Gin, Tonic, Confession

[very_sharpe]

The apartment was clean and tidy, as it almost always was. The rat cage had been thoroughly clean, and he had a take out order waiting to be placed should either of them get terribly hungry.

That was assuming, of course, that Greta stayed very long after Thomas told her what he thought she should know. He had a kettle on for tea, and he was on his second gin and tonic by the time Greta finally arrived. He supposed he had been a bit unfairly cryptic in his invitation to her, and so when he answered the door and took Greta's coat, he took the time to clarify.

"I-- Do you remember the conversation we had, very briefly, at the Valentine Ball? About the gardens, and I mentioned my sister. Or perhaps I didn't, but I was thinking of her. But I promised you that we would talk. And I thought, since Saoirse was having a sleep over anyway, tonight... should perhaps be that night."

He was still far too sober for this, but he wanted to at least give Greta an explanation.

"I don't know how much you want to know about me, Greta. But I feel I owe it to you, if you-- so you can decide if you really... want this. With me."

Comments

[andhiswife]

Cryptic is one way of putting it. Greta had made a valiant attempt to not get the wrong idea, but it's impossible not to wonder (if not outright hope) that he's finally decided to stop dithering, as if in deference to some omnipresent chaperone, and take her to bed. Why else would he pick an evening when she didn't have to be home at any given time? Why else would he have invited her here? It might have been presumptuous to come to the cottage with such intentions, but leveling such an offer here gave her the option of demurring and making her escape with a minimal amount of awkwardness.

If he was going to make such a move, leaving her an open exit seems like the exact sort of thing Thomas would do. Courteous to a fault.

She'd been trying not to get worked up over the possibility, but it's still something of an unpleasant shock when Thomas reveals himself, looking rather anxious and smelling faintly of gin. Stepping into the apartment, which resembles her old one in layout but otherwise looks nothing like it, doesn't help to settle her nerves.

There are a few moments during his little speech where she almost interjects, wanting to level some sort of objection on principle. Is he sure this is a good time? Does he really want to tell her any of this? And -- this one rises with a flare of indignation -- isn't it a little too late for him to speak of her wanting him as if that decision wasn't made months ago?

Or is she meant to reconsider? Is that what he's getting at?

Greta shuts her mouth and looks at him, wanting to be sympathetic, but caught somewhere between 'perplexed' and 'wary,' instead. This definitely wasn't the sort of evening she was expecting. Which is probably what she gets for expecting what she did.

"I see you've been bracing yourself," she says dryly with a nod towards his glass. "Is it really as--as bad as all that?"

[very_sharpe]

"I think it rather is," he admitted. "I'm sorry, this must be awful to walk into but I feel as though I owe you more honesty than I've given you. You deserve that."

Greta had been nothing but wonderful, and she did not deserve deception, even if it was deception by omission.

"Darrow can be a strange and... cruel place. In my first year here, people had their deepest, darkest secrets appear on their back for all to see. And-- I would rather you find out from me than through some trick of Darrow or, god forbid, someone I know arriving here."

He didn't think Edith would have ever done anything to hurt his chances at love, but the only other people in his life would. Lucille, McMichaels-- it didn't bear thinking about the damage they could do, if they chose to.

The kettle whistled and Thomas softly excused himself to the kitchen so that he could fill a teapot and set it to steeping. He brought the tea, two mugs, and all the proper fixings for tea to the table. There was already a bottle of gin and two glasses there, should Greta decide that she needed something stronger.

[andhiswife]

She grimaces faintly, though she's not sure if it's in anticipation or something closer to self-recrimination. With every passing moment, her original presumption seems increasingly, hilariously foolish. His acknowledgment almost makes it worse, and she wonders, for a mortifying beat, if he's guessed at her own misunderstanding.

But no, he's just being polite. Insisting that he owes her this. Under less ominous circumstances, she'd probably be moved; she hasn't exactly suffered an overabundance of people presuming she was owed much of anything. But she's still making the mental adjustment from where she thought the evening was going to the actual direction they're headed in, and it's not a comfortable switch.

As Thomas excuses himself, Greta resignedly settles herself into a chair. She gives the gin a considering look, but decides to start with tea (and thank goodness she's partial to it, anyway, because it's starting to seem like the patron drink of unpleasant conversations).

By the time he's settled himself, though, she's given herself a stern, mental shake. She's told him things she isn't proud of, and he's been nothing but good to her and Saoirse. She owes him, too. If he wants to be honest with her, the least she can do is listen, and try to reserve judgment. So she reaches across the table and takes his hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze.

"I would rather hear it from you," she allows. It would be awful if some cruel trick of the city had aired it for him. Even her own secrets, such as they are (and as relatively unremarkable as they might be), aren't anything she'd want broadcast without her consent. "And have it not be... forced."

[very_sharpe]

Her touch was a tenderness that he wondered if he deserved. He squeezed her hand and wondered too if it was the last time she would ever willingly touch him. He tried to savor it.

Thomas poured himself more gin, but he didn't pick up the glass just yet. He touched it, turned it in a small circle on the table while he struggled to think of where to begin.

"You remember that I told you about the family? My wretched father and mother?" He did take a drink from his glass, then. "I think I told you that they died, but it's more than that. My sister murdered them. First my father, for his cruelty to me, then our mother, when she threatened to send us both away."

He sighed and sat back, staring at his drink because he could not bear to look at Greta. "We were discovered, of course. I was sent away to a boarding school and Lucille... to an asylum. I did not see her again until I was eighteen. By then the house had been standing empty for a decade, and we were more or less destitute. He had a title, and land, and nothing else."

[andhiswife]

Greta nods, brow furrowing when he takes a fortifying swig. That his parents were awful is something she already knew, and when he'd first told her of them, she'd got the sense that Thomas and his sister were better served by their deaths than by their lives.

Back home, losing one's parents was a too-common tragedy. It had seemed like a horrible sort of silver lining to think that his, at least, were no great loss.

But it's one thing to think their deaths might have been a relief, and another to hear that they were deliberate, and that was Lucille who had killed them both. It gives her a chill even as her heart aches in sympathy for him. He was only a child when it happened -- they were both just children. It makes the murders more horrifying, but it must have made it all more horrifying for Thomas, too. For god's sake, it's not as if he'd asked Lucille to do such a thing.

"That's terrible," she says, curling her hands around her mug for the warmth. A small, hopeful part of her wonders if that's all there is to it -- if he blames himself for Lucille's actions, and that's why he's so ashamed and hesitant to speak on it. But this hasn't been a good evening as far as fulfilling her hopes goes, and her fingers tighten in mute apprehension as she waits for him to continue.

[very_sharpe]

"As I said... we returned to our home, destitute and alone. Lucille believed the house, the land, was all we had and that we should do what we could to see it restored. Once we had mined clay, and if we could get that industry up and running again, I thought we might stand a chance."

Thomas sighed and took another drink.

"But for that, we needed capital. Lucille suggested that I marry for money. She even found an eligible woman - Miss Pamela Upton. I-- I knew Lucille wanted her money, but--"

He frowned, staring down at the table. Had he known what Lucille planned? Could he really claim ignorance?

"She was unwell. Lucille poisoned her... then strangled her, not long after her money had been transferred into my name."

[andhiswife]

Even though she knew they weren't as well off as Thomas's title would suggest, it's still jarring to think of him marrying for money. More jarring still is the bigger picture that's beginning to develop: Lucille making decisions, and Thomas just sort of trailing obediently along. Allowing Lucille to choose his own wife for him seems a bridge too far.

Not that she was his wife for very long. Greta recoils -- not from Thomas, specifically, but from the horrible thought of Lucille first choosing a wife for him, and then murdering the poor woman.

"Why?" she asks, aghast. "If you had the money, why not just...?" She doesn't even know how to finish the sentence. Why not just keep her? Why not help her heal instead of hurrying her into the grave? Of course, she wouldn't have appreciated being used for her money, if she knew, but she also wouldn't have been able to do much about it once they were wed. "There was no cause to kill her."

[very_sharpe]

"Lucille could not abide her. To her it was us, just the two of us, in the whole world and she-- she would have no one else party to it."

Thomas could not tell her the darker truth. This was enough. He leaned forward on the table; he took another drink.

"The money ran out. I tried to get investors interested in our potential, but-- but no one could see what I could. Or perhaps they really did know better than I. Lucille began shopping for another bride."

Shame filled him.

"So I married Margaret McDermott, after a brief courtship. She wasn't much older than I, and-- and she was rather a nice woman." Thomas had thought he might make a better go of it, but perhaps he'd known better, even then. "I was a bit fond of her, she was terribly interested in the latest technology."

He finished his drink and looked up at Greta. "We argued over her. Lucille-- she insisted that we were better off without her, argued that she was somehow ruining me, ruining us. I-- I insisted that she leave Margaret alone."

For a moment, Thomas looked rather anguished and lowered his gaze again.

"Lucille bashed her head in."

[andhiswife]

Greta scoffs, a short huff of air through her nose. She's tempted to ask why Thomas didn't just try to marry her off, but she can answer that one easily enough on her own. Someone who murdered so casually wouldn't have suffered an unwanted husband for very long.

News of a second wife makes her cringe, especially Thomas's hesitant, almost shameful admission that he'd liked her. As if he shouldn't have cared one jot for the woman. That's probably Lucille's doing, too, and at Thomas's anguished look, she finds herself reaching across the table again.

"You... you couldn't have stopped her?" she asks. It feels like an unfair question. Surely he would have, if he could. But it's hard to get her head around the idea of Thomas being entirely helpless, even as the part of her that cares for him rebels at the thought of assigning him blame.

[very_sharpe]

Thomas accepted Greta's hand and held a bit tighter than he meant to. She was right, after all. He should have stopped her.

"Not without leaving her," he said quietly. It sounded weak, even to him. He looked at Greta again. "She was all I had. My entire life, Lucille was the only person to care whether I lived or died. I-- I couldn't leave her. What would become of her?"

He couldn't condemn her back to an asylum, or worse; he knew that Lucille could marry well, but no husband would ever survive her. Not for long, anyway.

"And... she would never let me go." He sighed and his free hand pushed into his hair. The words flowed more easily now, even if he was ashamed of them. "I tried to raise more capital in Europe. In Italy, she-- we met Enola Sciotti. After Margaret, I think I lost all will to resist this plot. Enola was my third wife, but she was the last one to be murdered. The fourth was Edith Cushing. I chose Edith."

[andhiswife]

His grip on her hand is tighter than she expects it to be, almost uncomfortably so, but she doesn't pull away. It's too late for that -- it was too late for that before he even began.

If he'd told her all of this on their first date, that might have been the end of it. His excuses would have sounded feeble compared to his advantages: as if a titled, unwed man had any business being trapped under his sister's thumb. Even now, despite her feelings for him, and despite not wanting to make this harder or more miserable, she's sorely tempted to point out that Lucille couldn't have suffered a fate worse than the ones she meted out. 'What would become of her' is a question with a less certain answer than what would become of anyone Thomas chose to marry (to the extent that it was Thomas's choice at all). Perhaps that unknown path is the one that should have been explored.

But apparently it was his choice, at least the fourth time. His hand is beginning to feel like a shackle, pinning her to the table, forcing her to sit this through. But her other hand is still her own, and with a quiet sigh, she pours herself a measure of gin. She needs it. "Edith is the one who was here?" she asks, wanting the confirmation that the last one had lived, at least for a time.

[very_sharpe]

Thomas let her go as she poured a drink. "Yes," he said quietly. "Edith was here. I met her on a trip to America, hoping once again to find honest investors. But... I am apparently an awful salesman," he said with a wry, weak smile.

"But Edith, she-- She-- It felt like she saw me. And she was everything I had not had the courage to be." Thomas looked down at his drink. "I told her that I had learned to look away from things that made me uncomfortable. She told me that she never wanted to look away. Her father knew me a fraud the moment he saw me, but she married me all the same."

He did not say that Lucille murdered the man.

"Edith believed in me. She believed in the work I was trying to do, honest work. And in loving her, I believed I could have a better life. One without the past grabbing at me at every turn. One without darkness and secrets in every corner. I knew that Lucille started poisoning her the moment we returned to Allerdale, and I stopped Edith from drinking whatever tea Lucille gave her."

Thomas pushed his hair back and he had another drink, because he needed something to steady him. "The more I was with her, all I could think of was leaving. Was starting a new life somewhere else with Edith. I-- I told Lucille. I told her that Edith would not be signing any more of her assets to me. I told her that we could all just leave Allerdale. There was nothing for us."

He remembered the look on his sister's face when he told her. When he talked about leaving Allerdale forever - all of them, together. Thomas finished his drink and set the glass down.

"That was when she killed me."

[andhiswife]

Straight gin was probably -- definitely -- a mistake, and she grimaces after gulping some down. But better to wince at the taste than at the story Thomas is telling her.

What is she supposed to do with any of this? None of the stories she read as a child have prepared her for anything like the tale Thomas is weaving for her. She can look at each disparate piece and recognize what the appropriate response to each one would be, but she doesn't know what to make of the whole. The tidy, convenient romance of it all -- he loved Edith, and she him (and there's something so unsettling about hearing him simply speak of it, without even the barest hint of a melody), and that was enough to finally tip the scales -- is undermined by the question of whether his other wives had loved him, and why that hadn't been enough for those poor women. Is it possible to buy salvation at that price?

And then there's a part of her -- a larger part than she'd like to admit -- that is perfectly willing to discard all of this, because it doesn't even apply, here. Here, he owns a shop and is beholden to no one. Here, he has been nothing but good to her. Here, there is no sister and no house and nothing for her to forgive.

So what is she supposed to do with all this? Say that it's all right, that she doesn't mind, as if none of it matters? Or punish him for crimes he committed in another life? Neither option feels right, and a wave of bitter resentment washes through her that she should still be forced to choose something, to respond somehow. She tries to rinse the feeling away with another swallow of gin, which doesn't especially help.

And then he reveals that Lucille killed him. He remembers. She remembers him telling her that he remembered everything.

"Of course she did," she says flatly, unkindly, and she winces at herself a moment later. "Sorry. I shouldn't..." she trails off, because god only knows what she should, at this point. Leave, probably, but what would be the point? His own sister murdered him, and now it's her job to rub salt into the wound?

[very_sharpe]

"Neither of us have done much to deserve a kind word from you," he said with a small, weak smile, lumping himself together with Lucille. "I never felt like I could leave, like there was anything for me in the world beyond Lucille and Allerdale. Those other women died because I could not bring myself to see what would happen to them - what I knew would happen. I didn't want it to happen any more."

Thomas poured himself another glass, because he was certain that, by the end of this, Greta would walk out and he would never see her or Saoirse again.

"Lucille killed me, and she was going to kill Edith, and I-- I couldn't let her. That's the last thing I remember. Lucille dead, and Edith alive. Then I was here, on a train."

He unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt - enough to expose the scars from the stiletto knife on his chest - the true killing blows.

[andhiswife]

Maybe she would be able to agree with that sentiment if things had been different. If she hadn't spent months thinking she was the one who didn't deserve him. If he had mistreated her or Saoirse in any way, if he had done anything worse than exasperate her with the excruciatingly polite extent of his care.

Maybe this is what she deserves for thinking he was perfect. A rude awakening. But the way he speaks of himself now, as if he ought to be nothing to her, as if she should discard him, is infuriating. He has done terrible things -- or allowed terrible things to happen -- but not to her. So she can't forgive him, but she can't condemn him, either. It's not her place.

She hasn't always been concerned with staying in her place, but this time, it seems like the only fair course of action.

She takes a slow breath, trying not to stare at the scars on his chest, trying not to note that they are exactly the same as the one on his cheek, the one she'd taken for some childhood injury barely worth remembering.

"What if she came here?" she finds herself asking. "Lucille. What would you do?"

[very_sharpe]

Thomas barked a sudden, humorless laugh. "God, my nightmare of the last two years," he said, shaking his head.

"I would tell her that I have a life here, my own life, and that things cannot, will never be, as they were. I don't think I could bring myself to wish misery or suffering on her, but it is my life, and she will have no part in it."

There was, of course, the slim chance that somehow, something in Darrow could help Lucille heal, help her grow or find worth in herself outside of him and their wretched legacy. And, perhaps, they would find some healing between them. But Thomas would never live under her shadow again. He had come too far for that; he had too much backbone now, too much to live for.

"I could never let her take this from me."

[andhiswife]

Greta considers him for a few moments, then knocks back the rest of her gin in a quick, decisive motion and gets to her feet. She has to pause there -- she drank that glass much too quickly -- but then the room settles, and she steps around the table to stand before him.

"Firstly, you're wrong. About not deserving my kindness." He had kept this from her, and understandably so, but he's told her now. And aside from this, she can't think of any other heinous crimes he's committed, or even would commit. There's no reason for him to do here what he did before, in a different time and place. She's not afraid of him, for herself or for Saoirse.

"And I don't know why either of us were brought here, but if it's to be... to be punished..." she looks away for a moment, a muscle working in her jaw. There have been times when she wondered if that was her purpose here, to just lose every new connection she had the audacity to forge. She's been so grateful for the change, and so frightened the city would take this from her, too. Is she really going to end it on purpose?

Her arms had been folded, but she extends a hand, sliding her fingers into his hair. It's a hesitant gesture, as if she's worried he'll shy away from her. "I'm not doing that to you. You don't deserve that from me."

[very_sharpe]

Thomas lolled his head back to look up at her, sad and a little bit broken and hopeful all at once. He closed his eyes at her touch, and he thought he might actually weep.

"I don't know that I deserve much of anything," he said softly, taking a moment before he opened his eyes again. "Greta, I-- Ever since I realized that this place was a second chance, I have been trying to live a better life. Everything I left behind, I would gladly keep it far in the past. I would never hurt you; I would never let anyone hurt you."

[andhiswife]

I don't care what we deserve, she thinks. The words don't make it past her lips, but the truth of them still rings through her. They've both died for their sins. They both know what awaits them when Darrow tires of their company. Can't that be enough?

Maybe it's too easy to classify his crimes as 'bearable' because they're all a convenient universe away, and nothing to do with her. And maybe, after months of thinking he was too good for her, there's a perverse sort of relief in finding him less spotless than he'd seemed. Maybe a small, horrible part of her even likes the way he looks up at her, as if she could ruin him with a single word. As if she is a Queen.

Or maybe she's just tired of losing people, and the thought of adding Thomas to that list is harder to bear than the thought of what he's done. Maybe she doesn't care if he's done terrible things, as long as she gets to keep him.

"I know," she says, to all of it but the first bit, her thumb caressing his temple. She doesn't need him to tell her these things, as if he hasn't already shown her as much. He has an honest shop. He's unfailingly kind and patient with Saoirse. And he's good to her, always, almost to a fault. Before tonight, the only complaint she could have made is that he was so careful with her that it was exasperating -- behavior which now reads less like an unnecessary consideration for her nonexistent virtue and more like a man just trying to do everything right, for once. "I know."

Of course he wouldn't hurt her. Of course he wouldn't let her come to harm.

That can be enough.

She sighs, her hand dropping to his shoulder, then sliding down to curl beneath his arm. "Come on," she says with a gentle tug, tipping her head towards the couch. "Let's go sit someplace more comfortable. The gin can come, too."

[very_sharpe]

"I think I've had enough gin," he said, but as he rose he plucked up the bottle, in case Greta decided she had not. He certainly couldn't blame her.

"Thank you." Thomas's voice remained soft, but now he just sounded a bit weary instead of full of trepidation. Once they made it to the couch, he settled and watched as she joined him. "Thank you for hearing me out."

And for her-- well, maybe not forgiveness. He had done nothing, save perhaps omit details of his life, to hurt her. But she had given him something, and Thomas was deeply grateful for that.

[andhiswife]

She hums wryly, in acknowledgment if not outright agreement, though she notes that he grabs the bottle, anyway. Maybe it's more for her, but she thinks that she, too, has had enough. One of them ought to keep a somewhat clear head. And hitting the bottle now would feel too much like an admission of wrongdoing, as if she has to numb herself to the reality of what she's done.

But it's not the first time she's skirted the boundaries of the moral high ground with a clear head and open eyes. It's not the first time she's decided that what she wants is worth a little muddying.

So when she settles beside him on the couch, she doesn't bother with polite distances. Who's going to judge them, now -- the rats? Instead, she tucks right up next to him, as if to better reassure him that she's here, solid and warm and not going anywhere.

"You've done the same for me," she says. It's not exactly the same, if only because her own sins pale so dramatically in contrast to his, but it's near enough. "And I..." she pauses, lips pursed in frustration. None of this seems right without music; she doesn't know how to simply talk about things like this: how she feels, what she owes him, what she'd give willingly if he asked. How do people do it? Her cheeks prickle as she curls her arms around him, petulant but stubborn in the face of this obstacle she doesn't yet know how to circumvent. "I'm not leaving you," she finally says, as if the very suggestion is an affront.

[very_sharpe]

Something in him came a little loose, and Thomas let go of a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding onto. Relief, gratitude, and love flooded him and he held Greta close to him as she wrapped around him. He nuzzled her hair, kissed her temple.

"Then I am a terribly lucky man, and I will endeavor to be the best that I can for you."

He would live up to whatever potential had been left far behind before. He tipped Greta's chin up so that he could kiss her, tender and lingering.

"I promise the next time that you come to visit, it will be a far more pleasant evening."

[andhiswife]

Back home, she thinks, she'd probably reap some sort of punishment for this. It feels just enough like straying from the path, or grabbing at something she shouldn't. But she isn't home, and when he pulls her in, it feels less like being ensnared and more like being rewarded. Perhaps because they've both been punished enough for their respective misdeeds, already.

It helps that after an evening of being more physically distant than Greta had anticipated, they're simply, finally, close. She's always been tactile, and it's always been with some private exasperation that she's tolerated the more polite distances that Thomas has favored. Being like this, wrapped up in each other, is something she's always wanted more of, and she relaxes into his embrace with a quiet, contented sigh. If she can't have the evening she expected -- and after everything that's happened and the amount of gin that's been consumed, that is definitely a bust -- at least she can have this.

She melts into the kiss, sliding a hand up his chest, avoiding the temptation to delve into his conveniently unbuttoned shirt. "I'm holding you to that," she says, her cheeks flushed but her gaze frank. "Inviting me over on one of the only nights Saoirse isn't home...?" She adjusts his collar in playful admonishment, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "You gave me ideas."

She doesn't truly blame him. What was he supposed to do, ask, 'could you please come by so I can tell you something terrible about myself?' But if they're doing away with secrets, then there's not much point in being coy about the very idea of wanting one another, as if that, too, is something to be ashamed of.

[very_sharpe]

"I am terribly sorry for that, dear. I didn't mean to lead you on... But now there's nothing this city can tell you about me that you don't know."

Even as he said it, Thomas knew it wasn't entirely true. She could find out his true relationship with Lucille; she could find out he had, briefly, been a father. But he would simply hope those things never saw the light of day again. Not here.

He held Greta close and gently stroked her hair back. "Can you stay a while?" he asked softly, knowing the pair of them were a mess in their own ways. But having her here, feeling her alive and warm and vibrant against him, made him have hope. And she gave him comfort.

[andhiswife]

She has to suppress a snort at the apology, if only because the thought of him leading her on, despite everything, still remains anathema to who he is. It only truly counts as leading her on if his ultimate intention is to abandon her, and she doesn't believe he will. Not least of all because he was clearly so terrified of her leaving him. And now that she knows why, the reverse is... rather difficult to imagine.

Perhaps that's a bit smug of her -- as if no one else in Darrow might be so forgiving (and as if her own motivations are as pure as the driven snow). But still, she can't imagine this whole process is one he'd fancy repeating.

There's a part of her that's still restless: the part that anticipated a different sort of evening, or the part that's still waiting for a melody to make this all real instead of strange and unsettled, like a joke without a punchline. But she's soothed by the hand in her hair, and touched by the vulnerability in his voice. There's really only one answer she can give.

"Of course," she says, shifting a little to get more comfortable, then settling, pressing an idle little kiss against his collarbone. "As long as you like." Or as long as he needs, more like, but she's not nursing an invalid (he hasn't had that much gin). She hadn't known whether she'd be returning home tonight or not, and had planned for either eventuality. There's nowhere else she needs to be.

After a few moments of companionable silence, she muses, "I don't think I have any great secrets left." She's told him about the Prince, which seemed like the most grievous of them, so the others hadn't exactly clamored for her attention. "Well. I swindled Jack out of his cow. But she wasn't much of a cow, and the beans did turn out to be magic. And he and his mother wound up fabulously wealthy, so... did him a favor, really."