I liked how 'Open Wounds' turned out, and I decided to work on a companion piece of sorts. I had two ideas, and they in turn inspired other ideas… So this will be a collection of anything I write that takes place not long after Marni's death, and will not be in chronological order whatsoever. It will not be a series, but the stories will intertwine at points.

Rating-wise, I'm erring on the side of caution, perhaps overly so. I may have tossed a few swears in here and there, and a bit of suggestive content. Some gore. The usual. Each part will be individually rated.

& & &

I. GRAVEHOUSE

RATING T

"The greatest grief is that which we cause ourselves."

She's got two flowers gently clasped in a delicate hand. She holds them so the blossoms—long, narrow, and crimson—dance by her face, and she looks all the more pale for it. The dress is different, but it's just as black as the one she wore earlier (or maybe it was yesterday). Her hair is decorated with some sort of black webbing, and her arms are half-covered by netlike lace gloves. She's wearing black lipstick and nail polish too, but Nathan doesn't really look at her long enough to take in these small details. He sees Mag robed in black, and then he looks away.

The dirt draws his attention. With the dim lighting of the graveyard, it looks like asphalt. He's staring at it, but not quite noticing it. Other things on the mind.

There's a rustle of cloth behind him. Mag, with her flowers. Walks by him and leans the long stalk against the tomb door. One's for Marni. And the other?

Is for Shilo. Right.

Turning around gracefully, she only seems to notice him now, and stares at him wide-eyed for a long second. Not wide-eyed, he thinks, just her normal eyes. And not staring. She's looking over him. He can feel the mechanically-enhanced eyes roving his person. The old-fashioned suit, the dark tie, the deep gray shirt underneath. (Would have worn more black, but he couldn't find that shirt.) Then she's looking away and moving.

She stands about two feet away, lined up with the tomb like him.

That's how they stay for five, six, ten minutes. Quiet envelopes them. Breath that might be used for talking, it's being squeezed out of their chests by the silence. Maybe if he looks, he'll see Mag whispering small prayers for a minute, but he doesn't. He's stonestill, and she's not quite fidgeting, but she's shifting ever so slightly. Small, fluid movements. A singer, sure, but still a dancer. You can't keep an animal like that pinned down.

The script they're working off of, it says she talks first. It's the same script they've been using the past two (three?) weeks, but it's become habit and it's what they both think they need.

She talks first, because she doesn't blame him. She knows what to say, she doesn't poke where it hurts, she knows what not to say—

"How long have you been here?" (Usually knows what not to say.)

And she knows he won't answer. Can't let her know, or she'll worry.

"How long, Nathan?"

He maintains his right to silence, like a fucking criminal. So wrapped up in the little prison of his own mind he doesn't really see her move in front of him. She's all in black, like the dirt, and the lights are so low and Marni's—

"She's...They're here?"

Her voice is weak, delicate. Patient. She's got a puzzle to put together.

He has some of the pieces, but she can't know. His little secrets, for him only. Nasty little truths he has to keep hidden so she won't worry. She's asking if they're buried here.

And the idea of Shilo and Marni under the slab of stone, behind the thick wooden door, it's a little funny.

He humours her.

"Yes."

She's worried now, he can tell. Nathan still hasn't looked right at her, but his eyes have lifted. Hovering near her chest. Not looking there (not here, at his wife's tomb), but looking at the locket. It's a little heart-shaped thing, and it's just beneath the hollow of her throat. He imagines Marni's in there; a third tomb for everybody's favourite lady.

"You haven't left," and she seems resigned to this answer, so he doesn't reply. Hell, maybe she even understands it. Marni had been hers, too.

Mag shakes her head ever so slightly. He's actually looking at her face now, so he notices it.

"I can't," she murmurs, almost to herself. Then, with more confidence, looking him in the eye, "I can't let you do this to yourself."

She pauses, and the eyes flicker faintly, running over old memories. Mag doesn't show any of them, though. Maybe she's just being selfish, but he's grateful.

The eyes stop flickering, and he notices that for a minute, there's something there that strikes him as genuinely human. He's not quite sure what it is. Maybe the faint tremble of unshed tears. Maybe the love reflected in the snow-blue orbs. Maybe he's imagining it. But she cares, and she won't let him take the easy way out.

She takes a step forward. Nathan almost steps back, maybe afraid to be so close, but he doesn't. One pale, partly-gloved hand brushes over his cheek. He's pretty sure he's not crying. No, he isn't crying, but something about the touch jolts him a little. And as soon as he notices it, her hand is back to her side and she's not quite so close as he thought she was.

"I'm not doing anything," he mutters after the silence lasts too long.

"Stubborn man." It's so soft, and the way she says it—he guesses he isn't supposed to hear it.

"Mag," he says, a little louder. He sounds tired, even if he doesn't feel it, and tries to muster up a little enthusiasm, a little sincerity. "Don't worry." It sounds like he's consoling her, now. Really, somebody should: she'd been trying to help him through his grief the past weeks, with little thought to her own. Unselfish, dear Mag.

There's the faint purr of a motor from somewhere outside, and he seizes the distraction to look away from the wide, mournful eyes. She doesn't look. Instead, she walks back to the tomb, placing one hand on the thickset door. Something low, under her breath, and she's walking back. He glances at her.

"Go home, Nathan."

She's staring him in the eye, and from the gravehouse gate, there's the sound of a door opening. Her car. He meets her gaze only briefly. Long enough to nod. This suits her well enough, and she glides past, a rustle of cloth and the grace of a dancer.

A few hours later, he weaves his way out of the graveyard and goes to the house. Shilo's up.

& & &

& & &