Rain. It's always rain. Why is it always goddamn rain.
His shoes sink a little deeper into the mud, but he doesn't adjust his stance or try to pull them away. Just lets them sink. The ground isn't too water logged, he isn't going to ruin his shoes too badly like this. (And worrying about muddy shoes is so far from appropriate right now, because really. They're just shoes. Shoes don't deserve fussing. Shoes can be replaced…) The sinking feels like a deathless drowning, at least, not his own death. Not today, no matter how much he wishes otherwise.
(Please, he pleads. Please don't let it be years. Please. Dear God, don't let it be years. He tries to hold the tears back, tries, but the thought of being alone, utterly alone for years until finally it's his turn to go, it's his time, it's too much, it's too much. He doesn't know to whom or to what he directs his pleas, it isn't as if he's suddenly found religion, but there's something about cemeteries and contemplating mortality, either one's own mortality or the mortality of loved ones—)
Fat drops beat atop his head in steady rhythm, but the gods don't weep for him, for his personal tragedy. Not here, in the city that knows tragedy large scale. He knows he's being selfish, knows he's just one man, suffering the loss of one woman, but he can't bring himself to care. It's so much more than that, now. She was the last, the last one still left, there's no one—All those words left unsaid, all those years wasted.
He flattens her hair back from her forehead while she lies there in bed, eyes locked on the ceiling, unseeing and unfocused.
"We'll be okay," he says softly into her ear, and he believes it, believes his planning and forethought will be sufficient to see them through. "Years ago I set up different bank accounts. I have stocks, CD's, Property. Tied with the fake ID's. We'll be okay. I promise."
She looks at him just then, eyes wide and full of worry. "I don't care about money. We have a nice house, here," she says as she waves an arm blindly around the dark room. "But this life. It isn't ours. We don't just live a lie. We are a lie. I..." She breathes in then, quick and sharp. Refuses to cry.
He blinks rain from his eyes, and nods solemnly at the headstone. It's appropriate it's here. Never given the opportunity to be family in life, but in death, in death—
He's incredulous when she suggests it. He wonders where this is even coming from, when she sets the paperwork on the kitchen table. She just beams at him, and it's such a grim topic, such a morbid and depressing thing to talk about, but she is on fire about this, beautiful and vibrant and full of life. It seems so incongruous that she wants to talk about death while being this radiant, and he wonders if this wasn't part of her plan; he knows he can't ever say 'no' to her when she is this jazzed up about something.
"It's what I want," she says.
"But I have all this worked out, already," he say. He's pretty sure he isn't going to win this argument, but how can she want this? "Paperwork's all set."
"No," she says. "You have papers set up for the picture-perfect Hollis's. Sam and Sandra can kiss my ass."
He tries to keep the panic from creeping in his voice. He probably doesn't do it well enough. "It's too dangerous, Laurie," he says softly. There isn't anyone to overhear, but they are cautious, always cautious. "I have everything set up this way for a reason. You and I," he taps both hands on his chest then vaguely gestures where she stands. "We died. Years ago. That's the whole point."
"Whatever," she says, as she heads for the door. "I'm going for a walk." She brushes her palms over her dress, flattens out any creases. Sighs. She grabs her bag, grabs her coat. She looks at him before she slips out the door. "I don't care what you do. But I'm making this choice for myself. I thought you'd get that, but I guess not. See ya, Dan."
Later, he will rifle through the papers on the table. It's not an unreasonable request. It's really not.
He didn't bring anything with him today. No flowers or other tokens. No personal effects marking, "I came by today. I visited you. I love you, and miss you." He didn't bring anything with him, knows he should have, wonders why he didn't. He's usually good about that. He reaches out for the bed of dirt, comes away with a clump of soil. Places it on her headstone.
It's fitting, he thinks to himself as he brushes away the stubborn bits of soil still clinging to his hands. That you should be buried here. You were right, you know.
He only comes to New York once a year, "and it's not to see you," he says to the adjacent grave. "Although you do seem to have a way of bring people together."
"Next year," he says to the grave marked Laurel Jane Juspeczyk. "I'll you bring flowers."
"What if I go first," she says.
"Then I guess I'll be alone."
"I mean, if you carry out my wishes."
He puts his hands on hers, strokes her thumb with his own. He says nothing, just smiles warmly.
A/N: sorry for the line breaks, I used asterisks to separate the parts (present from flashbacks) but seems to have eaten them :(