Notes from Mama Lobster: Song is Whistle for the Choir by The Fratellis. (Also thanks to DazzlingPawn for being awesome c: )

Whistle for the Choir

== Adam: Talk

Casey threads her fingers through your hair as she speaks. "You know something? Cocaine sucks."

It's blunt, but she always seems to be these days. To be honest, it makes things much easier for you to understand.

"Oh?"

"Yeah." She says. "I don't get why Dave liked it so much, it's stupid. I always felt like I was going insane."

"I'm not entirely certain you didn't." There's a sharp pain as she flicks her forefinger into your ear, but you can feel her giggle from your place in her lap. Times like this, when Casey's calm and relaxed around you, have become so simple. She talks, and then you talk, and when you don't feel much like talking anymore you can just sit and exist together. After years of infatuation and forced, fragmented relationships, it's amazing to see just how easy this can actually be.

"Yeah," She starts. "X was okay, but I really hate cocaine. I don't get why people like it."

"Why did you do it so often, then?"

She stares blankly to the ceiling, shrugging her shoulders. "It seemed like it was fun for everyone else."

You wish you didn't understand the way she was feeling, but you do. There are a lot of have-to's and supposed-to's in the world that you've never understood, things that bored you that people your age were meant to enjoy.

"…I think that's how I feel about sex sometimes."

Her fingers tense near your temple. "No kidding."

"Everyone told me how awesome it was, and how I was meant to feel completely whole and connected while in the act. So I kept trying, and it was… nice, I suppose? It didn't really change anything."

She laughs. "I don't think anyone likes it at first. Talking about it is just a good way to make people uncomfortable."

"I don't know." You pause to adjust her knees under your head. "I liked being good at it, if that means anything. I liked that everyone wanted it from me. But I never felt more for the person I was with."

"Everyone wanted it from you? Think you're getting cocky?" She smirks.

"No."

She sighs. "…Yeah, that's fair. Who told you that sex was going to be awesome?"

"You did."

She winces, knocking her head back against the wall behind her. "Sorry. That was fucked up of me."

"Maybe a little." You say. "Why did you say so if you didn't like it either?"

"Probably to piss you off. I hated that you were so perfect and I was such a freak show."

"Perfect?" It takes a lot of self-control for you not to laugh. "Casey, I was a mess. It took finding Simone to put me back in any kind of reasonable order to exist."

"No way!"

"Yes."

She blinks down at you in surprise. "But… people loved you. You're good at shit. And I don't know if you noticed that you're freaking adorable."

"And afraid of dogs, and stressed, and apparently insufferable…"

She pokes your ear again. "That is such a load of bullshit. There is absolutely nothing about you that's insufferable."

"Nothing at all?" You roll to the side. It takes a bit of fumbling through your nightstand to find what you're looking for: a rare 1083 playbill for Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

"No." She backs up as far as she can against the wall, but you'd have her legs pinned even if she was capable of moving them. "No, you put that away."

"Are you sure you don't want me to tell you about it? There's really a fascinating story behind the understudy for Maggie, she was the first troll performer to play the role—"

"Oh my god I surrender! Just please don't." She nearly swats it out of your hand, and you have to shield it with your entire person. It might already be carefully tucked into a protective sleeve, but you're not taking any chances. Not after the pee threat.

"Right." You smirk. "I'm not insufferable, then?"

"Okay, maybe a little bit. But only because you've already told that story about fifty. billion. times. before." She pokes your stomach with each word for emphasis. Her finger worms its way through the buttons of your shirt, tickling somewhere around your belly button, and it's just about all you can do not to push her away. "But come on, playbills don't count as a life-ruining deficiency. Why did you think you were such a mess?"

"Because I was."

She scoffs. "You had things way more together than I did. Am I a mess?"

"You're perfect." You say, matter of fact. She blushes at that for some reason. "But who you are is pretty irrelevant to who I am. And I was not doing well."

"Are you doing better now?" Her eyes are still so clear and blue, and their focus on you makes you squirm.

"…Can we talk about something else?"

"Hey, you brought it up. Besides, you're not even close to being a mess. You're pretty much the best person I know, at the very least in the top three..."

"I don't think I understand things in the same way other people do." You take her fingers from your hair, running your thumb against her nails. "I doubt I'm capable of being a good person."

"You're good to me." She blinks, and you miss the blue while it's gone.

"Am I?"

She nods. "You're pretty awesome, and these past few months have been pretty awesome. And in case you've forgotten, I love the shit out of you. So there's that."

"Mmm." Surely she's being ridiculous. You've failed her and everyone else countless times.

"Is it the heart thing? Because I know that sucks but I don't think—"

"It's not the heart thing."

"So is it that—"

"No." You start abruptly. "It's not."

She shuts her mouth quietly. The ease of it all is gone, and she's trying so hard to be comforting but all that's left is the squirming, writhing fear in the pit of your stomach.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" She asks quietly.

"Not really, no." She flinches. You didn't particularly mean to be hurtful, but apparently you've done something wrong again. A casualty of your nerves, perhaps, or just another failure in communication. You lace your fingers with hers, and it's the last push you need.

"…Two years ago I tried to kill myself."

== Adam: Talk more

It's funny how quickly a moment can pass. There was shouting and sobbing and her arms around you, but it came and went. She wore out her sadness and told you she loved you more times than you can count, and you found yourself numb and panicked and everything else in between. And then time passed, and the hysterical strangeness simply was no more.

She's lying next to you, arms linked around your waist, your hand in her hair, and once she's dried her eyes she blinks up at you with a smile. Someone else might wonder why she seems so happy, but you think you know.

"Did you really want to die?" Her tone is too calm to be natural.

"Absolutely. I couldn't connect to anyone. My dads were gone, and you were off enjoying your new friends. I didn't enjoy other people. I thought I was some sort of… oddity."

It's getting harder to hold still, but her firm hand on your back eases your nerves. "There was only ever work to be done, but I took no pleasure in doing it. Everything I completed seemed so meaningless. I wanted to be close to someone, or feel like I belonged somewhere, but… I only really felt that way with you."

She laughs, but her eyes are too bright. "Fuck… what? Shit, Adam, I should have been there…"

"Can you make it up to me, then?" Her hair is soft, surreal under your fingers. You really didn't think you would be feeling it right now. You were sure she would be gone.

"Today and tomorrow and the day after that." She says, adding, "If you can still put up with me."

"I'll read you Cat on a Hot Tin Roof again."

"And I will totally listen." Her face is so absurdly serious, and you somehow manage to fight down the smile threatening to break free. "The whole time. Anything you want to talk about, no interruptions. Just… please not again?"

"…Not again." You have no way of being certain that you will never want to. But right now, right this second, it's worth it to make that promise.

"Good." She wipes her eyes with a smile. "So every time you feel really down, tell me for the one billion and first time about the random troll actress. And I'll stick around until you need me not to."

"You're going to hate every minute of it," you scoff.

She stops to think for a moment. "Yeah probably. But you'll have to listen to me ramble about Fiduspawn and physical therapy afterward."

"And how much you secretly hate sex and drugs, of course."

"Of course." She grins. "Well not all sex, and not all drugs. Mostly just coke and sex with Drew."

The name sends a jolt of burning anger through your chest to bury in the pit of your stomach.

She opens her mouth, but closes it quickly and quietly, and you're torn. You could bring up Fiduspawn again and she would probably be happier, but that doesn't seem like the right thing to do. Being silent doesn't seem like the right thing to do either, but it's better than any alternative.

Another false start, and another. It takes her four tries to speak again. "I kind of think it wasn't… normal, though. With Drew. I thought it would be fun, but it was just scary. And it hurt for a while. I told him I didn't really want to do it sometimes, but he didn't listen…"

"Casey…"

"I don't know. Everything felt gross, and I thought I was gross too for letting him keep fucking me—"

You kiss her, hard, because you are selfish. You can't hear her talking like this, not when none of it's true and she deserves so, so much better. Not when there's a word assigned to acts like this that neither of you can bring yourselves to say. That burning ache in your heart and stomach is strong, too strong, and you will never cease to be amazed at how quickly a moment can pass as it shuts down. Your mind hollows, imploding panic into nothing, and your blood turns to ice.

"…I have to go."

"What?" Her hands tense along your back, but you're already pulling away. It was foolish of you to leave him alive; to think that anything short of hell could be compensation was delusional.

"Give me some time. I will be back." There is a lot to be said for live burial, from what you've heard. Your dads once told you about the power of oxygen deprivation. You just have to think of a good place to dig, but thinking is made slightly more difficult by the hand closing on your wrist.

"Adam, wait!" You can't move without shaking her off, but you need to get your shoes on and get out the door. Every moment that you lose, every agonizingly painful beat of your heart, is another moment in which he might be happy.

It's for the greater good, you decide, and try to gently pry her fingers from your wrist. She's got a pianist's grip, though, and she refuses to let up.

"Are you really going to leave?! Just like that?"

"I'll be back as soon as I can. Promise." The clock is ticking. You have to find out the cleanest way to damage a kneecap.

"No!" She swats away your other hand, clamping down her fingers in what may very well be a permanent vice.

"Casey, let me go." She refuses. "I am going to make this right. I need you to let me go so I might get started."

She laughs out loud, grip tight as ever, and you can practically feel the wasted seconds pass you by.

"I don't want you to." Her voice is firm, even for all it's shaking.

Fifteen more seconds, and the nothingness in your head is returning to panic. "I promise this will help."

"Do you really want to help me?" She sniffs. "Then don't fucking leave."

It's not going to help if you stay. You can't do anything here, except watch her suffer and Skaia knows you can't handle that any longer.

"Please." You manage to pry that last finger off your wrist, breaking free of her grasp and heading towards the door.

"Whatever you're doing won't fix this!" She shouts after you.

There is the tiniest hint of loathing that flashes through you. You don't want to be here. Her asking you to stay is too much, too painful, you just want to find some way out of this and fix what needs fixing.

But she's right. You spent enough time retching on the bathroom floor to know the truth. She's shaking and miserable on the bed right now, and that's not because of Drew. That's because of you.

"I don't care what you're trying to do. It doesn't matter. If you really want to help … just sit with me, okay?" She wipes her eyes on her sleeve, leaving you in stunned silence.

"…sitting won't do anything." Your voice is quieter than you would like.

"Can you just trust me on this?" Her hand reaches yours, gentle this time. "It helps."

You have no idea what she could possibly mean, and the strange, burning ache in your chest is starting to act up again. It only takes a breath from your inhaler to clear your lungs, but the pain is stubborn. She moves as well as she can for you to settle in next to her.

"…I don't like it when you're unhappy." You're relieved that she's close, because you don't think you could say that any louder.

"Me neither." Her head finds the crook of your neck. "But I don't think we can do anything about it."

You don't know if you understand, really, because she's still whimpering softly into your shoulder. She's hurting. You rub her back as best you can, kissing her hair like Simone does when she's worried, and waiting, hoping against everything you know that the ache in your chest might go away.

It only takes her a few moments time to mumble something about you being a "big, abandoning jerk." You flick her ear, and her quiet laugh is one of the most beautiful things you've ever heard. Another few minutes and you're fumbling with the lid to your heart medication, with her tipping a glass of water towards you and spilling it all over your pants. More time passes and her smile becomes genuine, recounting her last miserable time in physical therapy and how she might just save up for robot legs and be done with it.

And maybe you don't have to really understand, because it's easier this way. You know she wants you here, and she smiles when you're here, and if that helps her, then understanding is worthless anyway. You'll do whatever you have to, for her.

== Adam: Head home

It's late by the time you get back to your apartment; Simone's back from her dinner date with Roxy and about ready to crash on the couch. It doesn't take you very long to slide in next to her and turn off the TV.

"Mail for you." She mumbles, half-shoving a professional looking envelope in your direction. It skids off the table to land at your feet.

"Those are a lot of stamps…"

"It's from England. Of course there're a lot of stamps." Simone rolls to her side, trying and failing to wake herself up.

You don't know anyone in England. Why would someone be sending you mail from England?

Of course you could just figure out the answer now. So you open your letter, only to drop it about five seconds later.

Adam A. H. Strider-English

1025 Parkhurst Rd.

Maple Valley, WA 98038

Dear Mr. Strider-English,

We are pleased to inform you that you are being considered for a position in our Department of Research and Development…