2019-10-08 - We Do What We Must

Down the single flight of banister-absent wooden steps, this murder dungeon is... Actually really homely.

Sure, the sizable space seems to be stone-hewed, or at the very least facsimiled up in weathered concrete to get that effect across, but the floor is comfortably carpeted, three of the walls are lovingly walnut paneled, and there's even a couple of very comfy looking arm chairs in here. Measuring roughly 20x30 feet, a longer, unpanneled wall is completely and utterly lined with wooden bookshelves. Most of which even have books filling them, interspersed with the occasional lock-box in metal, wood, or as is the case with one particular shelf: Tupperware.

The room as a whole is lit by numerous wall lights, brass fittings and frosted glass shades that bathe the space in slightly tinted light, plenty enough to read by, even if the large desk pressed up against the wall opposite the bookshelves has it's own light sat atop it. As well as a bundle of books. And folders. And a pretty full ashtray.

A corkboard, pinned to the wall next to the desk completes the notion that this space is a place of study, research, collection... and just chilling. The dartboard with three knives in it, easily aim-able from the desk chair would suggest that far, far too much time is spent down here. The fact that that dart board sits next to a wooden door that opens to sheer rock should be ignored. It's probably just a quirk of the previous owner.

The autumn night winds down, still pleasantly warm. A thunderstorm flashes and booms angrily, chased by fast winds.

Carver sits atop his desk, waistcoat unfastened, recently-shined shoes swaying with his hanging legs, thumbing through an old hand-bound journal. Many of the pages are yellowed, many more are unweathered, but show tell tale signs of being added to the book after it was first constructed, as needs must. "Five days." he mutters, rolling the lit cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other, the bulky smartphone getting in his way a little as he flips over pages, slowed by their complete lack of uniform size or thickness.

He considers. Just a for a second. His face creases up some, lips thinning as they purse. Then: A soft shrug. "Fuck it. We've done more with less."

Carver's head doesn't snap up. The sound is an unexpected intrusion, sure, but nobody ever made something unexpected better by falling off a desk and screaming in a voice four octaves higher than normal.

Instead, he slowly lifts his head from the book, a slightly startled look on his face. He doesn't turn, nor twist, nor shift his eyes anywhere but on the mirror that sits under the stairs. It's covered in shadow, but the light from the ceiling makes it clear enough to see the familiar figure standing in the middle of the room. Carver, of course, has no reflection. Nobody has a reflection in that mirror. That mirror's purpose isn't to show the room at all. It shows scenes from the room, but never quite at the right time. He's never been sure if it's just delayed, showing the veil, or just a little wonky, as such things tend to be.

Unlike most other mirrors in the house, he's never looked too deeply in to how it works.

"Why wouldn't I? Something like you doesn't die that easily."

Carver places the phone down on the desk, the sent message flashing away as he clicks the lock button, wrapping both of his fingers around the edge of the teak desk. His knuckles whiten. Just for a moment. Two moments. Three moments. Until the exhale comes. That may have been six moments.

"You had a place you used to go."

His voice is soft. Clearly audible from where she stands, but could well have been said to someone sitting right beside him without seeming like he yelled. When his eyes finally turn to look at her, there are no tears, but the tight tensing of his jaw means that's possibly more through luck than any given skill. "When things got too much. When your folks would fight. When we were dumb kids who'd argue over something stupid. You never told me where it was. It's the one thing I never knew."

His hand shifts, planting more firmly on the desk to turn his legs across the other edge, twisting his torso to look her straight on. He'd examine her in detail, he really would, but it's the eyes he has to watch. It's the eyes that will let him know. "Where was it, Mels?"

"Bullshit."

Carver's retort comes without delay. It also comes with him slipping from the desk, the soft carpet of this refurbished basement not so much compressing under the soles of his shoes as it does move ever-so-slight aside. "That's where I always thought you went. Which means there's not a chance in hell it's where you actually hid out."

Nine feet. Nine feet between them. He takes one step forward, and the first tear edges out. "Twenty years. Twenty fucking years. You've stood there and... what?" He hands throw out to his sides in exasperation, his face a mix of pain and betrayal? Outrage? It's hard to tell with the red lining his eyes.

There's another step closer coming, but it's cut short by the defeat shown in her posture. Her attitude. Hell, if that didn't do it, the lack of repentance sure would bring him up short. Say what you will about Carver, he's a sucker for someone sticking to their guns once everything's fallen apart.

He's more of a cut-and-run type, but respect to those who'll actually follow-through.

Pulling the cigarette out of his mouth, the back of his other hand wipes at the corner of his eye, one-hundred-percent covering the move by pretending to glance at the bookcase beside the two of them. Flawless, Carver. Flawless. Actually, it might have been. She was staring at his shoes, after all. "What..." He starts, then slams his mouth shut, considering some options. His hand drops down to the desk once more, a mere lean as he watches her for a moment. "Who are you?"

Carver listens. He carries himself like someone who could talk the ears off of a cornfield, but sometimes, caught just right, he can listen along with the best of them. Not to mention he's an attention to detail few suspect. Not that it's needed here, the back of his thumb brushing against his nose.

"Yeah, yeah, then that little-" Damn right he noticed the prefix on his role in all this "-boy got so traumatized he cut himself off from all the bollocks that started that little chain of events in the first place. Heard this story before. Re-watched this story before. Got the original ticket stub and everything."

He sniffs. Watching her.

"Don't leave me."

Carver's voice is soft, not repeating the words, but saying them in unison. Mostly unison. Somewhere in the back of his throat, the final word cracks, his hand running up to clasp over his mouth, eyes squeezing closed to send the tears running freely down his cheeks. It's been a humid day despite the season, and with the exertion of moving books around in a hurried search for information earlier, the salt of dried sweat brings a sting to the sudden breaking of the dam.

He doesn't notice. Too occupied with his legs falling out from under him, his other hand comes up to join the re-positioning of the first, pressing in over his face to cover his eyes, mouth and nose in an unconscious urging to seal himself away. To stifle the heaving sobs.

In a tiny little gesture, curling his legs up beneath him on the floor, to have some sense of control.

"Whew."

It's a mandatory noise when one's finished dehydrating themselves through tears, Carver's sleeve now decidedly more transparent than it was before he used it to wipe dry his eyes. He doesn't look at Melissa. Not at first. His thumb and forefinger home up to rub at the bridge of his nose, lightly grazing the edge of his eyes as they do, pulling away a little gunk and remaining moisture the sleeve couldn't reach. The hair on one side of his head? Fucked and flyaway. A face buried in it for that long will do that to you.

The silence after lingers just long enough to become awkward. The eyes that turn towards Melissa, eventually, move with zero input from the rest of his head. It's the ultimate in side-eye, coupled with another moist-sounding inhale through his nose. "That's why you couldn't pull me out. Right? I've started taking it back. You're weaker?"

You know what? It's a closer called thing than it really should be. Lying for twenty years sticks deep, a lesson that will never, ever be learned when it comes to Carver.

He's silent for a while, looking down at his hands as they wring together, pulling one of them away with some reluctance from Melissa's grasp after they've made their request.

For a long while.

For long enough that it seems an answer may never come, until:

"Do you want to keep her name?"

Carver's head doesn't wheel around. That would be too sudden. It's a slow turn, the smile on his face somewhat sullied by the tears that come once more, reaching out for her hand to clasp it between both of his. When he speaks, his voice is cracking again, interrupted by gulped little inhales of breath, but every single word comes through that widening smile.

He's known this Melissa for a decade longer than he ever knew the real one, and while it's no small gesture to give a name... He figures if anyone's earned it-

"Then, for her, be the best Melissa Mackay you can be."

"You're welc-"

That's as far as Carver gets in the sentence before his forehead suddenly meets with no resistance. No pressure on the back of his neck. No hand to clasp between his. He doesn't stop the momentum from carrying him down to the carpet, curling up tight as the tears flow freely, burning his face, arms wrapping tight around himself as his knees pull up to his chest.

It's imperceptible to most.

Unless they were looking.

Or knew it was coming.

Some did.

Some were waiting.

But for three and a half seconds, in a ten mile stretch out across the bay, every single raindrop stops, caught in the air like they suddenly forgot how to be raindrops.

Before slapping into the ocean with a sudden crash to break the surprise silence.

He didn't know it consciously, though he would later.

'Let Them Come'