#jeanvanda

It’s the very edge of autumn when they first see the house, and the greenness of the wooded lot is giving way to the blush of red and soft glow of gold against a blue sky, and in the living room Vanda stands in the sunlight that floods in from the wide windows, looking out at the front path, and her face shines.

"Here," she says, and turns to take Jean’s hands. "It’s here."

It's an old house, with hardwood floors and a real fireplace, and a set of creaky stairs to the second floor, where three bedrooms exit from the landing. The previous family's moved out already, and with nothing inside the great empty spaces of the rooms are like a blank canvas laid out before them.

Jean thinks of what they'll move in from the apartment, and what new things they'll have the space to keep now, and she smiles back at Vanda.

"Here," she agrees. "You're right."

-

Vanda takes pictures of the apartment before they start packing up - of the flowers lined up under the window, of the books stacked up on the shelves, of their coffee cups on the stained end table. Of each side of every room, after two years that they've lived there, to compare later to her pictures from moving in.

This is not the place where they fell in love, but it's the place where they learned what to do with it.

And they've outgrown it now, so they pack away those memories with Vanda's camera, which she wraps up in tissue before putting it in the shoebox she keeps it in and taping it all up.

Jean packs away the books, and the dishes, wrapped in newspaper to keep them from breaking. Vanda marks the boxes with a black marker as soon as they're sealed, in her neatest handwriting, and adds FRAGILE in bold lettering to everything breakable.

Within a week of finding the house, the life they've been building up disappears into a dozen cardboard boxes lined up against the living room wall.

"Are you ready?" Jean asks, standing in the doorway between the living room and the gutted kitchen.

"No," Vanda says after a moment's consideration. "Not really."

Jean looks at her. She's looking at everything packed away, at the blank-eyed windows along the side wall, at the furniture all crammed into the living room where they can take it when they move out. 

"But also," she says, and looks up. "I want to."

Jean smiles. "I know," she says softly, and Vanda smiles back.

-

They close the sale on Thursday afternoon, and Friday morning the rest of the team shows up at the apartment.

"Ready to move out?" Warren asks brightly as soon as he's inside. 

"Ready to move in, more like," Jean says wryly, and gestures around at the mess. "Vanda's out getting coffee, she'll be back in a few minutes."

"Quite alright," Hank says as he bounds in from the landing. "Do you suppose it would perturb her if we began?"

"Um, I don't think so," she says. "We might as well get started."

"What shall be transported first?" Hank asks, cracking his knuckles as he looks around the room. 

She glances around herself. "Furniture, first, I think," she says. "Though I think we'd like to at least get everything into the house today."

"Absolutely," he agrees, and rolls his shoulders back as he glares at the couch through his glasses. "Let us get this undertaking underway, hm?"

He grabs the nearest chair with both hands and hefts it up off the floor with a grunt. "Careful," Jean says, but he's got it under control; with Warren's guidance he carries the chair out onto the landing and down the stairs. She casts a look around the room, finds its match, and lifts it to bring down after them.

"Morning, Jean," Bobby shouts when she steps out onto the sidewalk. 

"Morning," she calls back, though she's focused mostly on her chair until she sets it down at the back of the van. "Hi, Bobby," she says when she can give him her attention. "Hey, Scott."

"Hey," Scott says, raising a hand in greeting. "Vanda coming, too?"

"She's out," Jean explains again. "She'll be back in a few minutes."

"With coffee, apparently," Warren adds helpfully. "Let's head back up - oh." He frowns at the closed door. "Jean? Key?"

"Oh, um, right," she says, and fishes in her pocket to find it empty. "Uh--"

"Balcony door latched?" he asks.

"Shouldn't be," she says, and before she's even closed her mouth he's gone, flying up to let them in again.

-

She and Vanda drive up together in the car, an hour north on the parkway and another fifteen minutes on narrow county highways until they reach North Salem and pull up outside the house behind the hill.

Vanda is quiet beside her, head leaned up against the window, her coffee cup wrapped up in both hands. She's been on edge as much as Jean has, her nerves frayed by the chaos in the apartment and her eagerness tempted with worry. She has her camera strapped around her neck, the Polaroid, so she can take pictures of the house before they move in the furniture.

Thank God, Jean thinks, for the others, who drove down from North Salem already that morning to meet them at the apartment, and who will do it again to get the second load of furniture. The moving things she could do alone, most likely - but the rented moving van is a valuable asset.

They arrive, and Vanda stirs, stretching her arms out and pressing her palms against the dash.

"I'll run in to take the pictures," she announces, and unfolds herself from the car, hurrying up the walk with her sweatshirt wrapped around her and disappearing into the house.

oh GOSH

they could go basically anywhere because, well, magic - i think they'd go somewhere very quiet, very private, very beautiful - maybe in the mountains somewhere. a place where they could relax and spend quiet hours together touching mind to mind, and go for walk or hikes maybe. 

"I'm home," she calls, and peeks into the living room to see Vanda on the sofa in front of a roaring fire, with a blanket wrapped round her shoulders and a mug of tea in her hands.