(mary) francine goldstein (francen) wrote in disorderic, @ 2018-01-29 11:32:00 |
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Entry tags: | mary francine goldstein, robinet burke |
WHO: Robinet Burke and Francine Goldstein
WHAT: Robin has a request.
WHEN: January 29, morning
WHERE: St. Mungo's morgue
WARNINGS: Mentions of dead bodies.
Robin had learnt the schedules of the people who worked at the morgue and classified them in his head long ago: easy to convince, moderate difficulty, hard and impossible (no one, he thought, was impossible to convince but some of them occasionally had a go). It had felt important, ages ago, to know. It felt even more important now. He knew he could convince Francine. He knew he could have convinced anyone, really, but he found himself standing at the morgue doors, staring at them with a heart beating strangely and his breath not feeling quite right. He stared at the small windows and lifted a hand to run it through his hair. The idea of going in right away seemed impossible, so he took a step back and then another, to the corner. Still looking at the doors, Robin slid down the wall. Looking at his watch, he told himself he was only waiting. Tipping his head back, Robin repeated it inside his head and made it true. This was only a matter of seeing Francine first; he wasn’t scared. She'd almost called in sick. It didn't matter that she wasn't technically sick; what counted was that she hadn't slept at all, that she had thrown up five times during the course of the night, and that she felt incapable of doing anything today. But she couldn't call in sick because she'd already used all the sick days during her protest against the IDs, and aside from the logical fact, Francine knew that if she hadn't gotten out of bed, then she'd never get out of bed. She'd have to think about the fact that her best friend had betrayed her this whole time. That she was a — she couldn't bring herself to think it. When she made it to St. Mungo's, she had only half-heartedly put herself together. She probably looked sick enough to claim a real sickness. She made her way down to the morgue slowly, like she was operating on autopilot. It explained why she only just noticed Robin waiting outside when she almost walked into him. "Oh," she said. "Hi." Robin looked up at Francine from his vantage point on the floor. He blinked and then said, “Hey. You look terrible. I mean, good morning.” He pushed himself up, unfolding his limbs, and he looked almost hesitant when he said, “What’s up?” "I've had a terrible weekend," Francine answered, but it lacked her usual dramatic energy. She pushed her hair back from her face with a frustrated sigh. "And it's Monday." “I heard,” Robin said, his mouth twisted into a thin-lipped frown. “I’m — sorry, Francine.” He cleared his throat, unsure of what else he was meant to say. Sorry your friend's a Death Eater. Sorry that the girl you were snogging died (and was also a Death Eater). Sorry, sorry, sorry. “I didn’t know if you’d be in today,” he said, finally. He didn’t say that if she hadn’t turned up he probably wouldn’t have went in. Instead of launching into a rant about how the only person who should feel sorry was Layla (and it was already half-formed in her mind), Francine just said, quietly, "Thanks," reaching out to push the door open. "Well, I almost didn't." She looked over at him for a second. "I don't know if I can find any fun stories about death today." Silence for a moment as Robin slipped in behind her, looking at the shining cleanliness of the morgue with different eyes. He was usually chasing the fun stories, but the idea of it made his stomach churn. He sounded uncomfortable as he said, “I’m not really after fun stories. It’s — something else.” Robin wished for the ground to swallow him up so his voice got harder when he added, “And if you hold it over my head I’ll blackmail you right back.” "No offense," Francine said, as she began the process of starting her day. She flipped on all the lights, grabbed the charts, and searched for a quill. "But I'm not in the mood for any blackmail today. What is it?" Robin’s voice was quiet and low as he said, “I wanna see Rich.” Oh. If it was possible, Francine paled some and averted her eyes. They landed on the papers she was loosely holding and a quick check confirmed that he could. Selwyn, Richenza was printed in block letters. It took a few minutes for her to formulate a response and she clutched the papers closer to her as she did it. "That won't be a problem," she said, swallowing a lump in her throat. "Right now?" “Yeah,” Robin said, a breath that was barely a word. He straightened his shoulders and then looked at Francine closely. She looked awful, her pallor visible from outer space, the bags under her eyes huge. He bit his lip. “You don’t gotta come with me. I’ll ask Yvette or something.” "No," she shook her head. "I should. Yvette doesn't come in for another hour." Francine stared at the sheet with Richenza's name on it. She wasn't sure if she wanted to see her, but Robin did and how was she going to tell him no. Richenza was his family. "Follow me." So, Robin did. Later, he’d wonder if it was the right thing to do — if he shouldn’t have insisted that Francine stay behind, that he’d wait, that it didn’t matter that much. Richenza would be dead for the rest of his life. He’d see her body in a coffin within the day, probably. It shouldn’t matter if he saw her in the morgue. He wanted to, though. He’d spent years popping into the morgue, years telling Richenza every fun story he’d got out of it. It had been shared knowledge, stories they’d laughed over or told each other, points of interest. Robin didn’t want to see her, dead, cold, on a slab, reduced to a story or a point of interest. He didn’t want to, but the need for it burned through him and settled in his stomach with a hard certainty. Perhaps, he should have told Francine to leave it and it would be okay but he didn’t want to. Instead, he nodded at her and followed her. Robin knew exactly where they were going but he kept a few steps behind nonetheless. It was only when they were in front of a bank of drawers, all filled with bodies, that Robin’s stomach dove and twisted, nausea threatening. He blinked at Francine and nodded at them. “Sure?” he said and it was as much as he could get out, the end of a clipped ‘are you sure?’ He wasn’t even sure Francine would understand what he meant. Her reasoning was that she'd probably have to by the end of the day. It was that she couldn't leave Robin alone in the room. It was that she could handle it. She was already moving towards the drawers, her hand reaching for the specific one, when she nodded back at Robin. "It's this one." “Right,” Robin said and nodded. He nodded, because the first movement would propel a second and then he stepped closer. It was a conscious choice to stand beside Francine, instead of across from her, because then she wouldn’t be able to see his face. She pulled the drawer out. Robin braced himself and looked straight ahead and then down. The first thing he noticed was the pallor of Richenza’s skin, devoid of blood and warmth, how strange it made her look that there wasn’t a smile hovering at her mouth. Her hair spilled over the drawer, bright red. It had always suited her — as vibrant as she was — but it looked strange now, paired with her lifelessness. Robin’s breath caught. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, okay. Cool. Okay.” He took a step back, arms crossed over his chest and stared. As soon as she saw Richenza — it was still her, despite it — Francine sucked in a sharp breath and whirled around, her arms clutching the papers close to her and her eyes squeezed shut. She couldn't look at her like that, as a reminder of what had actually happened, as proof of what they had found out just two days ago. "Tell me when you're done," she managed, her shoulders tight and she kept her eyes closed. Robin nodded and kept staring, not sure what else he was meant to do. He couldn’t keep looking at Richenza, but he didn’t want to look away. This was it, he thought, an empty coolness spreading through him. Richenza was really dead, really in front of him, covered in a sheet. She wasn’t going to be in the hospital or in her own flat. She wasn’t going to hear about this morgue excursion. She was the reason for it, instead. Taking an unsteady breath, he tried to blink back everything he didn’t want Francine to see, tried to pull himself together. It had been a long time since Robin felt young and unprepared but he did as he put his hand on the drawer. He could hear echoes of his father’s creaking voice in his own when he said, “Okay, I’m done. He waited until the drawer was closed again, keeping his eyes shut until it was, before he said, “Sorry, Francine.” Slowly, once she heard the drawer closing, Francine began opening her eyes and releasing the right grip she held on the papers. She took a deep breath and turned around. “It’s okay,” she said, and although she tried to smile, nothing appeared but a brief flicker of an attempt. “You’re allowed to see her.” For a second, her eyes found their way to the drawer and she stared at it before shaking herself out of it. Robin thought about it for a moment and then inched closer, pushing his elbow out and nudging Francine. “Are you,” he started and then stopped for a moment, shrugging as he forced himself to finish it: “okay?” "No," she answered honestly, "and I probably won't ever be." There was that familiar air of exaggeration again, although it was tempered by how miserable she felt. "Not to be dramatic." “I’m used to you being dramatic,” Robin said, because it was familiar and because it was true. He lifted a hand, fingers curling around the back of his neck and leaving it there as he looked around the morgue. He didn’t look back at Richenza’s drawer. “It’s just a you thing. Francine speciality.” Francine cast him a side glance. "I'm not being dramatic," she insisted. "I'm in no mood to be anything." She smoothed out some of the papers and sighed, just a little. "I won't ask how you are because I probably know the answer." “Well, you’re something,” Robin said, running a hand through his hair and then he started to move. Chewing on an already bitten thumbnail, he turned until his back was to the drawers, a restless propulsion of movement as he tried for a grin that looked not quite right, but more natural than it could have. “I wouldn’t answer you anyway. No offence.” He peered at Francine and then said, “You look like you should go home.” She wanted to explain that she wanted to, but that she couldn't, or that she wouldn't, and it was complicated, but it felt like that would be an even more complicated explanation than saying that it was complicated would be. "I haven't even been here an hour," Francine said, looking at the clock on the wall to confirm it. It had only been twenty six minutes. "I don't think they'd let me just go home after twenty minutes of standing around." “I’ll help you fake an emergency,” Robin said, a smile peeking out from the corners of his mouth. It took her a few minutes to decide, to weigh the options over in her head. "Maybe. Only if I don't have to go home, though." Robin shrugged and then said, aiming for casual indifference and missing it, “I’m not gonna go home either. Come on. I’ll put a call through saying your flat’s on fire.” "Don't joke," she warned, "because it probably will be soon." And as much as she didn't want to think about it, Francine couldn't not wonder what Layla was doing. Just as quickly as that had entered her brain, it was banished with the same speed. She wasn't going to think about what her Death Eater slash evil traitor slash ex-best friend was doing. Francine straightened up the papers and placed them on one of the autopsy tables. She looked over at the drawer again and felt her eyes sting. She blinked it away. "But okay. Make it really convincing." “They’ll nominate me for an Oscar,” Robin promised, solemn and serious. He’d give the performance of his life. |