Title: Not Supposed To Be
Rating: M (for serious and dark topics)
Disclaimer: I own nothing, just dvelve a little deeper than they did.
Summary: It's been two years. And it wasn't supposed to be like this.
Warning!: This story deals with the topc/condition/illness of depression. It is NOT a happy fic. If this is not your cup of tea, please turn back now.
A/N: The basic idea has been swirling on my mind for quite some time, yet I cannot say where exactly this story has come from. But I hope, I have done it justice. Many, many thanks - of huge sizes - go to ShadowSamurai83 for the beta, and to her and Joodiff for the encouragement on this. It was very needed, once I did this.
Not Supposed To Be
His first, instinctive reaction is denial. It's something he's quite good at, used numerous times to get through anything unpleasant. As there have been many of those things, he's actually quite a master at it. So, he wants to deny what he sees, but the image doesn't go away, because it is the stark reality unravelling before him.
The second, also instinctive, reaction is to declare that it wasn't meant, supposed to be like this. Which in his short-sightedly naive imagination was exactly the fact. Only, it is like this. Unapologetically and undeniably like this.
His third reaction, and even though it is instinctive as well, will appal him the most later on, because it is to turn on his heel and run from what he sees. Leave and furthermore deny to have ever seen the spectacle.
Infuriatingly enough, it's not something he does, but the expression of that young man passing her that forces him out of his stupor. The young man, clad in casual, but expensive clothes, rolls his eyes derisively once he's passed her and that's what brings the reality check for Boyd.
This is no figment of his imagination, it's not even a nightmare, this is bleak reality.
She's old. Really old. Old beyond her years and somehow Boyd can't fathom how this has happened. It's not even 24 months since.
Unlike the days of two years ago, this time the weather is complimentary to the scene unfolding. It's grey and rainy, wind gusting up and down the roads. It plays with the lapels of her coat and maybe that is what shows just how deep her fall has been.
The bracing air revives him, makes him take a step forward to close the distance. He falters after the first one.
The thing is, to a casual observer, like that stranger was, there isn't much out of the ordinary about her. She looks like an old woman who doesn't take great pains to keep herself groomed any more, is a little neglectful about herself, doesn't bother any more. Her clothes are clean, if a little rumpled. Her hair could use a styling session, but it's more carelessness than anything else.
Boyd is no casual observer; he, more than any other person on this planet, can see just how deep Grace has fallen. It's in her movements, in the way she carries herself as she leans against the park's fence, catching her breath with her eyes closed, though she has walked for less than ten minutes.
It's the posture of defeat and, dare he think it out loud, it's also slightly inebriated, even though it's only gone 10 in the morning.
'Need a glass or two now to get the day rolling, Grace?' he thinks in pained sarcasm. The thought takes hold, like a knife to the heart, and it burns. Burns him badly.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
When the unit was disbanded, they were all worried about him, how he'd cope, if he'd manage to avoid depression. How they were secretly afraid to one day receive a phone call informing them of his suicide. Spence, Eve, Grace - all three of them were worried. It amuses him, though it is a grim laughter, how they were afraid for him and then so proud, because he pulled himself together and got over it, created a new life for himself.
It's not completely peaches and cream and happy hearts all the time, but he's reached an equilibrium, contentment even.
They all looked out for him, always did, even when their close connection began to fizzle out. New jobs, new partners, other activities and interests. It wasn't a conscious thing, just happened the way such things go.
Every time they've met over the last two years, as increasingly rare as it has become, they've always looked at him, checked him out, they talked and shared and laughed and reminisced, but Boyd begins to realize, those conversations became increasingly threeway. There was, with growing intensity, someone staying out.
And that someone was Grace.
Boyd remembers their last meeting, seven weeks gone now. She smiled at them, she listened to all of them and her smile deepened at their stories, affectionately and proudly, but Boyd doesn't think that she's told even one story herself. Waved away their initial question with a smile and a "Fine. Business as usual."
Animated as they were, in fits over Spencer's tales of the new lady in his life, they - no, he - did not look too closely and missed the signs under the impeccably groomed mask Grace presented. She left first, claiming tiredness and in the melee neither noticed anything amiss.
Why would they too? Grace was their rock, in control, serene and at peace with herself. If anybody had asked him, he would have said that Grace would simply dive into semi-retirement, write those damned intellectual articles of which he understands only half, flit from one dinner to the next party with her intellectual friends, and generally just be happy, relaxed and merry.
That was Grace. But that's not true either. That was the image, they,- he - had of Grace.
She pushes herself away from the support of the fence, but it is a struggle, he can see. Once upright, she sways slightly, and he knows her well enough - still - to recognise this as not stemming from vertigo.
Eve noticed first, called Spencer after four days of unanswered messages, but confirmed presence. And just how it is when the first, crucial card is pulled from the proverbial house, the alarming pieces of the jigsaw began to fall into place. Unanswered messages and letters, three papers way past their deadline, a few bills unpaid (nothing bad yet, but the word 'deliberate neglect' has fallen), doctor's appointments missed. Neighbours saying that they haven't seen her for days and the curtains always drawn.
The question Spencer uttered, the worried son worshipping Mummy in their dysfunctional family, pushed the situation to the fore, brought Boyd here today.
He doesn't need to be a psychologist to recognise the condition Grace has, he's only too aware of how it feels. With him, they expected it; with her, nobody ever took it into account.
That's what took him so long to actually make the move and come here, it's this thought that makes him follow Grace, but not talk to her.
They missed the signs, declared the possibility categorically impossible.
Facts remain, though, and it's glaringly, painfully obvious in the dull light of this April day.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
It was supposed to be him, Boyd, falling into depression, withdrawing from the world and scaring his few friends shitless. But it is Grace who did, under their very eyes and without a word.
She didn't call when it started, something she of all people must have noticed. The why is what drives him mad now. Why did Grace not think of calling them? Him?
Her scathing words, shouted at him years ago, come back.
Was that what happened to her?
Was she in denial, that there was something in her that she suppressed? Was she denying to them and to herself that she was slowly but surely sinking into depression and thus did not call for help? Or...
Boyd can feel his throat tighten at the word still missing. It's not manly, it's not him, but he can feel the tears burning. Did she think that she was not loved enough and thus found it useless to trust in them?
It's untrue and his automatic reaction is that she isn't and should have known that, but reality shows otherwise.
He's never considered Grace to be so alarmingly similar to himself, always focussed on the obvious differences that had them bickering and bantering for years. Yet, looking back, he realizes that there was always a dark edge underneath the veneer of serenity and calm, something he - everybody - shied away from. Some sort of obsessive behaviour, similar to his. They all, including him, always thought that robbed of his driving force, he'd fall into the abyss, but none of them ever wondered what Grace would have left waiting for her, once their morbid glory days were over.
Judging from the state she's in now, the answer is obvious and accusing. And very, very sad. Because it is nothing.
Two teenagers, joined by their headphones, walk by and jostle her, uncaring of the world, in fact annoyed by the old woman standing in their way. They call her names and make derogatory gestures. It's what teenagers do when they are full of themselves and don't think of their surroundings. Normal behaviour, they've all done at that age, but it is the fuse igniting his already rising temper.
His reply to those teenagers is harsh and threatening, making them scuttle away, frightened and chastised, but he doesn't register it. He's already next to Grace and gently, carefully takes her elbow.
She startles, stands still, as if to protect herself against whatever tide will roll over her.
"Grace," he calls gently, not sure, if she can even hear it.
She does, but refuses to look at him, the only visible sign of her understanding the hot colour shooting into her cheeks. She also holds her breath and he knows that she's fighting to control herself. Though what condition she wants to project to him, he can't imagine.
"Grace," he repeats and maybe it's the note of pained pleading that breaks her.
She hasn't surrendered, but when she looks at him, Boyd has to fight to hide his shock. Unsuccessfully.
The first thing he notices is that he needs to take back and apologise for his assumption of her consumption habits. She is very sober.
But that's the only positive piece of information.
The second thing are her eyes, those expressive blues, he knows in anger, concern, mischief, and many other moods. They are dead. As good as. There's no spark, no sign of animation. It makes him think that he must have mistaken this woman for another.
But that's not true. Those are her features, gaunt and dulled though they are.
Nothing else though seems to fit.
"Grace," he whispers again, but she barely reacts.
The wind picks up and he has to brace himself against the force and the cold. Next to him Grace seems to literally falter, barely able to hold herself upright.
It causes his fifth instinctive reaction of this day, one he will not explain to anybody but her, and only months down the line when this is no more than a nightmare. He pulls her against him, shielding her frail body from the cold and the world, something he wants to, needs to do.
"We need to talk," he whispers into her hair.
And it is the small fist, suddenly pushing against his chest inside his coat, that makes him smile for the first time today.
Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.