Precious

It's spring.

It's the usual fight. But it's louder than usual. And it's very displeased with the thought of being away from their offspring's. Cat and Rosie were the beast's s much as they were his. It was possessive, it growled when someone threatened or hurt them. He feels it crawling through his veins and he shivers.

"You wanna get out of here? Be somewhere else entirely?" Sometimes it was called for. Leaving not just home but country. Just like once upon a time. There was no real running from their demons, but they could at least hop a jet with them and go somewhere with more room for them. Somewhere that didn't feel close to home... like it might touch everyone else. It's been a minute since any significant time in L. A. They could go there, or... "We never did hit Chicago. Willis Tower. Lots of bad ideas there to catch up on." She's got a theory that it won't even appeal... now, maybe, but not once they're there. She's tested it before. When the reminiscing tells her things were better back then, more exciting. She's gone chasing that high, only to find it lacking. Maybe it's what he needs to. Or maybe they do a little adrenaline chasing. Either option works.

They knew each other in ways he's not sure anyone else in their lives knew them. A bond. That's what it was called. This thing they shared. And for a second he's ashamed he had nearly.. Slid into that baggie of happy pills.

Would he have taken them if she hadn't shown up?

Yes.

He doesn't fucking know.

Sometimes... Babies, mansions and careers are not all they are cracked up to be, and that's okay. She just pushes a sticky kiss to his cheek about it and curls into him, leaning on his shoulder, one hand on his chest. "Do you need a break from them?" There's no judgement possible within her at the thought of such a need. They do try, to still make time for themselves and each other. They have more family than they know what to do with these days, and they rotate them accordingly, calling in favors and paying them back in kind. It's always been okay in their home, to not be okay.

You should eat her.

Fuck. Right. Off.

And then each other, and back then? Neither one of them would believe the now.

He's grateful.

But fuck.

He's tired.

Not the girl's fault. But he's ben so busy with his life he hadn't realized.. He's way north of twenty seven. What did he have to show for it? A family, you fucking asshole. A career, you ungrateful piece of shit. Yeah, but are they gonna remember my name? Remember me? Joshua Washington. Not Bob's kid. The Washington boy. Got talented but he's unstable.

If he had joined the legends before he hit twenty eight maybe they'd whisper about him a hundred years from now. His father's in his head now. Talking.. And Talking.. But still when she asked.. How did he feel now when he use go on the record claiming he wouldn't make it to twenty eight.

Like I got something to live for. Got something to prove.

Wasted genius. Just horror, Joshua? Why not try branching out? Because Susan.. It's his life's work. Making fear a masterpiece.

He reaches for that secret baggy taped to the underside of his desk.

She's just coming to update him about it, so they can adjust together, make sure there's always someone additional on hand when she travels, etc... only to find him looking at that baggie of pills like maybe this time it really will have the answers he's looking for. Nevermind that it hasn't before. She's sure something's whispering to him that this time will be different. Nature of the disease. Nature of addiction. He's clean, but he'll never not be an addict. They know this. She married him anyway.

He's ready to ask her, mouth parting for the words to spill from the cage of his lips and teeth but he doesn't get the chance. She's speaking again.. And thought the anger of her words have heat, even as they sear through his heart.. He doesn't reaction at all like she's predicts.

Pretty boy.

It doesn't really occur to her, even now, that the problem is that he knows her every bit as well as she knows him. Even now. As if they weren't miles and eons from the people that they used to be. Children playing at love. Puppy things. High school sweethearts. Innocence of yesteryear. He treats her like she's still the girl who would never tell him an outright lie, or let him believe falsehood. Not her, not even as an heir to her father's own strange brand of deception by omission— because it's not really a lie if you don't say words. And really, what can she possibly have to say to this man?

A man who doesn't remember her lie; doesn't know her betrayal of him. She can't even begin to know how to utter it. It's all she can do not to let him go on as if she hasn't done him as dirty as the rest of his life has. That would be dishonorable. So she tries to fast-forward to the end, to the end that she deserves in the hopes that it warms him some day; that even when he didn't recall what she'd done he'd been wiser than to let her live.

"Remembered bits and pieces before I got real help, real therapy but it's been a long road. I still suffer headaches, get triggered less often not but.. Memory isn't what it was." He laughs softly, mostly at himself and to fill the silence she's left. He thinks he understands. Has to be surreal for her. He was supposedly dead. Billy Russ isn't a name but a handful still call him. It's Jigsaw now. She doesn't know him. Doesn't know the man he was before the attack nor after. He doesn't begrudge her that. But fuck.

It's so good to see her.

It'd be easy enough to— take his admissions and turn them back on him; blame him for forgetting. And how long would that last? A day? A year? A decade? It wouldn't matter— it'd be the stupidest thing possible to do. Whatever idyllic paradise they built on those kinds of lies would come crashing down one day when truth intruded. The rest of his memories would come back one day— they almost always did, and none of the after would matter.

There's an impulse in her to ask her what he would do if she stood up right now and left him but that's a question she can still answer, even now. Even that would be too cruel. Too manipulative. Had the potential of being misread, misunderstood. So she doesn't ask, she just swallows, restrains a grimace and stands.

Anything Billy Russo has ever let go of has his claw marks deeply imbedded in it. Tale of an orphan. Group homes would do that to you. Being made to share— never having a thing of your own, until you did. And then heaven help the thing that ever tried to become them and it. She's the them. She's the it. She's it all, pushing back from that table, purse shrugged a little higher on to her shoulder as she gets up and makes to leave him there. Not that he'll stay. No he's going to chase— upset, hopefully, offended and hurt beyond measure if right is on her side.

Any second now he'll snap out of it and grab her arm. Claws. Not letting go without a fight. Impact. She's ready for it, ready to stare down a probably very literal barrel. Game. Hand on her bicep. Set. A half-twirl back to break the hold. Match. Hazel eyes blazing with unfathomable emotion, pink manicure shoving hard into suited center-chest. What a scene. Good. It should be— it deserves that. The tale of how she commits suicide by Russo. She ought to smack him, really trigger him, except that she can't bring herself to do it. Not when he's looking at her like that and all she wishes in the world is that he wouldn't. She stopped deserving that too many years ago. One very important lie ago.

And poor silly Billy. He thinks she's mad because he forgot her, and not the other way around. Time to set that mistake to rights...

"Do you really know me?" His head hurts. His face... like someone tried to rip it off of him... so, TBI? Amnesia? Something like it or... worse? The shortlist of explanations why she's sitting pretty instead of dying ugly. Like she'd said she had. Unforgivable. She'd known it when she agreed to the lie. Lived with it every day since. Hazel on black, she goes looking— squinting with effort, just a little. She doesn't deserve the boy staring back; only his righteous revenge. A thing she's well schooled in. And maybe she should be afraid, but she's not. Just... vaguely numb. Ready... or maybe readying herself. Bracing for impact. Of some sort.