Britannia, NY

It's been a bad month for Gary, between his own dreams, Mike's revelations, the messy relationship with Karen, and the disaster of a dinner with Cecilia. He's out walking in what's mostly a last-ditch effort to disconnect from everything, praying he doesn't meet anyone he knows--if he doesn't, he's decided to lock himself in the studio for a week.

He looks rumpled and exhausted and cold, and if you offered to buy him a coffee he would probably not say no.

Gary is wearing what almost maybe passes for a suit--at least, he's wearing a clean button-down for once, and a threadbare suitjacket over it, although he's still in jeans. He didn't invite Mike along for this (not being, frankly, totally insane, we mean, really).

He's a little afraid to meet his mother, although he's not quite sure why. She wasn't threatening last time. There's nothing inherently wrong with this invitation.

Still, he can't quite shake the feeling of foreboding that's settling over him now.

Some time after vacation, the rest of the summer slipped into a blur of relentless work and lost sleep. Cecilia had been to several conferences, was putting in extra hours, and trying to gear everything up for back-to-school. (The last, a hopeless pile of things she couldn't quite get caught up with. Thank god for helpful library pages, at least.)

She's been distracted, keeping to herself more than usual. She doesn't sleep well, but she doesn't really mind that so much. She's been reading the stories of her life, the way other people set them down, and none of it seems to match up with what she remembers or knows. It's painful.

Today, she's finishing up a pile of work in her little corner of the back office. It's supposed to be her day off, but she's been coming in nearly every day anyway. Cecilia feels a bit frazzled, though it probably doesn't show. She's about to head out and grab a cup of coffee and a break.

By the time Mike gets home, Gary has finished the shopping and is sitting at the kitchen table drinking a beer and sketching. He's been missing the sex--missing, at least, the way that when Mike didn't know any better he didn't understand why Gary might be hesitant, and his lack of hesitation led Gary to overcome his own discomfort (in the end he always felt better for it). After the last nearly-five-years, especially given Mike's particular passion for him, it feels weird and distant to have barely touched since Mike remembered.

He's decided that possibly it's a night to get buzzed and try to turn in early; it used to work well when in the before-Mike era, and it might suffice now.

It is time yet again for Gary to venture out of the house for art supplies and groceries and a pretense at normality, which isn't easy right now. His nightmares are getting bad again, a kind of searing white-hot slicing that rips him out of sleep and leaves him lying awake sure that he's covered in blood--he has to lie in bed breathing slow, in out in out, until he can convince himself that he's fine, it's fine, and her blood washed off a long time ago.

He looks exhausted. The nightmares have come with their usual side effect, and he wakes up in the night trying to shove his fist in his mouth to muffle the screams, whimpering into the pillow at the memory of her empty eyes staring at him from the floor. It's making him lose weight again, and his clothes are too loose for his body, his eyes red-rimmed and sleepless.

On his errand run, he stops at the coffee shop, the grocery, the art store, and Laurel's shop to buy flowers for Mike; it's their fifth-year anniversary, and he's not feeling so bad that he doesn't remember that and set a lot of store by it. Gary still isn't sure some days why Mike's let him stay so long, or how it's continued to work out, when he's so crazy (and he knows Mike is up at night sometimes watching him, he knows that). But he can be bothered at any of those locations, before he finally returns home.

Around ten o'clock, Gary emerges from the studio and goes into the living room, shedding his clothing, paint streaked into his hair, up his forearms, and a smear of green on his cheek. He's a little bit hoping that Mike won't talk to him, or that Mike will, or something, he doesn't know what but he's not feeling bad, just a little shaky and uncertain in his stomach.

"Hey," he says, quietly. "You want a beer?"

Karen's dreams have always come in strange waves, and this has intensified somewhat since she moved to Britannia. She'll have a few nights that are tolerable, or even free of the dreams altogether; then a rash of the bad ones, the really awful ones, full of fear, of grief and desolation and a kind of angry loneliness that she never wants to admit to feeling when she's awake in her own life.

The worst of these is always the one where they come to fetch her out of her rooms, and she's heard all the commotion so she already knows where they're taking her, and they take her to that strange, cold little room and show her his corpse. And the only part of any of it that makes her feel strong is that she is so angry, so brokenly angry, that she feels if she were a man she'd take their blades from them and drop them all where they stand. But all she can do is be the harridan they all know her for, and flash and rage at them, and drive them out of the room so they'll leave her alone with him. Leave her alone with him and he isn't even there anymore.

It's this one she wakes from, and Karen feels it can't have been more than twenty minutes since she lay down, exhausted, to go to sleep, even though the clock tells her otherwise. She's doing that weird crying thing she hates where she can't get her breath and she feels like someone's taken everything out of her chest. It's an emptiness that's vicious, and she is alone in this house that's too big for one person, and for just a minute, she fucking hates it here.

But then she thinks, no, he's here and I can go and see him.

After a little while, it's almost morning, and so she puts on her coat and goes into town. She gets some coffee (she's off today) and goes to the park and lies down on a cold bench wishing that she had a stupid, self-destructive hobby to shorten her life with. Smoking, maybe, or base jumping. After she's finished her coffee, she gets up and walks to Gary's apartment building.

She would really much rather see him alive.

She has spent the weekend at home, with Larry. It was good to be together, for more reasons than one, though she supposed it was a bit of a mixed bag. Still, the weekend had done little to ease her anger; had done little more than give it time to cool into Morgause's hard resolve.

The morning after Larry leaves, Cecilia puts herself together carefully. She takes her time, weighs her need to exert her control against the risk that is obviously present. She's gone easy, with Gaheris, up to now. She's preferred to treat him gently, as Cecilia would. But there are limits, boundaries, and he has unquestionably crossed a line.

It's no great thing to get herself let into the building, and from there to suss out which apartment is Gary & Mike's. It's Tuesday morning, fairly early, and Mike should be out.

Her knock is not one you'd use for a friendly drop-by. It's short, and sharp. Authoritative.

Karen's managed to secure a job at Habitat, and it feels good to be back in the saddle, so to speak. She's more than happy to take all the opening shifts they'll give her -- getting to work at five in the morning isn't really so bad if you don't sleep at night anyhow.

She's behind the counter, now, having just finished dealing with what passes for a morning rush in Britannia. Now she's putting on fresh drip coffee, wiping counters, and restocking cups. She feels at home. Settled, almost.

It would be easier if business was bustling all day long -- no time to think when she gets into the zone, where everything is muscle memory and organization. But you can't have everything, and at least she's got a job.

Gary bangs open the door when he gets back home, shutting it too hard behind him, and throws his coat down on the kitchen chair. His nose is broken and his mouth is nicely smashed, and he's shaking with anger.

Without even bothering to wash off he gets a bottle of Wild Turkey out of the cabinet and sits down at the table to drink, eschewing a glass. The liquor burns when it gets into the open cuts, and he hisses and swears. "Fuck!"

Larry feels oddly like he's playing hooky. Granted, he got permission to take a long weekend off, and further granted, he's just finished a recording session and he won't start touring for another few weeks. But as busy as his agent's kept him, even if he hadn't gotten permission, he might have run off for a few days anyway.

This, though, is what he wanted. A record with decent distribution. Some radio play. A tour. No more day job. Easy enough to romanticize picking up and going at the drop of a hat, but harder to romanticize the menial series of jobs he worked to pay the rent in the meantime.

He tells himself he's happy.

Of course, he hadn't meant to come back to Britannia. Not really. He missed Cecilia, missed... whatever they were, he'd admit that much, but something about the place made him uneasy.

It's only for a weekend.

He walks from the bus station, guitar over one shoulder and small duffel in one hand. He's heading towards Cecilia's house, but taking his time. It's just a town. Nothing that should set his teeth on edge. Beside which, the sun is out and it's a nice break from the city.

Of course.

Gary gets home from Cecilia's around seven o'clock, which is good for him--before midnight!--considering he doesn't abide by ordinary schedules most of the time. He isn't wholly settled by their conversation, and he slips into the studio, the first sign that he's arrived the door slamming shut behind him and locking.

He works for a couple of hours, frantically, before he finally feels in control again; but when he does he emerges, much quieter, with a slick of blue paint in his hair, gets a beer from the fridge, and goes looking for Mike.

Gary needs a good consult, and it's with that object in mind that he shows up at the library Monday afternoon, hands in the pockets of his jacket, his cheek in that stubbly phase which indicates he's spent the last few days in his studio focused on his painting and not particularly on the outside world.

His weight is in constant flux with his level of stress, and he's running towards thin again, his face hollow.

( more nightmares )

He wakes choking, racked with deep shudders, his fingers clenching the edge of the mattress. After a moment he struggles upright, and braces himself to sit on the side of the bed, fighting back something halfway between a sob and a dry heave. "God," he whispers to the blank dark. "God, O God."

He's conscious of how it affects Mike when he has a bad day, so he's avoiding the apartment, he can't help it. The most obvious solution seems to be the one that always worked back in New York, to find someplace selling beer cheap and see how quick he can get drunk. He's aware, however, that that's not a terribly good idea, so he's trying to stave it off by taking a walk.

It's warmer than usual to-day, the snow, which is dirty by now, is starting to melt. Gaheris is a worn and tired-looking man with his jacket wrapped close around his body, walking against the light.

It's cold, and for whatever reason that pisses her off. As if job hunting weren't hideous enough to start with. After standing at the kitchen sink while finishing up her coffee, Karen heads out, gets into what used to be her Gran's car, and heads into town.

She knows there are at least a couple places that might serve espresso, even though she's been in town only a couple of times. This isn't really then best day for job hunting, but she'll feel better if she at least fills out a couple of applications. She's got a little money cushion, but not much. She's been sleeping so badly this past week, and she's just going to keep telling herself it's the money situation and the soul-killing boredom.

Karen parks the car, and decides exploring on foot won't kill her. Her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her coat, she starts to make her way up the main drag.

The run-in with Lancelot didn't do him any good, especially not as bad as he already feels to-day. As soon as he's gotten home and put everything away, he shakily pours himself a drink and curls up on the couch.

He stays there for the rest of the day, until Mike gets home, the glass of icemelt faintly flavoured with bourbon sitting on the coffee table (He needs to get up and start dinner so it's ready by six o'clock, he needs to do some work so he can send it in to the gallery. He needs to focus on something everyday and easy, some tiny saving detail) (but all he actually does is stay in one place, watching his hands shake, and wondering what you do with bread made by the man who killed you).

Gary's having an iffy week; he's slept badly and it's as though his skin is more sensitive than usual, being touched feels like being shocked, and he's worn out without having done much of anything.

He's trying to do the errands anyway, while Mike is at school. He wants to pretend nothing is wrong, especially for Mike, because every bad day feels like he's betraying him, or failing him.

He stops in at the Round Table for bread, running his hand through his hair, looking stressed.

It's a risk she's taking, walking downtown in the broad daylight with no safeguard but her evident youth. But Morgan has never been noted for her caution, when she's on the trail of something she wants. She has a secure line on Morvydd, and she's feeling confident. If she can make headway with her daughter, then Accolon, Ywain, even Mordred, ought to pose no difficulty.

So she wanders down the street, leisurely, peering into the windows of shops, pausing to read the Historical Interest plaques posted here and there. When she reaches the bakery she lingers, slim and elegant in her black wool coat, to study Of The Lake's unprepossessing façade.

( live your life the way you wanted to... )