A/N: Yes, well, it seems one more point of view wanted telling before progressing into the corridor. I'll confess now I cannot continue to quell the urge to introduce H/R smut, and hope that as future chapters take shape, you find yourself equally incapable of quelling that urge to read, and want more. Reviews, both favorable or not, are always a welcome treasure.
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"I watched you burn alive
And from the ashes you rise
It should be no surprise
You were always a phoenix in disguise"
-Lux, Resurrection
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She had not been prepared for this circumstance. Not properly, no, and the resulting resentment she feels currently does little by way of curbing the forming intuition she has selected the greater evil from a pool of rubbish, going nowhere fast options. One bright day operating by rote, engaged in her habitual efforts to gain access to the world of Journalism, with a capital 'J,' thank you, given way, almost without conscious thought, by virtue of discarding a cell phone on instinct, to an underworld merely whispered about, and rarely seen. Its just that he was so very attractive, unusually so for a run of the mill maintenance representative, and she'd thought innocently enough what could be the harm in following him, really?
It had all happened faster than she'd had time to consider the consequences of electing to follow Adam into the darkened corner, his recruitment technique played beautifully, seductive and appealing to her sense of fighting the good fight. Never mind, she hears herself say again, the car alarms still ringing in the back of her mind, the bursting blue flashes lighting the darkened windows in a fireworks display she still sees when she shuts her eyes. She was snared before she's thought to examine the intricacies of the trap, as much as by his enthusiasm and clear blue eyes as her desire to belong to something bigger than herself, the Thames flowing beneath them as he wooed her, deceptively calm he was, and it had been easy then to breathe,Yes, please.
But she sees them now, crystalizing, and that rush of adrenaline appealed to as they stood on a bridge spanning silted, churning water isn't, if she was honest, validating her decision. Rather, it acts as an accelerant, bringing her insecurities and self doubt to the fore, trampling the slightest hint of confidence she had managed to compile for herself between the short length of time defining Then and Now. She has come to define her life by segments, the Then portion delineated as 'Joanna,' encompassing everything she had dreamed of being, the corresponding Now designated as 'Jo,' the suitably shortened moniker for a willfully chosen semi-life, breathing half in shadows, an appropriate tool aiding her self reconciliation of the choices she's made. Debilitating to a certain extent, yes, but no different from the masks everyone wears, the faces they chose to reveal or keep hidden as a matter of course. Worse still, Angela Wells knows it. She feels it, probing her as fingertips grazing her consciousness, picking expertly those loose fissures, those many vulnerabilities inherent to a newly born agent, green and still wearing the psychic attachments of a life before this, the 'Joanna' secreted inside her, deconstructing her effortlessly with a well placed word and an inhuman mastery of dismissive indifference.
This woman, there can be no doubt, was the physical manifestation of a textbook villain, amplified, and considerably more terrifying that those she had been made to study, and she wonders whether this instance will be included in future tutorials, the bookended conclusion to balance the INLA operation presented, as instruction or, perhaps to caution those selected fresh faces in love with the idea of espionage, and little real experience which would counsel otherwise. Angela Wells was a seasoned warrior, embattled and scared, and she reduced to tears in the wake of onslaught, almost instantaneously at the mention of her mother. She had culled her, identified her as weakest, torn her from the herd, and she was certain her ill advised burst of laughter had little to do with the decision. No, she had ascertained immediately she was weak, smelt her freshly budding on the vine, her laughter becoming that incidental action which irrefutably proved the accuracy of assumption.
Her face suffusing pink, she resents the shame she feels, the weakness so obvious as to be identified within mere seconds of introduction, the pink fleshing a deeper red as she hears herself laud this warrior, That ops legend, they teach it, the idea that she had already been determined frail, her foaling skills determined anemic at best while she fawned triggering the urge to retch. She watches herself as she backs down, the fear fluttering in her chest, her eyes wide and blinking, Do you think that's funny, and her denials validating her weakness, backtracking verbally, the apologetic tones dripping from her lips, the sound in her head making her want to disappear, melt into the floor, turn back on the path she feared afforded little means for escape to her now. They had all watched and said nothing, as Angela bore down on her, twisting her up, and they had not offered anything in return, in defense of her, one of their own, and yet apart, and she had never in her life felt more isolated than in those few torturous moments of clear dispensability.
They don't teach you how to gird yourself against your own. They teach you all manner of physical defense, take you step by step through the ritual of interrogations, meditate on the specific reasons why you will never again be the person you were before crossing the threshold, why you must be that stranger knocking the door of those you have loved and been loved by, same face but indescribably different. They leave you thinking, Well, that's done now, excitedly anticipating the real thing, thirsting the genuine article, the moment when you rise triumphant because how could you not? You salivate for the opportunity to adopt your first legend, to wear another's fabricated skin and life, the opportunity to do what you never would have done egregiously allowed as your unadulterated face adorns the passport belonging to another.
You engage in your first honey trap exercise, and you understand it entirely within your power to stay or take the escape clause behind door number two, and you choose to stay because you are not Joanna Portman, daughter of Helen, but Rachel something and you want this man you've chosen to deceive, whose hands run the length of your body, responding because you are not you. Somehow you justify it an act of gauging skills and ability, coloring it as necessary, a test of your mettle, and most definitely not your will needing to be touched, caressed, yearning to belong, reclaimed, to simplicity, unity, those circumstances you've chosen deliberately to disavow as belonging to you.
They don't tell you that you can become Angela Wells in the trade, having engaged for so long you're unrecognizable to yourself, the face staring back vaguely familiar but you just can't place it. She wonders how many times Angela has stared into a mirror only to find a stranger staring back. Observing her now, she notes the almost catatonic, lifeless stare, and cannot stop the intuition from forming that she could, quite possibly, be observing herself, years in the future, no longer green and fresh, mouldering and disillusioned, the years in between marked by effort and will, but resulting in little discernible outside the successful op taught to those that follow behind her, a life surmounted and destroyed, an avenue left unexamined and unprepared for.
If she were smart, if she were not roiling, in this moment, in self doubt and turmoil, she would use this as an instructional circumstance, the very essence of turning a frown upside down, as Helen would counsel, and she manages to hide the smile that plays the corners of her mouth, the instances wherein her mother had voiced such advise appearing now, in the comparison, childish and heartbreakingly simplistic. No doubt it is exactly what Adam and Harry would advise she set herself to task, a rather ironic twist to Learn from this woman; She's a lot to give uttered by Juliet Shaw what seems to her days ago. Another legend, Juliet, yet taken in by the hardened figure set before her, and she thinks perhaps she might be allowing her indecision at choices made to illustrate the measure of self depreciations she continues to presently foist upon herself silently.
Shared failures can be as powerful as successes, simply a matter of perspective, and she uses Juliet's monumental failure to identify Angela as a threat as a tool to bolster her defenses, that protective band aid which provides temporary shelter to her bruised ego, vanity, and confidence within a field littered with vain, egotistical and over confident agents, addicted, chasing the rush. She isn't yet one of them, but the desire remains tangible, a palpable itching within her, despite her current circumstances, and she allows the curtain to fall, feels the indifference take the place of empathy and concern, becoming that other in the overall 'its you or me equation,' allowing her rarely glimpsed selfish streak to choose herself over the tragedy that sits one chair away, deadened words spoken without tone, triumphant and defeated simultaneous.
She cannot deny her fascination with Ruth's positioning within the mechanism at work, though she was taken aback with Angela's posturing regarding same. For her part, she had taken to Ruth quickly, which wasn't necessarily unusual owing to who she used to be. Open, friendly, the Joanna she had been acquired a rich existence populated by numerous people she regarded as friends. What successes she lacked professionally had been more than compensated for in a personal life flush with activity. Ruth had, for wont of better description, replaced all those she had willingly discarded in favor of the Realm, becoming an old friend in a new life quite instantaneously. She possessed a nurturing quality, if she were forced to pinpoint the most engendering of her many traits, one which appealed in the absence, or rather, the willing suspension of it required in their shared profession, and rather distinguished herself from the rest in an appealingly unassuming manner.
They were not friends, yet not merely acquaintances, in all. It was unlikely they would spend any precious off time engaging in the intrinsically girly preoccupations characteristic of her old life; Visits to the spa, copious alcoholic fueled conversations, the speculative nature of what their lives would be predicated on, marriage and family, where they would live. In hindsight, it all rather gleamed jarringly superficial and empty. Enjoyable, absolutely, but with her new life and requisite perspective, sadly minuscule and shallow. In her estimation, Ruth was a woman who managed to navigate the waters others succumbed to, retaining that sense of self and individuality intrinsic to her, while performing brilliantly the tasks laid before her, emerging surprisingly intact and wonderfully human.
They had grown acquainted gradually, owing to Ruth's informal tutorials providing a summary of what she, and by extension, Malcolm and Colin were tasked to accomplish. She found her curious, initially; Her tendency to leave sentences unfinished, her eyes growing glassy and unfocused becoming the hallmark indicating she was thinking in tangent, her mind digressing into a fissure seen only to her, and she had found herself quite mesmerized by the play of her face in those moments, learning to wait patiently until Ruth came back from where ever she had been, some piece of Intel grasped tightly in hand.
It wasn't long before she realized that everyone regarded Ruth in much the same way, that nurturing influence which inexplicably made you feel better, even if you were unable to identify the cause, the ill that niggled and weeped. It had been Ruth to whom she turned when needing to give voice to thoughts involving the circumstances of Fiona Carter's death, the means by which Adam's grief manifested alarming in its infrequency, and she remembered thinking at the time, Ah, so there it is as Ruth identified for her the forlorn look captured on his face periodically, when he would go absolutely, alarmingly still, his face slack and eyes staring, lifeless.
She had wondered then if the life they have chosen required habitual solitude, and remembers thinking there was still time for companionship, deliberately ignoring the abundance of available evidence to the contrary, the refutation of each colleague's continued status remaining unattached, unmarried, widowed, or in Harry's case, divorced. Estrangement was their collective default position, thus not surprising that affections vacillated to and fro between colleagues populating Five and, in rare cases, Six. Love affairs occurred, or were rumored, in any case, generating quickly, almost rabid with furious intensity, burning and diffusing with clinical efficiency, and the rarity of matrimonial unions such as Adam and Fiona's was painfully disheartening. That there was a child seemed almost selfishly cruel, a personal belief validated as the days wore on, as she understood few amongst them dared to taunt the fates by creating another from themselves, a weakness, an Achilles heel bearing your name and blood.
Typically contrary, Ruth held an affection for everyone, understated in display, constant in strength, but it was when in the company of Adam's son, Wes, that she allowed herself to be seen, the boy drawing from her the carefully guarded person she had hidden away when she too first crossed the threshold, born anew. The boy had an easy way about him, his casual charm befitting his father, and a warm, curious spirit shared by his mother, or so she had been told, the period of time spent in Fiona's company prior to her demise cataloged in her mind as consisting of an instant. She had been fascinated by how he melted, literally, around Ruth, his childish concerns shared privately with her through whispers, heads held close to the other, his body pouring into hers all his fears and vulnerabilities he would share with no one else.
It had been Malcolm that first recognized Ruth had stepped in to fill what portion of the void Fiona had left, identifying the need, securing the necessities, and she who had tirelessly interviewed nannies until satisfied. Nice girl, she had thought of the selection. Jenny. A bit young to her eyes, but then she hadn't seen the things that her eyes had seen, the ache of premature aging the unsolicited side effect weighing heavier as days pass. She had often found herself wondering if they all hadn't unconsciously chosen their family in choosing the Realm, shrugging off their old life, that sense of belonging as a part of another through shared genetic strains, selecting those persons to fill the void, much as Ruth had for Wes.
She regrets the loss, that ability to see yourself reflected absolutely in the eyes and actions of siblings, parents, that internal yearning to belong to something larger than yourself, and yet minuscule, one hereditary chain lain against millions. She feels it most when in Wes' company, rare as those occasions are. Still, they have happened, their gathering together at Adam's, an unspoken attempt to imitate normalcy for the boy becoming some uncontrollable instinct they all felt, yet couldn't bring themselves to vocalize, and like the journalist she had intended to become, she contented herself to watch as his presence drew from each those portions of themselves customarily hidden.
He seemed to gravitate between Harry and Ruth, and for his part, Harry displayed an open countenance, laughing and joking as Wes regaled him some tidbit or another. It was difficult not to smile affectionately as Wes climbed about Harry as though he were some breathing piece of gymnastic equipment, identifying points of physical weakness his small fingers tickling mercilessly, Harry's huge hands dwarfing Wes' as he demonstrated the proper cricket stance and grip. It was in those moments she'd thought this is what Harry was like as a child, the cold stoicism giving way to a sparkling mischievous streak, and no small amount of patience as he was riddled with questions without answers, Why do the hubcaps spin backwards if the car is moving forwards? Why do I have to wear socks? Where does the tooth fairy keep your teeth? Do you miss your mummy? Her name was Fiona, she thinks, Harry's mother, and she wonders how deeply that shared knife cuts them both.
Eventually, as predictable as clockwork, Wes would materialize, curling himself next to Ruth, his hand on her arm, leaning into her side, his cross legged knee resting on top of her thigh. And she would lean down, placing whispers and kisses across his crown, tickling his side until he erupted with laughter, rolling around, and coming to rest again his head lain in her lap, his face adoring as he gazed up at her. Sometimes her eyes had watered. Sometimes her heart had burst. Most times, she'd understood what she had sacrificed.
I love you to the sky, and back.
In the oceans we swim,
On the Milky Way we glide,
And the stars we hold.
And if you should fall from me
Sat side by side our yellow crescent moon,
I will catch your hand,
I will stop your fall,
And never, ever let go.
She had overheard it, while not meaning to eavesdrop, but incapable of stepping away. So, yes, she had eavesdropped that first time, and the words became visions within her head as she memorized them despite herself. They had recited it, line by line, her face bearing the hint of a smile, and his young one upturned, the solemnity present lending itself to his seriousness, this spoken ritual between them known, and well traveled. Her throat had closed in on itself, that first time, swollen with emotion and the knowledge that she had grown accustomed to distancing herself already, her instinctual reaction to the scene before her becoming that much more immobilizing for infrequent use, a sprained emotional muscle aching within her, appealing to 'Joanna' slumbering in a darkened cave of her own making.
"You have to say it, Ruth." She had stifled a giggle from escaping, his tone commanding and yet so tragically preadolescent in pitch it wrenched at her heart.
"Do I?" Ruth's tone had been teasing, familiar, this part of the ritual known by rote, her role within appropriately played. She had taken her hand and smoothed at the furrows forming between his eyes, and he had become liquid, leaning into her, eyes wide and adoring.
"Please?" The plea was whispered, urgently, and slightly muffled as he climbed more fully into her lap, settling himself with his forehead against her neck, her chin resting on the crown of his fair hair.
"All right, go on then." Her breath had disturbed his blonde halo, and to her eyes each strand had moved as she recited the words, in slow motion, his body rising with hers, one unit together, her chest expanding as she breathed and inhaled him.
"I do," he pledged.
"I do," she replied.
He had wrapped his thin arms around her neck, and she had rocked him silently as he wept, deep, wracking sobs for his mother who had taught him of swans, and read him stories, and held him when he was afraid. It had happened in this fashion every time, without fail, and like some unspoken direction, everyone had removed themselves, leaving only the two of them, because Wes had chosen Ruth, and Ruth alone as his venue for grief's expression.
"It was something he did with Fiona." Startled, she had jumped, knocking her elbow painfully against a shelf, massaging it as it thrummed nauseous. "He adores her."
"She's brilliant with him, Adam." She would have continued, wanted to say more, but some instinct spoke caution, counseled her to remain still, her eyes watching Harry watch Ruth, the wracking sobs from the boy abating into haphazard hiccups, his eyes half closed, exhaustion merging into a half sleep, his well of grief expunged for the moment. She hadn't noticed Harry's arrival, nor had she ability to pinpoint his exit in hindsight. Neither could she say Adam had been any more aware than she, there and gone like vapor. She had noticed Harry's face, so much a mirror of Wes' adoration, and if she were honest, it had chilled her for its naked, unadorned vulnerability. A mere heartbeat later, she understood she had grown so accustomed to Harry maintaining a watchful eye on Ruth, his physical presence forming a satellite of sorts, it rather fell to unconscious acceptance, almost breaching that frequency of occurrence her eyes rarely bothered to even register it consciously.
She had entertained the idea there was an undercurrent between the three, Adam, Ruth and Harry. Some measure of familiarity that was at once rare and necessary. She had fumbled her suspicions during an ill advised conversation with Malcolm, who, ever the gentleman, deftly sidelined her queries, and, though infinitely kind, left her with the impression it was not a topic of discussion he would tolerate. He had been fine discussing the three of them, but she had pushed the envelope, owing no doubt her journalistic tendencies, and as the conversation began to revolve around Harry and Ruth, to the exclusion of Adam, Malcolm had chosen the path less traveled marked silence. Ironically, it was his refusal to discuss the topic, Idle gossip better left for hens, he had muttered, which allowed her suspicions the spark of authenticity, raised from the drunken speculations characteristic of her old life, and solidified as unspoken fact in her new life, her new mind.
His face, hidden by half in the shadows, had openly adored her as she rocked the boy, and she couldn't help but wonder if there had ever been someone for Harry to pour his grief into, as a boy who had lost his mother, his own Fiona, had there been someone to hold him and pledge fealty? She thought it unlikely then, and even now she cannot envision the adult Harry ever being a miniature version, despite the glimpses of uncharacteristic amusement and boyishly juvenile antics Wes never failed to draw from that adolescent boy hidden and breathing somewhere deep within him. She wondered what the absence of such comfort foretold, the child growing into a man? Did the phycological scars mirror the raised and discolored defects that blister and mare, the story in braille writ upon the surface of his skin? Perhaps that is what draws him to Ruth, that comfort absent his own childhood, displayed unabashedly in the present, that yearning finding hesitant solace from the distant periphery he paces? She suspects he loves her. She suspects it terrifies him. She knows he cannot stop.
In all, she liked the idea of them together, Harry and Ruth, her inclination to write, put thoughts and words to paper as second nature to her as breathing, found her mentally weaving the story of them in the absence of concrete fact, a habit which occupied those moments of inactivity infrequent on the Grid, her mind picking the threads, and embellishing as her fancy desired. If she were to relinquish this life for yet another, a daydream she entertained more often that would be advised, she fancied they would make a decent enough plot for a novel, one you grab to occupy yourself as you vacation in the sun, the ocean your music, the sky your canopy, and the idea that there is another in the world so specifically perfect, so intricately attuned to you it is not, then, so absurd to believe 'The One' is more than a fantasy you tell yourself as a little girl, dreaming on what would be.
"I could have loved her, you know. She could have been my sister, too."
Startled back into the present, she cannot conceive of a more frightening thought than one which involved being loved by this woman, this dangerously unhinged retired agent who had little difficulty attaching an explosive device to her wrist, nor cruelly taunting her with her mother's illness refashioned into a vicious weapon. Unconditional love, that level of acceptance desired by all, but rarely achieved, a fabled unicorn which would not find a home within Angela Wells, yet she remained fascinated, the urge to know what the shape and definition of love was in her estimation, what taste did it carry, what smell rang with memory, had it been the existence or the absence that led her to this?
She thought her the result of that absence of love which carried the additional insult of somehow manifesting, yet remaining largely unrequited, her affections hinting towards a tendency to judgements, valuations of depth and measure. She was reminded of an old friend, her mind plucking the theme from the recesses of her old life, who had dissolved dangerously easily into the morass of desperation for loving an instructor who would not love her back. Obsessive, suffocating, she had watched as this previously gregarious and attractive girl devolved into a shadow, stalking and adrift, all the more soul crushing because she recognized it could easily have been herself, her need to be accepted by men as worthy the mirrored leftover insecurity driving them both, a daily reminder that her own father had left, the picture of him in memory including only vague distinctions of hair color, dark, and eyes, blue, leaving her with little outside of last name, and an alarmingly potent need to be accepted, wanted, worthy.
She would not go so far as to admit that discovering she was not alone in this particular insecurity comforted her, but there was, admittedly, some measure of unspoken communion fostered with others whose stories bore resemblance to her own, the details varied individually, but the wound was identical in nature and catalyst. She felt no similar connection with Angela, though she suspected her story, the chapters combining to form the whole of the damaged woman sat opposite her, were more likely similar than contrary, if she were of a mind to be interested. As it stood, she found herself unsurprisingly disinterested to the extent she evaluated it useless at the moment as a tool to manipulate her freedom, and rather examined it unconsciously, as one would a beetle struggling to right itself, numerous legs flailing against a sky which held no chance of assistance, underbelly exposed.
She mentally reiterates the varied rules of interrogation, most primary among the myriad that of concentrating on clearing your mind of all thought, achieving that tabula rasa whose stark emptiness prevents those personal elements revealed for manipulation. Despite herself, she pictures her mother's face instead, the scarf that covers her head to hide the loss of hair, the veins in her arms that bulge as a consequence of medical treatments, hears the whispery rasp that accompanies her words, and the lone lamp illuminating her terrible solitude as she scrapes at the paltry bits remaining within her reservoir of strength and will. She cannot clear her mind as instructed, she cannot picture that serene place where all is calm, her mind mercifully at rest, placid. In her mind's eye she pictures fire, the vibrant yellows and reds and oranges bleeding into one another, dancing as the sparks rise into a violet hued midnight sky, the popping of wood sounding in her ears, sizzling as it burns, and she thinks better this than tranquil ponds with mournful, wailing loons, and maybe anger has a place, and maybe fury isn't the emotionally blinding weakness they would have agents believe. She imagines herself burning, the heat suffocating, closing her eyes against the pain, feeling herself reform, reshape, bursting to be reborn aflame and unconquered.
She imagines smashing the beetle wearing Angela's face beneath the tip of her shoe, hears the crack as the hard shell snaps and the odious substance of her squeezes out, milky and thick, and wishes it were that easy.
"-To cut off your head."
She states it without note of apology, her tone bearing only a hint of her desire to bear witness to exactly such a circumstance, refusing to buckle and bend, drawing strength from Adam, stood across the room, smirking in acknowledgement. She thinks he understands her unspoken message, her desire for him to know she's unwilling to be used as a passive pawn to manipulate them, hoping he recognizes the futility of that urge to coach her voiced earlier. Her eyes, focused and bright, lock on his and telegraph silently, I know what this is, I know.
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"Ruth has been a very bad girl."
Her muttered Ruth in reply had leapt from her lips before she'd chance to couch tone and inflection, the obvious shock at the accusation sounding traitorously genuine in the suffocating silence, and she bit down on the tip of her tongue for again betraying the tenuousness of her skills and confidence, as her tears had done earlier. She reaches again for the blazing fire, needing the heat, the combustibility as paramount as that instinct to self preservation, finding softly muted embers and disappearing ash in its place. She watched as Angela continued to stare into nothingness, having already begun to ingest the image of herself as a dehumanized version named "giggler," she couldn't accurately decide which was worse, the spoken words dripping from her lips or the despondent silences which marked the moments between.
They had warned of this. They had objectively provided the recommended counter moves in textbook fashion, the appearance taking that disingenuous taint inherent to theory, dismissively cool as they detailed the moments of interrogation wherein you become your own undoing, your internal turmoil illustrating with increasing voracity the precariousness of your circumstances, the voice inside screaming do something, say something, while the rest of you wars to remain still and calm. They listed the inevitable recriminations that feed on self doubt, sensing an opening, touching the vulnerability, the soft parts which yearn to be acknowledged even as the words form weapons far worse than those of any physical assault.
It was the physical scars that mapped the course of your career, the voluntary comparisons and requisite details offered between agents, both new and seasoned, a testament to each success, each a badge of honor, an aberrant CV attesting to individual strengths of self preservation and skill. The psychological scars, the old school identification of tells and their manipulation, were the understood greater risk. The physical scars on display allowed some fellowship, an obscene derivation of intimacy when shared, but the emotional scars wounded deeper, enhancing the deep seated sense of isolation characteristic to maintaining control, festering unseen, unspoken, unshared, the toxin gaining strength within, and while she had little doubt Angela had her share of impressive physical scars marking her body, it was her emotional scars which destroyed her.
"Get up. Move, Giggler. Now!"
She had crossed the distance suddenly, and wrapped her hand around her upper arm, nails digging deeply into the tender underside as she yanked her to her feet, shoving the explosive handbag forcefully into her chest, the thwump it had made on impact reverberating against her sternum, propelling her, stumbling onto The Grid, registering the shock forming on Zaf's face, glimpsing from the corner of her eye Adam and Ruth with Harry, as she was unceremoniously frogmarched towards the tech suite.
"You have until dawn."
She watched Colin's retreating back, glancing at the hole he had been creating, the size suggesting it unsuitable as a means of escape, despite the bars. If the circumstances hadn't been such, dire, speeding inexorably towards insurmountable, she would have laughed out loud, even as his slumping shoulders and loping gait tugged at her heart, the familiarity proving physically painful to her.
Where Colin's comportment gave every indication of defeat, Malcolm revealed nothing of what he was thinking or feeling, and she rather envied his years of experience, nearly matching those of Harry's, and the objectivity and self control allowed them in the trade. He had gazed at Angela, slumped against the wall, her eyes meditating the detonator held tightly in her hand, and for a split second she saw a crack form in his veneer, sympathy mixed with regret, his eyes squinting slightly in his confusion, and she understood at once how difficult this must be for him, apart from the obvious physical risks to them all.
He had, to some extent, as had been made clear in that short time before she bared her teeth, idolized this woman, had worked with her for a time, had saved her life with his particular bent towards gadgetry sounding the means. She imagined him in no small measure computing his accountability, the actions of the past willfully acted upon, the first steps taken which carried with them the overriding need to believe them right and just, necessary then, and not that seed of tumor awaiting a catalyst to begin the process of metastasizing, coloring light to dark, and dark to light, killing indiscriminately as it yearns to heal.
Quite naturally, as his eyes rested on hers before turning to leave, she began to envision Angela as that tumor, that vicious aberration replicating itself until becoming unsatisfied with the minimal buffet afforded her, vaulting from crouched seclusion within the beast and gorging herself on the greater meat, the voluminous numbers of victims sacrificed to feed her hunger for more.
"There won't be anything left but our shredded remains, you and me. Shame, really. This room is so very tiny. You would have made a lovely corpse. Although, you could count it a blessing you'll not suffer the misery of your mother's impending death. Its a gift, really. I'm allowing you the chance to die first. I didn't have that chance. I held him as he seeped out of himself."
She's smiling, reptilian and cold, and its all she can do to stop her chin from trembling, her words tearing their way through her as intended. Squeezing her eyes shut, she knows she talking about Peter Haigh, that long silenced specter that continues to haunt the periphery, the reason for which she openly provoked Ruth.
"Imagine yourself, sat there, listening, attentive, as you hear the phlegm rising, her weakening death rattle filling the room, and you stuck somewhere between resenting she's still hanging on, and guilty that you'd wish she'd just find an end. How will you forgive yourself, do you imagine? Talk to Ruth about that. Oh, yes, our Ruth knows all about that. Festering little secret, that."
Angela's staring forward towards the doorway as she speaks, her grin peeling back wider from her teeth as the atmosphere alters suddenly, the soft down of her arms reaching in response, her head slowly turning to find Ruth standing in the threshold, directed as if on cue, her portion of the play on the cusp of beginning. She experiences a moment of hope briefly before her stomach drops away, and she cannot stop the increase of her breathing, the rasping sound, so reminiscent of her mother's, escaping her lungs in rapid fire bursts of fear and adrenaline. She pictures Wes in her head, the vision of him curled into Ruth's side, and wants to scream not again, not another, knowing she is here in exchange, one life for another, and she will not be able to stand the weight of it.
She feels the keys as they burst across her chest, landing in the folds of her skirt, and her hands shake as she quickly releases herself from the handbag. She can taste the perspiration on her upper lip, feel her clothes as they stick to her lower back and shoulders, peeling away as she rises, a newborn fawn, unsteady, her legs a mass of needles as the circulation begins churning, and the rush of blood makes her lightheaded as she staggers towards Ruth, her ears numbed of sound, her fingers grasping at air, tingling back to life at her sides.
Ruth watches her, assessing her silently as she crosses the room, sliding her eyes slowly to the figure slumped against the opposite wall, locking eyes, her face revealing nothing, a carefully constructed mask of indifference, her full mouth an ugly thin line marring her face. She leans into her and notices how the action is almost unconscious, like Wes, and Harry, feeling indescribably safe despite the circumstances having altered minimally on the whole. Strangely, she finds she does not want to leave her, and thinks that worse than silence, worse still than venomous words inflicted, is the unimaginable idea that she should leave Ruth to Angela.
She sees her mouth form the words go, but fails to actually hear them through the numbing buzzing within her head. Sensing her indecision, Ruth gently places a hand on her arm, softly squeezing, again whispering go, her eyes soft and gentle, the quick nod in the direction of the threshold empty behind them meant to emphasize her wish. She hesitates still, glancing towards Angela and is struck by the intuition that this moment is what she has been waiting for, whatever else her motivations, this specific moment with Ruth was primary, the need for such derived from some deeply shared personal stain shared between them, and not meant for her to participate. She understood it would not be stopped, saw the nature of it as runaway, barreling towards a conclusion only imagined, yet moments away from occurring.
She feels the imprint of Ruth's hand on her arm as she reenters the Grid, places her hand on top of the imagined heat as though in doing so she remains still with her in spirit, in solidarity, visualizing her strength traversing the distance and immersing itself into Ruth, intertwining with her own, bolstering and infinite. She says nothing, dropping into the first vacant chair, feeling the skin peel back from her eyes, rocking unconsciously, and she looks beyond herself from a place that seems very small inside her, that place where 'Joanna' lives, whose worst difficulty once upon a time was deciding between red or white with dinner, who understands the truth of what Angela had said with eyes that see this new lessened manifestation of herself, the one that could resent her mother's illness, the one who has been taught how, and worse, learned to embrace the justifications she would use to placate and absolve herself in turns.
It is with great internal effort that she closes that door inside herself, shutting herself against the knowing eyes of that 'Joanna,' emerging from the shadows, reborn, the metaphorical phoenix burst from flame, alive in flight, soaring, watching the ashes of herself fall away, and dissolve.
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