Author: Jessepinwheel
Word Count: 6,500
Warnings: Brief discussion of suicide, death in general
Summary: Two acquaintances come to terms with the death of a mutual close friend.
A/N: This story is based on ErrorBlender's Past Projection entry in the Valley of Dreams tournament, readable here (first story), but all characters here are my own. You don't have to have read that story to understand this one.
As always, feedback, comments, etc. are appreciated.
Spoiler (Click to Show)
He muses on this as he drags himself up the stairs to his supervisor's apartment.
Why did his coworkers have to send him, of all people, to talk to Isa? He's not good at talking to people. He's not even good at talking to this one specific person.
He grumbles as he takes the last few steps to Isa's floor, but it's all for show. The truth is, his heart's almost beating out of his chest and he's quietly hoping that his dinner won't make a surprise reappearance (unfortunately, prospects aren't looking too good on that front). All in all, it's like he's submitting his thesis all over again—all nerves and shaky hands—except it's way worse because he's so not ready to talk down his grieving boss. Especially when said boss is grieving about their mutual best friend's death.
Desmond reaches the top of the stairs and stops. He closes his eyes and forces himself to take a deep breath.
The smell of musty carpet hits him like a truck, kicking up thoughts of Lenore like swirling clouds of dust in his head. He remembers her smile, her voice, the way she always looked so surprised when someone made her laugh.
When he opens his eyes again, he doesn't move. He just stands there for a while, looking down the hallway at all of the identical apartment doors.
He remembers going down this hallway for the first time, something years ago. He can practically see Lenore's face-splitting grin and hear her say, "Thanks for coming to see my boyfriend, Des," in that infuriating lilt of hers. Then he saw his new boss through the doorway, and boy, was that a shock.
Desmond had long since gotten over his middle school crush, but he couldn't deny it hurt.
He eventually detaches himself from the wall and heads down to Isa's apartment. It's slow going, for all that his legs feel like lead. He keeps his eyes on the ground, tracing the faded patterns in the worn carpet. It's not like he needs to look at the apartment numbers anyways.
Isa isn't a friend—never was, though it's not his fault, amicable as he is. It's just that Desmond couldn't bring himself to trust his boss the way he could Lenore, and once Isa saw that, he didn't push it. Desmond had no personal obligations to the man, and he preferred it that way. He just worked for him.
But in the end, that's enough. He is the one walking down to Isa's apartment like it's the freaking gallows, because he and everyone else at the lab knows that nobody else can do what he's about to do, and that, more than anything else, terrifies him.
Desmond swallows his pride and his fear and sets aside the cold feeling creeping into his chest. He walks because anything else is an affront to Lenore's memory.
He stops at the door and, more out of habit than anything else, knocks slowly three times. It's the knock for "friends", codes being one of those things that Lenore had indulged in over the years. He has a spare key, but it seems awfully rude to let himself in under current circumstances.
Maybe a minute passes before he hears the familiar sound of creaking floorboards. A few seconds later, Isa opens the door.
Isa's eyes widen when he sees Desmond. His mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out.
He looks like crap. His face is sallow and gaunt, his hair is more gray than brown, and his eyes are sunken and bloodshot and ringed by dark circles. He hasn't shaved for a few days and it doesn't look like he's changed clothes in just as long.
Desmond does his best not to cringe.
"Hey," he says before the silence gets too awkward. He considers faking a smile, but that seems disrespectful. "Is it a bad time?"
Isa smiles, just a tiny bit. It's not much, but it helps. "No, not at all," he says.
"Yeah," Desmond replies. "We—we've been worried, down at the lab. Wanted to make sure you were okay since...you know."
Isa blinks like Desmond's speaking a foreign language. Eventually, he says, "Sure, why don't you come in?"
Desmond actually considers refusing. The hallway is bad enough, so the apartment would be overkill. But there's that feeling again like a hunk of ice in his stomach and he forcefully reminds himself that this isn't about him. It's about Lenore and he doesn't want her to think he's some kind of coward, especially when Isa needs help.
Still, he asks, "Are you sure?"
Isa shrugs. "You might as well. It's not like there's anything you haven't seen, yeah?"
Desmond enters and closes the door behind him.
"It's great to see you, Des," he imagines Lenore saying as he takes in the warm, familiar smell of apples and cinnamon potpourri. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that she isn't gone at all. "It's been such a long time."
"Sorry about the mess. I've been working, and you know how that gets," Isa says. "Leave your coat wherever, take a seat. I'll be with you in a few minutes." He limps off without waiting for an answer.
Desmond throws his coat and scarf over a nearby door hook, enters the living room, and freezes.
Isa's "mess" threshold might be slightly off.
The apartment is a disaster. Apparently Isa's last houseguest was a tornado, because papers are strewn everywhere amidst open books and binders and pens and pencils and drafting tools. He's always known that Isa liked to drown himself in work, but he never realized how literally.
He clears a chair and sits at the breakfast bar, overlooking the kitchen, and spies a few ingredients and knives on the counter by the sink. His brow furrows. It's past nine o'clock. Is Isa really eating (no, cooking) this late? That can't be healthy.
Desmond taps the bar nervously. He and Isa definitely need to talk, but what does he say? What can he say?
Sorry your wife is dead?
Suck it up and get back to work?
Desmond sighs and puts his head down on the bar. He hasn't thought much about Lenore's death, because it's not like they cross (crossed) paths all that often and it's so much easier to work on other things. He isn't actively ignoring the fact that she's gone. He just...doesn't think about it.
Obviously, that doesn't work here. He tries to comb through his thoughts and file them into convenient little words, but it's like untangling a string of Christmas lights in the dark—all little glimpses of everything but no clue how one thing connects to the next. All he knows for sure is that there's an uncomfortably tight feeling in his chest and he desperately wants it to disappear.
After a while, he gives up thinking. Nothing he says is going to help, anyways.
He hears the distinctive tap-click, tap-click of Isa's prosthetic leg coming back down the hallway and he glances—oh crap, his sleeve is damp. He hastily wipes his face before Isa sees him.
"Sorry about that," Isa says. He's changed clothes and washed his face, by the looks of it. He may have even attempted to comb his hair, but Desmond isn't sure.
"It's fine," Desmond replies. "My fault, really. I should have called ahead."
"Don't worry about it," Isa says with a dismissive wave. He swings around to the kitchen and plucks a bowl from the counter. "I was getting ready to cook dinner when you knocked," he adds as he runs vegetables under the sink. "I hope you don't mind if I do that while we talk."
"No, no. Of course not, Dr. Schwann—"
"We're not at work, Des. You can call me Isa."
Desmond doesn't really know how to respond, but he's so not comfortable with his boss calling him "Des" (even outside of work, they were barely on first name terms), and he'd only really let that slide in the past because of Lenore.
After a while, Isa breaks the silence and asks, "Do you want to stay for dinner? It's nothing fancy—just vegetables and fish—but I'd love to have some company."
Desmond raises his head. Isa looks hollow, and he's so damn sincere that saying no (no matter how much Desmond wants to) feels like kicking a puppy.
"Yeah," Desmond chokes out, "if you don't mind, that would be great."
Isa smiles in earnest and it lights up his whole face, making his cheeks less pinched and his eyes more alive. It hits Desmond that he might be the only person Isa's seen since the incident, and the thought is...sad, to say the least.
"Of course not. You know you're always welcome." Isa sets his bowl aside, and says, "Would you like a drink? We don't have any alcohol, but there's a, uh, bottle of cranberry juice, if you like."
Desmond's eyebrows shoot right up into his hairline. He can't drink—
Right. There's nobody to ask permission from anymore.
Isa looks off to one side. "We've also got iced tea and soy milk, if you prefer either of those. It's just that, uh, I've never had a taste for juice."
That's a big fat lie, but Desmond doesn't call Isa on it. He gets it.
"Juice is fine," he finally says. "If you're, y'know. Okay with it."
A minute and a half later, he's sitting with a glass of what might be blood or aqueous safranin. He takes a tentative sip and a sudden chill shoots up his spine.
"Hey, I'm glad you like it, but slow down. No need to give yourself chills," Isa says. He starts chopping carrots, filling the air with rhythmic thok-thok-thok sounds.
Desmond stares at the drink like it's an alien creature. What the hell was that? His gaze flicks suspiciously between the spots on the condensation where he'd touched the glass and the liquid itself as it sits there, harmless and unmoving. He pushes the glass away, but the cold doesn't subside. He rubs his arms.
"Is there a draft in here?" he asks. "Or something off with the heat?"
"Not that I know of, Des. Why?"
"I...nothing. Never mind."
Isa raises an eyebrow, but doesn't pursue the matter further. He finishes with the carrots and moves on to the broccoli. "You wanted to talk?" he asks.
Straight to business. Just as well, because small talk sucks.
"Yeah, I wanted to see how you were holding up after the, uh. After the fire."
Isa makes a noncommittal noise and says, "I'm fine."
Desmond huffs. This is why he hates talking to people. "Really? My mistake, then. I guess I came downtown in eight degree weather for nothing, seeing how everything is sunshine and daisies."
Isa sighs tiredly. "That's not what I meant, Des."
"I know it isn't, so can we skip the evasive crap? I saw you five minutes ago, Dr. Schwann, and that was not 'fine'." Desmond nervously rubs the back of his neck. "I...I know I'm crap at talking, but I'll listen to whatever you have to say. Lenore was my friend, too."
Isa's spine goes rigid at her name, but he doesn't respond, doesn't even look up as he turns away to pour oil into a wok and slide in the vegetables. A hiss explodes out when they hit the pan—alarmingly loud, actually, but Desmond doesn't know much about cooking beyond pasta. He assumes (hopes, really) that Isa knows what he's doing.
Desmond waits until Isa finishes adding sauces and covers the wok, then continues, "It's been over two weeks. All of us down at the lab, we've been busy with repairs and cleanup, but we really want to get back to doing, y'know, research."
Isa starts chopping green onions and ginger, and says flatly, "I left things to work on."
"Two weeks is a long time. We're pretty much through your backlog. We need you, Dr. Schwann. I know you're not having a great time, but we really do. The radio silence is hard for all of us."
Isa dumps the spices into a bowl and slides an ugly grey fish onto the cutting board. He gazes at it for a while, then sets his knife down. He looks up, squarely meeting Desmond's eyes.
"I know," he says.
Desmond isn't sure what he expected to hear. Anger, maybe, or sorrow. Instead, all he hears is weariness. For some reason, that's way worse.
Isa continues. "I can't apologize enough for my recent behavior. I'm supposed to support you guys, especially in difficult times like this, and it's—it's not helping anyone, my mourning. But I...I can't not grieve, Des, and I mean, I'm trying to—" He falters and stops, unsure of what to say next.
"Nobody expects you to be all right. You've lost the most out of all of us," Desmond says.
"That's a lie, Des. I appreciate it, but it's still a lie. You knew her just as well as I did, maybe better, yet here you are, trying to talk sense into me." Isa smiles bitterly. "You saw it, I'm falling apart here while you're...fine. Actually fine."
Desmond's heart clenches. I'm not fine, he wants to protest. I'm not okay because Lenore is dead and I have absolutely no goddamn clue what I'm doing. The words gather at the tip of his tongue, but he can't force them out.
Isa doesn't notice. "I'm letting you guys down, and I'm sorry. You deserve better, honestly, but..." He lapses into silence.
Desmond recognizes Isa's tone from so many times before and immediately, he hears echoes of Lenore cussing him out.
"Will you get your head out of your ass or do I have to do it for you?" she used to say, her voice harsh and clear even after Desmond had discreetly left and shut the door behind him. "Feel free to quit moaning about how you're a constant screwup, because you're not! Nobody expects you to make the sun rise in the morning, for God's sake. The guys at the lab all look up to you for a reason."
It's not until Desmond registers Isa's gobsmacked stare that he realizes he's said all that out loud. Heat floods his face, temporarily flushing out the cold. He depends on Isa for his paycheck, dammit. He can't be—
"I'm so sorry." The words tumble out of Desmond's mouth. "I didn't mean—"
"No, it's okay. You're right. It's just...that sounded a lot like her." Isa laughs without mirth and turns his attention back to the fish on the cutting board.
Great.
Desmond puts his head back down on the breakfast bar, dignity be damned. He messed up, really messed up. He should have paid more attention to the crap coming out of his mouth, because while he has no clue what's right, emulating Lenore was definitely not it.
What the hell possessed him to say that? He was...well, not smarter, really, but he knew better.
He hears Isa take the wok off of the stove and pour out the vegetables, then start cooking the fish like Desmond isn't even there. It's better that way, really. Anything he says will just dig himself deeper.
Isa cooks, and Desmond finds it easier to listen than think, so that's what he does. His eyes idly sweep up and down the bar, taking in the scattered objects lying about.
There's the juice, obviously, gleaming red and largely undrunk. There's a little wicker tray with inconsequential things like vitamin bottles and gum and photos. Lenore used to put flowers in there, but there aren't any now. Evidently, the last flowers had long since wilted and died.
Desmond's hand passes over the bar and, almost unintentionally, falls on a face-down photo. He picks it up and shudders. It's Lenore's faculty photo, set in a mahogany frame.
There's a lively nature to the picture, a spirit captured by the camera that Desmond can't quite describe. His eyes flit from that curl in her hair she always tried to hide to the sharp angle of her brow to that damn lab coat she was so proud of (the one still hanging in her office, right now). He winces at the brightness in her sly smile like she totally wasn't going to die at the age of thirty-two, two weeks ago.
Something grips Desmond's heart again, pressing hard against his ribcage and lungs. He tries and miserably fails to ignore it. Intellectually, he gets that Lenore is dead. He even gets that life is almost exactly the same now that she