Author's Note:
Suppose that Regina Mills is a lawyer.
Suppose, further, that a genie turned Jessica and Roger Rabbit into real beings - Jessica into a human and Roger into a rabbit.
Suppose that Roger died and Jessica...didn't.
Suppose that Jessica became Regina's secretary.
These would take place in that world.
Kudos to regalxlegality over on tumblr for allowing me the use of her wonderful Regina and to ican-giveyoustars over on tumblr for the use of her fantastic Roger.
The building is quiet.
Every now and again, Jessica allows herself to work long into the night – mostly on nights her memories blaze white hot, nights his scent colors her thinning scarf, nights when being home means being home without him and being unable to think of anything other than that so she sits and works because maybe that'll be an adequate distraction and if not, she'll at least be exhausted when she leaves. More than once those late night job requests find her here, not her apartment, but she doubts that's too noticeable.
On those nights, the building might be considered silent – it isn't; the click-clacking of her fingernails on the keyboard attests to that – but those moments are a far cry from this one.
Too many people in the lobby, chatting in the lounge–-
She continues her work to corral them behind the scenes. Poison and bleach may be fun in short quantities, but it only works on people like Claude. Her strategy cannot – is not – based solely on that. At some point, she may even need to speak with them outside of work.
(It's less likely, but still worth a shot. She will never be the friend they want, and such an outing will only prove that. On the other hand, the separation will make them listen. Give peasants a common enemy, and even the weakest will pull together to defeat her. Sometimes with kindness.)
—until one of her coworkers – Bartholomew, the one who wants to be Barty but she always uses his full name both to annoy him and to remind him that he's not as young as he thinks he is – finally recognizes the time. His eyes widen, not so either of his 'friends' notices, and he drags them away to the lounge. Others follow his lead – not so much hiding in the lounge or their cubicle as simply giving the needed room.
Funny how fully grown adults avoid the appearance of a ten year old.
(They will talk to him later, maybe, if he is perhaps not so zealously protected, if he wanders over to see them, if he chooses them – because otherwise they would be interrupting, and there can be no interrupting this sacred time.)
Jessica's fingertips rest on the keyboard, eyes focused on the computer screen in front of her. She alone can stay in this most revered of moments – due to the nature of her job, she has nowhere to hide – and although others might be excited or happy to see the boy, she can't help but wish she were anywhere else. Her gaze flickers from the elevator doors to the time and back again. Any moment now the steadily growing quiet will be interrupted by a young being who—
The elevator bell dings at his approach, and Jessica closes her eyes. She doesn't need to see it; she can imagine the boy child rushing down the hallway, feet pounding the tile floor, red backpack swinging loose on his shoulders, smile bright on his face – that's the way it is, the way it should be, the way it often is when he isn't preoccupied by whatever slows his steps and steals his spirits away. But today is like the best days – the thunderous feet, the high-pitched voice crying out—
"Mom!"
And it is only at the sound of his voice that his mother appears. To wait any closer might be to appear too overeager, too desperate, too clinging – although Jessica would never call it that, not without fear of some sort of retribution – so she lingers behind, gives the illusion of freedom, and waits for him to choose her— and he always does, even on the most broken of days, racing down the hallway to meet her.
Jessica doesn't need to see it because it happens every week – the son yelling for his mother, and she stepping out of her office with barely concealed joy, her emotions so achingly bright yellow that she cannot help but be sick from remembrance as his mother, her employer, swoops down, picks her son up, and spins with him in a way she will not be able to do much longer so she will do it now and take advantage of every opportunity that will, one day, be lost to her. Every Monday, their actions are the same, and no matter the color or images set before that moment, they all revert to yellow – bright, blinding, overwhelming – flooding every sense with memories that she longs to relive and aches to forget, memories of a husband she will never see again, and, every now and again, the image of him in this space, the way he was meant to be— interacting with a child and bringing all around him to laughter.
She cannot mimic it, so she does not even try, lost in visions of what has been lost.