2022-05-18 - Making Up Is Hard to Do

Should have been easy enough to apologize and move on. Instead, other things were said, including--

“I’m glad you have someone who wants to sweep you off into the sunset...even if he completely lost track of unimportant things like Una’s hard work."

"Jesus, Della, it's a fucking casserole, you can literally stick a fork in it and find out if it's hot, what's the big deal? Why does the table have to be set in the middle of a shit day? Why can't everyone just serve themselves?"

It was never about the casserole.

How it escalates.

"So he's not allowed to have feelings and care about me?"

This isn't productive.

Della's right, of course. But Jules doesn't understand how an argument ends by just walking away. You fight it out, and Della won't fight.

Unresolved, it makes for tense times when the housemates cross paths.

Finally, late one afternoon, Jules knocks on Della’s bedroom door. She knows when the other woman is in—when you’re hyper-alert to another person’s presence, it’s hard not to know.

“Della?” she calls softly. “It’s Jules. Can I come in?”

There's no answer. There hasn't been an answer.

Even so... even so, in time -- enough, at the very least, for a woman to close her eyes, fingertips to forehead; to decide, at least this much; to slide soundlessly from her seat, shut the laptop, and decide all over again -- there are footsteps: quiet footsteps, but not silent, not trying to be silent. Not exactly.

The door opens; Della's looking back at Jules, brows tilted.

The room behind her is quiet, calm, the screened windows open to Summer and the duvet smoothed over the bed.
(Would she walk away from her own room? She might. The laptop is, after all, locked.)

She turns away, but the door's still open behind her, even as she picks up her water bottle and drinks.

It’s awkward, standing there in front of the closed door while Della decides whether she’ll answer or not. It’s even more awkward when Della greets her with silence and that look. Jules has come prepared, of course, but it’s one thing to have a speech worked up and another to deliver it.

“Look,” Jules begins. “I don’t know how everything got so messed up, but I don’t want it to be like this, and I’m sorry. Can we be friends again?” She tries out a hopeful smile, then reaches into her back pocket and produces a pre-rolled joint, which she holds up like a peace offering. “Smoke and make up?”

If Della tries not to smile, she doesn't try too hard; it's still lopsided, askew. Jules is so charming -- and, no doubt, Della'd wanted to make up, too.

But, "We were always friends. That's what made it hard."

"But I know what you mean." She can hope that she does, this time. "I'm sorry, too. I wasn't articulate," which isn't a mortal sin... well, no, maybe it is, "...and I was oversensitive."

"I overreacted, and made it harder on you."

It's a good start. Better than the other times.

Jules takes a step into the room, Della's domain, so she's no longer lingering just at the threshold. "Well, I wasn't listening," she answers, numbering this among her faults. "I know I made it harder for you."

She's utterly sincere when she adds something that isn't an apology. "And I can't thank you enough for being there."

Now her smile's lopsided the other way. Gradually, gradually, it settles into something closer to balance.

A little wryly, "If it hadn't gotten loud, I wouldn't have been." So... bonus?

Now it's Jules' turn to break into a crooked smile. "That was not expected."

Another step in. She matches progression towards peace in physical space.

Della's job is to meet her halfway; it's just that she's still vulnerable, too slow.

But she does close the bottle, she does set it down, she does push away from her worktable and come for a hug. "...Are you better?"

Jules is all too happy to wrap her arms around Della tight. The hug communicates so much. The contriteness, the warmth of this friendship, the desire to hold on to it when things get tough.

"Better," she answers, chin momentarily resting on Della's shoulder. "It was an awful week."

Della lifts a hand to pet the back of Jules' head, her hair: not quickly, but -- she's there.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

With or without the cannabis. She's not in a hurry to let go, but in time she lightens her hold, sensitized to be ready when Jules is... or maybe just a little before.

“Yeah. If you want to listen.” Jules finally pulls back, giving Della a somewhat shaky smile.

Here’s the thing about emotions: as quick as they are to flare, they’re just as quick to shift in other directions, and now Jules is looking a little teary. In a good way, hopefully, since she’s still smiling.

Fortunately, Della has kleenex. Plain old ordinary kleenex, though its pretty blue-and-cream box advertises it to be ultra-soft (as opposed to the quasi-soft, super-duper-soft, or marshmallow-soft varieties).

"Of course." It's an easy reach, and just before she offers it to Jules, a quick glance confirms that she doesn't have to open the windows. If they aren't good tears, maybe the tissue will sop them up all the same.

And with that -- the wastebin's right over there -- Della rolls her working chair away from the corner with all the windows, over to the bed, so she can sit and put her feet up on the covers. One bare heel taps the duvet invitingly: not an exact mirror of how they'd sat on the bed in Jules' room, but not so bad.

Jules takes the tissues and then the invitation, plopping down on Della’s bed. The joint gets dropped alongside her while she occupies herself with wiping away the tears and sniffling away the threat of more.

“It just sucked,” she says. “To watch yourself and not have control of your own body? It was fucking terrifying. I didn’t know what I was doing, and I couldn’t stop it. And then Ravn almost drowned, and I pulled him out, and I’ve never had to do that before, and the whole time I’m just hoping I can do it without going under myself.” The tears aren’t stopping now that she’s started talking, remembering. “And on top of that, Mikaere was in the hospital two days prior because he got shot and stabbed. Fucking shot because of Haggleford. I’m pretty sure it was worse than he made it out to be. We’re all just barely holding it together and staying alive, and we need each other. And I need you. I need us to be okay.”

There's a mug kicking around, dried-up teabag sulking in its depths; Della leans to grab it and keep it ready, for the promise of ashes.

But then, when Jules speaks -- she listens, brown eyes wide under her dark lashes, focused on her friend. She reaches to nudge Jules' knee with her toes, not to poke her out of it but just: she's here, she's here. Stabbed. Shot. Out of control. "I want us to be okay, too." Which isn't quite parallel, so she adds, "I think we need to, too." There's a brief pause. "I'm not sure how things got so... so mixed up. Because we aren't normally like that."

"It might be the dolorphages again. It might just be us being people. I don't know."

Jules hasn’t lit up, and she doesn’t seem immediately inclined to do so, either. It’s more important to talk (and cry) this out, in a moment when they’re actually talking. “Just because the Others get happy when we’re miserable doesn’t make us any less responsible. People are great about being shitty—and I’m not saying you’re shitty,” she hastens to add. “Just that getting mixed up is something that’s really human.”

She reaches for another tissue. Her tears are starting to dry up, now, in proportion to the number of kleenexes she’s building up in her lap. “I didn’t mean to take you for granted. I don’t take you for granted. I’m sorry.”

That haste gets a smile, if a somewhat wobbly one. "It's okay. I know. Really human. And I agree about responsibility...." there's more, but for the moment Della leaves it at that. Jules has more to say. She doesn't so much nudge Jules' knee, this time, as seek to hide her toes' tips in its crook.

"I appreciate that. I do." She hesitates, deciding yet again. "Sometimes it is hard not to. I wonder how much people, visitors, take Una's baking for granted. For instance."

But. More urgently, "...Do you really think people think you're a fuck-up? That I do?" Heard, overheard, whatever: quiet dismay's all over Della's expressive face.

Della likely knows Jules well enough by now to know how much she appreciates physical contact, even if it’s just of the toes-in-knee-pit variety. “I bet people start off being really appreciative, and then Una just becomes the person in our circle who bakes. I’m probably guilty of taking her for granted, if I’m being honest.”

The question is wholly unexpected, so much so that Jules looks startled, embarrassed. A flush spreads across her cheeks; her skin tone’s not really dark enough to hide it. “Don’t you? I fuck up a lot.”

There's more that Della could say to that -- but she doesn't go back.

"No," is her immediate answer, simple as that. She searches out Jules' gaze, her own clear and level -- and though she can also seem that way when shading (or even occluding) the truth, she's been as straight up as she can be with her housemates. As she is now. "I don't see it."

“Oh.” Jules doesn’t quite know how to answer that. She holds Della’s gaze long enough to smile, then reaches out to squeeze her housemate’s ankle. “Thanks.”

She breaks off then, to glance down at her side and her little peace offering. “So—do you feel like smoking? We don’t have to. I was just thinking, okay, break the tension, giggle together, move along.”

The ankle wiggles; so do the toes. (Nicely pedicured toes, but then, Della's limber.)

After another glance -- "I'd smoke with you," Della decides. She doesn't promise giggling, but... "Also, I can hear my therapist in my head, saying, 'We may fuck up but that doesn't make us fuck-ups.' Good thing I liked her."

"Well, like her, but you know." So much outside of Gray Harbor tends to make itself past tense. "You've the light?"

"Sounds like a good therapist," Jules replies with a small smile. "I'll have to remember that line."

She picks up the spliff, then, holding it out a little ways so she can properly consider it. "I might not need one."

Fire was the first thing Jules ever manipulated; fire is what Woke Her Up. Even without a flame present, there's something about that energy that Jules is coming to know. Lo and behold, as she concentrates, the end of the joint starts to smolder, paper darkening towards ash. There's no actual flame, but just like that, the joint is burning.

Jules looks positively thrilled when her focus lifts. "Oh, sweet. I didn't know if I had that much control." She holds it out for Della, gifting her with the first drag.

Fire was instrumental in Della's, too -- but it's not been that way for her, and she's all the more fascinated by what Jules is clearly attempting... and at Jules' success. "Super useful," she praises, accepting the joint, taking a slow whiff from the spliff and then handing it back; she puts the mug-made-ashtray in easy reach.

Sliding another glance at Jules, her tone more than a little teasing, "Have you burned many of 'em up?"

"We were talking about it the other day -- how we might be able to use our gifts for fun, and not just saving each other's lives."

That's not exactly how it went -- more like the opposite way around -- but it's how Jules chooses to interpret it now as she plucks the joint from Della's fingertips.

Her answer has to wait until after that first inhale. "No," she replies after she's breathed out. "But that's because I haven't actually smoked any, besides the other time with you. It's not something I do very often, and it's not something I really like to do by myself, anyway."

"Oh? Because if you could smolder a good marshmallow..." Della leans back in her chair, lazy-lidded. "Little things. Non-blow-back things. Or maybe flying."

Speaking of: her eyes stay on Jules, dark as the lilt in her voice. "Careful. You could make a girl feel special."

"I can't make fire," Jules admits. "But I can move it. And I can encourage things to burn, like this. It's like seeing the potential for it."

Her expression shifts into a lazy grin with Della's last comment as she passes the joint back. "But Della," she teases as innocently as she can, "you are special."

Without looking away, Della reaches down for a lever on her chair; with that, she's tilting back a notch or two, reaching back to pillow her neck in the curve of her hand.

Her smile is gleaming, unhurried: "Damn right I am."

And with her free hand, she curls her fingers: give it over.

No resistance. Jules just laughs, a warm happy sound, as she releases the joint into Della's tender care. "It's good to see you again."

It's not as if they haven't seen each other, living in the same house. But this is different.

And after all that, Della doesn't even toke right away; rather, she smiles at Jules through the wisp of smoke before bringing it to her lips. It's just a little inhalation.

A little pause. "Maybe this isn't so much..." drowning their sorrows? "...using this to move past," Della rephrases, "as celebrating that we have. You think?" Another little taste.

Jules considers this, dark eyes on Della. “Yeah,” she agrees, once more seeking out her housemate’s ankle for a little squeeze. “I like that. Celebrating by letting go.”

With that, the two settle in; hang out; take it easy. This time it worked. Here's hoping next time will be a long time away.