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."

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[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."