#softeranimals

Christine gently massaged her temples, her head resting in her hands, while taking a moment to gather her thoughts. The day had been long, starting with a trip to the pharmacy to pick up Mamma's latest prescription as they would be closed by the time rehearsals were over. A delay on the metro had made her late to the opera house, and thus late to her singing lesson; the Angel did not appreciate tardiness. Rehearsals for the upcoming gala night took up the rest of her day, leaving her with little time to merely sit and be.

She exhaled a long sigh as she straightened before her vanity. Perhaps she could spare the time to grab a coffee before taking the metro home... Cheered by the treat ahead of her, Christine rose from her stool to give the dressing room a quick scan. Satisfied that she had all that she needed in her bag, the young woman departed the small room for the hallway. She nodded in farewell to a few ballerinas as they passed her by, not paying much attention, until a familiar face had her stopping in her tracks.

"Raoul."

mel is sitting in the family room, where she'd been ushered and told to sit and wait, and she thinks she may genuinely go into cardiac arrest. the anxiety in her body demands somewhere to go, clawing at her throat, making her skin prickle and burn. every sensation is too present, too intense, and she digs her fingernails into the palms of her hands. a tactic to exert control over the feelings ravaging her body.

she wants out of her body and out of this room. and she wants to be with becca, who arrived by ambulance, who she barely got a look at before being escorted away, who she isn't allowed to care for. this is reasonable, mel tells herself. a more charitable, logical part of herself understands. but it doesn't make her feel any better for sitting here, uselessly. not when she's supposed to be the one to care for her sister.

there's a knock on the door and mel jumps to her feet, like her instinct is to break into a run if they need her help ( they won't. they don't. they're good at what they do, very good. she just can't turn off the part of her brain that's shouting at her to do something ). dr. langdon enters, shuts the door behind him before mel can crane her neck for a glance of her sister, somewhere in the er. he'd been on triage (again, endlessly ) when she saw him last. he wasn't on becca's case, so he can't be here to give her any news.

she must look a mess, wild-eyed and jittery. so mel says something to explain herself. "it's hard. to sit here and wait." her nerves are so shot, her brain can't come up with anything more than the obvious, which she repeats, dumbly. "it's so hard to sit here by myself and wait."

"you're not by yourself, alright? i'm right here with you." it's such a kind thing to say, she think she'll burst into tears. mel is still getting to know dr. langdon ( case in point, she won't yet drop the formalities with him, even in her own head. she believes in giving respect where it is due ), but he's shown her such friendship. and he continues to.

Harcourt doesn’t turn around when Chris asks if she wants to go out on a date with him. She’s been aligning her plaques on the wall of her half-constructed office at the new base of operations. The government awards in her hands—framed, smudged glass, seventeen different dates of service and commendations—feel heavier than usual. Maybe it’s the context. Or maybe it’s the effort of pretending they still mean something. She stares at the wall. Lets the silence hang like noose-length piano wire. Then, with her back still turned toward him—“No. Not really, Chris.” Cold. Sharp. Surgical. The kind of voice you use when someone asks if you want to see pictures of their cats during a goddamn hostage extraction.

She doesn’t follow it up. Doesn’t look at him. This is the part where she should explain something. Offer a reason. Pretend she has a full, functional set of adult communication skills. But all she can think about is her—that alternate version of her that Chris fell into like a fucking vacation brochure. That soft, apron-wearing, smile-having Stepford ghost of a woman. Harcourt 2.0, Tradwife Edition. The one who probably baked cookies shaped like bald fucking eagles and let him win arguments. Harcourt’s jaw clenches. Her molars threaten mutiny. She hadn’t planned to care. That was her first mistake.