Disclaimer: Nope, I still don't own So Weird; if I did, it wouldn't be suitable for all audiences, now would it?
Summary: Things happen; people move on. And sometimes you'll do anything just to be whole again.
When her husband died, she didn't know what to do.
She was a mess; she was a wreck; she was the loser she'd kept hidden for all those years.
There was nothing anybody could do about it; how can you help someone else when you can't even help yourself?
Time passed, and it was a balm on other people's wounds—that gash inside their hearts scabbed over and flaked off and left them with shiny white scars, but she'd never learned how to heal.
She didn't know how to do that because it was never taught; it wouldn't come naturally.
She'd had to work for every God-damned thing she'd ever got—since even sanity has a price—and the wound was still there, gangrene-bruised and festering.
And it made a gaping hole that wouldn't go away (it just got bigger), and it was frightening, but she dealt with it because she had to.
She pulled herself together because that's all she could do—she refused to let herself just fall apart.
But it hurt to be without him; she'd forgotten just how lonely the world could be.
Looking back, she wasn't sure how it'd started; one day the boy she'd known for so long suddenly changed—he was a man and she was a woman and things just happened.
She didn't know how or why or when his simple kindnesses took on relevance; she didn't want his careless touches to send shock waves to her toes, but they did.
The attraction was real.
But this was her best friend's son; she was practically his mother.
It was demented and distracting to want him; to admire the curve of his thighs and the lines of his back and the way his lips moved. But she did.
And then he started reacting, and things changed.
She caught his eye a time or two and it was like he was looking right through her, like he could see each and every torrid little thing that she was thinking.
He knew—he knew—and he didn't mind; he didn't push her away; he didn't hate her.
He wanted her back, and it scared him like it scared her but he couldn't pull away.
And, somehow, they shared drunken kisses and pillow talk, and all of a sudden they had a relationship—and it was amazing but not something they could talk about.
And, sometimes, they could sneak away and just enjoy themselves without having to worry about being seen, and that's when she loved him most of all.
What they had wasn't perfect, but it was enough. It had to be enough.
And she held his hand when she brought flowers to her husband's grave, and he held her softly, like he thought she might break.
And she buried her face into his shoulder but she didn't cry, because after all this time she was beginning to learn how to put the past behind her and let it die; and that was wonderful—that was what she needed—and she was almost whole again. Almost.
And they stayed there until the sun began to dip, and she broke away and smiled at him even though it wavered slightly at the corners.
This thing—this thing that they had—wasn't wrong; it couldn't be wrong. Not when it made her feel almost alive again.
"Goodbye, Ned," she said, touching the letters on his tombstone and then turning away.
She was okay.
She was okay. Almost.
"Let's go home, baby," said Jack, and Irene put her arms around his neck and kissed him, and it was desperate because she needed his reassurance.
Something like this could never be wrong.
Right?
Author's Note: So, did I surprise you? #cackles# Yes, it was intentional. I am cruel. #continues cackling#