tim, his entire exhausting existence, the fact that he no longer remembers his parents' names, what they look like. All he has now are strangers. One of whom is holding him while he completely loses his capacity to do anything, even to stand.

His knees buckle until he's held up almost entirely by Greta, lowering himself to the floor, sort of dragging her down with him.

"I - I didn't-" He has no idea what he's trying to say, words just coming out at random as he wipes erratically at his eyes. "He gave himself up for me. He was what they wanted all along, it was never me, I was just - he-"

He finally lets out a full, raw sob. He shuts his eyes tight and clamps one hand over his mouth, trying to drown it out. He feels like he's going to be sick. He wishes he could disappear.

Oh, dear. His full weight is more than she can support on her own; the best she can do is try to sink slowly, shift her hands to Jay's arms and keep them from hitting the floor too hard or landing on top of one another. There's some space between them, now, enough for her to see his face twisted with grief and guilt as fragments of an explanation tumble out of him. They're not much, but they're enough for her to piece together, given what she already knows. Jay was used by those cat creatures, his life dangled like bait, and Tim took it, because that is what friends do. Maybe he wasn't storming a tower like a knight in shining armor, but the willingness to sacrifice himself was there.

And unlike her rescuer, Tim hasn't prevailed. He's gone. Defeated. Captured. How narrowly did she escape finding herself in this same awful position?

Greta's resolve might be strong as it ever was, but her composure begins to crack. "I'm so sorry," she says unevenly, bending toward him, pressing a hand against his cheek. It's not fair. It's not right. And however she might wish otherwise, she can't fix this, or do any more than offer a desperate sort of comfort that Jay barely knows how to accept. As if there's any real comfort to be had.

What else can she do?

"Come here," she says, not pulling him to her, not forcing it, but giving him a gentle tug. Invitation, or supplication. Please let her do this.

He lets himself be drawn in, curling up even smaller under her arms. He's so tired, suddenly, he has nothing more to give, can't even cry or sob any more, he already feels so dried out. He just shivers and huddles, feel so fucking miserable he doesn't know what to do, how to cope. He doesn't want to put this on anyone. Least of all on anyone so nice.

This was why he never had very many friends. This is why he so rarely opens himself up. Because all there is is mess.

"I'm sorry," he says breathlessly. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Greta insists, holding him close, waiting for the trembling to cease. It has to, eventually. "I... I've been the bait, too." The admission makes her grimace, as if the words taste sour. "I know how it feels."

She doesn't know how this feels - watching the set trap go off without a hitch, knowing that you're a crucial piece of the machinery and that it wouldn't have worked without you, your very existence a kind of betrayal - but she can imagine.

Greta sighs, then resumes rubbing Jay's back. She can do this, she can take care of people. It never would have occurred to her to think of it as a skill, but maybe it becomes one when no one else is in a position to do it. "I'm here to help," she says quietly, leaning back enough to look at him. "I don't mind." As if, after all he's been through lately, the real hardship is putting up with him. She lifts a hand and smoothes back his hair, a wry, deliberate echo of that dream, when she'd unthinkingly miscast him as Jack. She would have taken care of the lad, if things had been different; she can step in for Jay's mother as well. It's probably what she would have wanted, too. "All right?"

The admission actually calms him a little, softening his grief just enough that he can start to pull back from this consuming spiral of misery. She knows what this feels like. For such a long time no one has none what any of his experiences are like, no one except Tim, who is now gone, leaving him more alone than ever. But Greta understands this. And she does want to help. She really, really does.

He nods eventually and wipes his face again, finally managing to look up at her. "Okay," he mumbles.

He feels dizzy and dehydrated; he wants to get up and move on from this, take her in to see Tim and figure out what to do but he can only sit there, staring at the floor, and his numb, buzzing hands.

"Right," she says, a bit more briskly. Enough sitting on the floor. She gets her feet beneath her, then takes Jay's arm and rises, lifting him to his feet. "Up we get." She keeps her hands on his arm until she's certain he's not going to topple if she releases him, then absently tugs a few rumples out of his shirt. "There," she says, satisfied. "That's better." He's alive, he has his body back, and he's going to be fine.

Everything will be fine.

She ought to go have a look at Tim. Now that Jay's a bit steadier, there's no need to put it off any longer. Whether Jay wants to accompany her - or whether he even should - is a bit less clear. "I should see Tim," she says, watching Jay for his reaction. "Do you want to wait out here?"

He lets her lift him up, stands there for a moment or two until the question registers.

"No," he says. "I'll come with you. Just..." He turns toward the kitchen, walking stiffly to the sink, eyes moving slowly over the Ouija board still lying out on the table. He gets himself a glass and fills it with tap water. He turns back shakily and leads her into the bedroom.

Tim is still there, unchanged, unaffected by all that is happening around him.

Jay stands there, resisting the temptation to sit back on the floor, sipping his water and staring dully at his friend.

Greta smoothes out her skirts as Jay gets himself a glass of water. Perhaps she should have thought of that herself, but it's probably just as well that he's taking care of himself a little. She lets him lead the way into the bedroom, and briefly rests her hand against his back before approaching the bed.

Tim is stretched out on top of the covers, senseless and still, like something out of a fairy tale (she swallows the brief, moderately hysterical impulse to ask if anyone's tried kissing him, yet). He doesn't respond when she perches on the edge of the mattress, feels his forehead for fever, or checks his pulse. There are no signs of illness. She didn't really expect any - the cause of his condition isn't a mystery - but if his body is still here and alive, there's nothing to stop it from falling ill, is there? It can't hurt to check, and it makes her feel as if she's doing something of use.

"Has he done anything since this happened?" she asks, looking back at Jay. "Anything at all?"

Jay shakes his head slowly. "The angel guy who lives here said there's no way to revive him," he mumbles. "I... I don't know what to do. He suggested a hospital, but I..." He grunts and shrugs, looking away, out the window. He doesn't want to give up, but at the same time, give up what? He's not doing anything. He's not helping like this.

"He needs to be... cared for," he says. "And I want to do it, but I - I don't know how."

"Hm." A hospital could very well be best - she isn't inclined to take an angel's suggestion lightly - but they might as well see if home care is possible before taking that step. Hospitals, she's been given to understand, are atrociously expensive. If Jay wants to care for him, and it's possible, they might as well go that route.

"Well." She nods towards the glass of water he's holding. "Why don't you bring that water over here, and we'll see if Tim can take any of it?" His body's going to need nourishing if he's gone for any great length of time. He could go a day or two without food, but he has to have water.

She shifts to sit more alongside Tim than facing him. There's no resistance when she endeavors to prop him upright, but it still isn't easy. He's nothing but limp, dead weight in her arms. Not a hindrance, but certainly not cooperative. It takes some maneuvering to get him into something like a sit, her arm curled around him and his head resting on her shoulder. "Okay," she says, a bit breathless, motioning for Jay to hand her the glass.

A tight little frown of concentration creases her forehead as she gently works the rim of the glass between Tim's lips, then tips a small amount of water into his mouth. Most of it seems to be going down his chin - well, that's no good - and she's about to let out a quiet tsk of frustration when Tim coughs, sudden and explosive, body heaving. Greta hastily sets the glass down and cradles his head against her chest as the coughing spell continues, an automatic response with no feeling behind it, but she finds herself apologizing, anyway. "Sorry," she whispers. "I'm sorry." He can't hear her. He's not there to hear her.

She drags her gaze up to Jay as Tim finally stops, though his breathing has a faint, ragged edge to it, now. "Well. That... could have gone better."

He shifts forward, reaching out abortively to help as she struggles to lift Tim up, but there's not much to do, really; she's got it under control. He can only give her the glass when she reaches for it, watching anxiously as she tries to feed it to him.

The cough sends a jolt through him, is he awake?! is he about to seize? But no, it's just a physical reaction, a body rejecting fluids. His shoulders slump and his face falls as he watches her soothe the unconscious man, feeling more miserable than ever.

"It's okay," he murmurs. "You tried."

He steps forward and puts his hand on her shoulder awkwardly. "I... I think we should just... I just want him to be okay."

Greta sighs, giving Tim's hair an absent pat. They could try again, though they probably shouldn't right away. If they can't get him to take water, though... it really won't matter how badly they want to take care of Tim themselves. His body won't survive for long without some kind of nourishment.

"Yes," she says, giving Jay's hand a pat before lowering Tim back down onto the pillow. She listens closely to his breathing, wanting to make sure being horizontal doesn't send him into another coughing fit. Satisfied that he's all right for the time being, she gets to her feet.

"He doesn't have to go anywhere just yet," she adds, since Jay's looking so crestfallen. "He might wake at any moment." The Rift might torment people, but it doesn't last forever.

She looks back down at Tim for a few moments, lips pressed together, then returns her attention to Jay and manages a smile. "I suppose we could take care of you. Have you eaten anything today?" If he's been trying to deal with Tim all day, he probably hasn't thought to look after himself.

'Any moment.' Yeah. Sure. Jay huffs out a ghost of a laugh, barely sounding like anything, then looks up at her.

"Um... not a lot," he admits. "I had some peanut butter."

He looks at the jar sitting on the floor by the bed, spoon resting on top of it, embarrassed.

"Daine got me some groceries earlier," he says, as if this helps.

That's not a terribly impressive answer, but it's about what she expected, so he's spared any gasps of shock. Instead, she lets out a brief hum in the key of 'that won't do,' then gently steers Jay out the door, pulling it half-shut behind them. If Tim stirs, she wants to hear him, but there's no need to have the door gaping wide. Even though she has little trouble believing that Tim is technically gone, she still feels as if he ought to have some privacy.

"I brought something, too," she says. "Thought you might have been too, er, busy to think of food." He'd been a ghost for so long, too, he might have just got out of the habit of eating.

Greta retrieves the turnovers and tea, first. It's not the healthiest option in the world, but the poor lad could use a treat. And it'll stretch his own groceries out that much longer. "Start with these," she says, slipping the tea out of the bundle and setting the rest of it on Tim's little table, "and I'll have a look what else you've got."

"Oh, um." He blinks at the small bounty she sets out for him, feeling an unexpected swell of warmth. He's not even that hungry - or at least he thought he wasn't, but those pastries smell... really good, actually. "Thanks," he says, a little cautious, slipping down into a chair.

He shoves the Ouija board aside and starts nibbling shyly on one of the turnovers. It is, of course, really damn good. It is not only the first real piece of good, fresh food he's had since getting his body back, but just in general, in a long time.

"This is really good," he mumbles, halfway through it, his mouth full.

The kitchen is a bit of a disaster by her standards - boys, honestly - but she manages to get some water heating for tea. The groceries are easy enough to find, and she feels a little pang of appreciation for Daine's efforts. She clearly has a sensible eye for food, so it won't be hard to whip together something healthy.

She turns to check on Jay's progress, and smiles at the compliment. "Good," she says approvingly, glad to see him tucking in. At least she can say she's accomplished something, here. "I just made them this morning." The kettle starts to whistle, and a few minutes later, she sets a steaming mug of tea in front of him. "Just let it steep a little," she advises, giving his shoulder a fond pat.

She's about to head back into the kitchen when she sees the board - or properly looks at it, more like. Her brow furrows. "What's this?" she asks, reaching out to tap a finger against the planchette.

Turnovers and tea. Greta making him dinner just like in that dream. Catatonic man in the other room. This is ridiculous. So much so that he regards both the board and her question with weary nonchalance, no energy left even to feel embarrassed.

"It's called a Ouija board," he says, then swallows. "It's a game. Toy. For kids. Everyone puts their hands on the thing and asks questions to nothing and supposedly spirits will answer by moving it to letters and spelling stuff out."

He's not really in a position to judge how dumb the whole thing sounds, given his history, not to mention how much the damn thing ended up helping.

"Tim bought it as like a last resort to try talking to me," he says, "and... it actually worked. I have no idea why, but I could move it, even when I couldn't move anything else. So. Guess there must be something to it."

He shrugs and finishes off the first turnover, licking his fingers with a rare lack of self-consciousness.

"... Oh." Greta frowns over a half-completed sandwich. It does sound like childish nonsense, but the fact that it worked brings it uncomfortably close to witchcraft. Not that she ought to complain, if it helped Jay talk to people. Spelling things out letter by letter must have been tedious, but at least it's better than making a powdery mess just to make out a gesture or two.

For a moment, she wonders if they could reach Tim that way, but... probably not. It's not as if he's a ghost in the room. Wherever he's been taken, she doubts he could be reached with a toy.

"Well, it sounds better than the flour trick," she allows, setting the sandwich down on the table.

Greta steps back and absently swipes her palms over her skirt, looking around the little apartment, gaze lingering a bit longer on the half-open bedroom door before settling back on Jay. "Why don't I keep you company for a while?" she suggests. "I could help tidy up a bit, and if... if nothing changes, we'll figure out how best to care for Tim." Even if that means having him taken to a hospital. She still doesn't much like the idea, but money doesn't have to be a problem. Gabriel seems to like her well enough; he'd probably just miracle some up if she asked him nicely.

"Okay." He nods and offers her the weakest of smiles. "Thank you. For everything."

It is really hard to say that and mean it, turns out. He ducks his head back down and feels the sides of his mug, waiting for it to cool a little, to finish steeping. He's not much of a tea drinker but he'll do whatever Greta recommends, at this point.

"I can... contact Aziraphale, about the hospital thing," he mumbles. "It was his idea, he can probably... do some magic angel thing to... set it up." Sure, yeah. Pray for your miracles to land your friend in a hospital bed. Not to, you know, heal them.

"It's no trouble," she insists, quiet but firm. He's having an exceptionally hard day, the relief of getting his body back counterbalanced by an unnecessary heaping of tragedy. Feeding him and tidying seem like small favors, and not the sort of help he really needs.

Unfortunately, it's all she really has to offer.

Greta gives his shoulder another encouraging pat. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," she says.

Tidying manages to take up some time, at least. She doesn't want to do too much; it's not her place to go so far as reorganizing the contents of Tim's shelves. Her only real goal is to take care of whatever obvious chores she can, so Tim won't wake to a mess and Jay won't have to trouble himself with such mundanities. He has enough to worry about.

After an hour or so, she checks on Tim again. There's no change; he's still lying there as if bespelled, and she's not eager to try giving him anything again if it's likely to go the same as before. She huffs out a little sigh, hands twisting together in her lap, then looks up at Jay.

"I think perhaps we'd better call Aziraphale," she suggests, as gently as she can.

Jay's been sitting relatively motionless for a while, staring at the folded paper he knows is the letter he wrote, when Greta stirs him with her suggestion.

"Yeah," he murmurs, nodding. "Okay." He gets up and fumbles around for his phone, putting in a text to his sickly, Biblical landlord.

What is his life, even.

Aziraphale arranges the whole thing with rather absurd ease - transportation, expediting the check-in procedure, convincing the dubious Dr. Ruiz that this is an entirely ordinary situation, and covering the fees. It's ridiculous - it's too much, and yet Jay has no alternative but to expect all the charity he's offered. He's grateful for Greta's continued presence, standing with him in shared embarrassed bewilderment at all the help.

It ends with Aziraphale flitting back home, Jay standing with Greta in Tim's room, watching him breathe.

"Can we get out of here," he says softly.

He'll be back. He knows he will. He probably won't be able to stay away much at all. But right now he needs a fucking break, and he doesn't want to drag Greta down with him.

Thank goodness for Aziraphale. Even ill, he seems to have little trouble navigating the necessary steps to get Tim taken care of. Greta can't say that being in a hospital makes her any more disposed towards liking them. The harsh lighting and constant bustle leave her with uncomfortably contrasting impressions of being terribly exposed and completely overlooked. At least Dr. Ruiz gives off a reassuring air of well-worn competency despite her doubts about their story, which Greta leaves completely up to the angel to fabricate.

She wishes they didn't have to leave Tim behind, but she can't help liking the idea of getting out of here, herself. So when Jay puts his question, it's easy - perhaps a little too easy - to nod. "Yes," she agrees, steering him to the door with a light touch to his back. "Come on. I'll take you home."

It's easiest for her to handle the cab, leaving Jay to either save his strength or spend it other ways. He's very quiet on the ride back, and she doesn't press him to make conversation. They're both tired, she suspects.

She's left her bag in Tim's apartment, so when they return to the building, that's the one she aims for. As they step off the elevator, she gives Jay an assessing sidelong glance. He might prefer to be left alone at this point, after the day he's had, but she doesn't want to presume and unwittingly abandon him. "Would you like me to stay for a bit longer?" she asks quietly. "I don't mind."

Jay feels so tired. He's grateful everyone else is picking up the pieces of this mess, a mess he still feels at fault for, because he feels certain he's going to pass out at any moment. He leads her back to Tim's apartment, unlocking it without answering.

"Um." He steps in and watches her gather her things. He wants to say no. Get away from me while you still can. Just go back to your nice life, get on with your day.

"M-maybe," stumbles out of him instead, and he suddenly sways and crashes to the floor, his knees buckling entirely under his weight. He's trembling all over. He can't breathe.

"Jay..." Greta lets her bag drop to the floor and crouches beside him, bracing her hands against his shoulders. What is this? Is he ill, or is the day just catching up with him? Either seems possible; regardless, there's no question of her leaving him, now. The poor lad. Hasn't he been through enough for one day?

She tuts softly, lifting one hand from his shoulder to brush back his hair. "I'm staying," she says, shifting her grip down to his elbow, the better to help him back to his feet. "Can you make it to the couch?" The bed might be more comfortable, but she doesn't think he'd want to lie down in the space so recently vacated by Tim. "Come on," she wheedles gently. "I'll help you."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, resisting her efforts until she overpowers him, drawing him up. He doesn't want her to see this, to have to deal with this again, doesn't know what's wrong with him. He feels so ashamed, not just for falling to pieces, but for letting them win.

"What if he - What they never give him back?" he says quietly, brokenly. "What if he never wakes up?" He tries to draw a steadying breath and it comes in sharp and shallow, and comes out a sob. He drops onto the couch, curling up onto it, shrinking inward. Words start pouring out in an uncontrolled flood. "He's always the one who knew how to, how to keep going, I wouldn't even be here if it weren't for him, I'd have - I can't - I need him, I can't do this by myself."

Shut up. Shut up.

"I don't know what to do," he whispers, his voice giving out, his hands clamped tight over his face.

"They will," she insists, as if she can make such a promise. "He will." Goodness knows if it will be anytime soon, but she can't believe the Rift would never restore Tim, just leaving his living body behind like a discarded shell. If they truly wanted to take him permanently, why bother leaving anything at all?

That line of reasoning might not actually be a comfort. She sinks down onto the couch beside Jay as he curls in on himself, his hands covering his face, all of his misery tumbling out of him in a rush. Her gut twists in sympathy. It's not hard to imagine how lost she'd be if something happened to Iman; the Rift had its way with her, too. And she was only a little less helpless than Jay is now, really.

Greta sighs, then reaches out to grip his shoulder. "You're not by yourself," she says firmly. "I'm right here, for as long as you need me." She gives him an assessing look, her mouth a thin line. "Now, I'm going to get you a glass of water, and then you're going to get some rest." There's nothing else to be done for Tim today, and Jay's clearly exhausted. It's either sleep or fret, and he's done plenty of the latter already. She gives his shoulder a brisk, encouraging little rub. "Okay?"

That isn't what he means, but there's no way she could know that. It isn't being alone, it's being the only person who knows - who understands what they went through. He can't explain it to anyone else, doesn't dare try.

But she's making sense, and she's still so kind and maternal and it's better, far better, than nothing. So he shuts up and gives her a small nod.

"Okay." Greta gives him another gentle pat as she rises from the couch. A few moments later, she sits back down beside him and presses a glass of water into his hand.

"Here we are," she says, her tone almost businesslike, as if to counterbalance the surplus of passion that's been going around. "Drink up." Under different circumstances, she wouldn't be quite so overbearing. But Jay had seemed relieved to let others take the reins when it came to moving Tim to the hospital, and he clearly isn't ready to have them handed back to him, yet.

Well, that's what she's here for. Greta rubs his back gently while she waits for him to finish up the glass.

He drinks the water as directed, drinking it all down - he was thirstier than he realized. Sets the glass aside and just leans against her, too grateful and too exhausted not to. There's no one to give him this anymore. He was never super affectionate, at least he's pretty sure - always shy and reticent and ducking away from hugs. But he hasn't made that a conscious choice in a long time. Now that it's freely offered he doesn't have it in him to turn it down.

And he's so, so tired.

He slumps against her, still feeling the urge to cry but having nothing left, no tears, just a hollow, relentless headache. He needs to sleep. He can't ever sleep, especially not when he needs it.

Maybe it's that there's someone here this time, warm and soothing, keeping an eye out for him - no longer just relying on the camera to catch whatever's watching him, but a person who can wake him. Not that he'd ever ask her to protect him from his nightmares (no one can), but.

Regardless, he starts drifting off. Impossibly tired. Ground down to almost nothing. He slips away, gradually becoming more horizontal until he's curled up fully on the couch, his head in her lap, his breathing slow, his eyes fluttering in a dream he won't remember.

Greta can well imagine that he hasn't been looked after in a while - too old to still be under his mother's care, and too young to be married. Well, not too young by her universe's standards, but people seem to grow up less quickly here in the future, devoting more years to youth since they have more years to spend. Regardless, he needs looking after now, and it's... nice, being able to do this for someone, if not a member of her own family.

The line between leaning against her for comfort and dozing against her is subtle enough that she doesn't realize Jay's crossed it until it's too late, and he's slowly slumping his way down into her lap. She could rouse him, try to coax him to the bed, or at least edge out from under him before he gets too settled. But when was the last time he actually slept? And does she really want to leave him to his own devices and hope he'll take care of himself instead of dwelling on Tim and climbing the walls?

She doesn't have anything more important to do. She can stay for a while longer, and make sure he at least gets some sleep before she risks waking him by seeing herself out.

Greta looks down at the boy who isn't quite a man, and isn't even close to family, and gently brushes her fingertips through his hair. The weight of his head, some distant part of her notes, isn't so different to the weight of an infant.

There's a blanket neatly folded over the back of the couch thanks to her earlier tidying spree. She carefully turns to pull it down and drape it over Jay as best she can, keeping her movements slow so she won't wake him. Then she settles back against the couch with a quiet sigh. She has her phone, and there's still enough of a charge for her to entertain herself for an hour or so, long enough for him to get some rest.

And when he no longer needs her, she tells herself, she'll go.

And your heart is lead, and your stomach stone [closed]

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anxiety, nausea, general unhappiness

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buhhhhh self-loathing anxiety depression etc

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