[ In the intervening hours, Bastien has become fine, the way he would be fine nearly anywhere with nearly anything. Putting a fistful of flowers on the shelf in a dingier-than-hoped-for tenement and saying there, that’s better—that sort of fine. There’s a pause, while he digests all of that, but then he sounds as conversational as if they were discussing the weather: ]
If that’s more comfortable for you, of course, but I—
[ But he’d miss her company. But it’d hamper his search for some solid sense of connection that doesn’t first thread through another person.
He exhales. ]
We could banish him. Would it bother you if I went up to see him, if you could guess that was where I was going?
[ The last few words lose some of their surefooted pleasantness as he wonders if it would bother him. If seeing her go out the door and knowing Byerly was off-limits until she reappeared—and knowing every minute he spent with him himself was a minute she couldn’t—might make him keep count of the waking hours in a way he hasn’t felt any need to do with the nights.
[ It’s not what she expects; kindness, when she knows she has done something awful. She does not expect to be reached for, to be wanted. She has been gone from court for nearly three years now, but she steeped in its venom so long her bones still believe that any misstep is her last.
And then it isn’t. No-one has abandoned her. No-one betrays her. No-one takes vengeance. No-one is snide, or cruel, or cold to her. She stands like a deer who does not know to run, open and soft and vulnerable, and no-one shoots.
It will be a few minutes before she replies, because she is calming herself so she does not cry again, but then she returns. ]
No. No. It should not bother me even if I did not need to guess because you have said “good-bye Alexandrie, I am going upstairs to be very tender with Byerly now and I expect he will be very tender with me and then we will kiss each other on every surface of the office including the ceiling.”
It only hurts to see it. It is only that I cannot see him turn to you in a way he does not turn to me without making a spectacle of myself.
[ In her minutes of silence, unable to see her face, he’d wondered if he said something wrong, and narrowed down to his last sentence as the likely culprit—that or his lack of concern coming across as flippant, perhaps that’s it—and started thinking through an apology, something gentle and concerned that doesn’t have anything to do with him going off to see Byerly without her—
But then she’s back, and he’s relieved, and he makes a doubtful little humming noise at spectacle and offers her that metaphorical fistful of flowers off the shelf. ]
You know, I think it would be stranger if we could do something like that without a hitch. Can you imagine— [ with all warmth and affection ] —how Byerly would behave if you invited your husband up for breakfast?
[ A twinge, to think of something so simple as breakfast with her husband. A morning. The softness of his face in sleep, the clever sharpness after coffee, the space between them that is hers.
She shakes her head a little, comes back, is warm too. ]
I should like to witness it, so that I do not feel I am the only one jealousy makes intolerable.
There is little comparison, however. I am fond of you, and I think Byerly would murder my husband if he could manage it.
[ If he thought she meant it, he’d protest: Byerly’s no murderer, not really, and however much he hates the man, he wouldn’t do something that would hurt Alexandrie so badly.
But he knows she doesn’t mean it, so he only laughs. ]
Yes, there is that. Still, though. It is all right. I wouldn’t have gone up, honestly, except the dreams were bad, and I thought they were only mine.
I should not have suggested it, had I known I would react so.
[ a breath, then, ]
I do not wish it to hurt. I should like my thoughts and heart to agree, but they do not, and it would be careless of me to pretend it is other than it is.
But he will not say it. If that is true and it frightens him to love me as he does, he will not say so. He did not say that I was important enough to make any interruption in the path the two of you were taking—he did not speak of that at all—and then he says ‘of course I want you’ only after I drag it from him with my fingernails.
I cannot understand why he is confused by my being afraid that—
As long as you don’t tell me anything you want me to keep from him, if he asks. But that all sounds like something you have tried to tell him yourself already.
I only wished to be told that I am beautiful, that I am loved, that I would be missed. To be told these things because I need to hear them while I try to figure out how it is I am making myself afraid.
But he would not, and so I think I am not, and I do not think it confusing that I should come to such a conclusion and be fretful about it.
It shouldn’t be. Another morning it might not have been. But I think you both woke up tangled in thorns, and it is hard to pull out thorns for someone else if your own are digging in when you move.
[ He could try to tell her that it’s different, that he’s different, that they’re different. That he’s never bitten Byerly’s hand. That he’s easy—that they could spend most of the morning talking about Alexandrie and Byerly and their feelings, all but replicating the worst irrelevant-afterthought feelings that Bastien woke from that nightmare with, and a silent worried look would be more than he expected and plenty to calm his heart.
But he thinks she knows, and knowing doesn’t make it better, and hearing it again wouldn’t either.
So he smiles. ]
I do. I’ll see you there. And I will tell him he is not allowed. Exiled. Maybe he will write you your paean after all.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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If that’s more comfortable for you, of course, but I—
[ But he’d miss her company. But it’d hamper his search for some solid sense of connection that doesn’t first thread through another person.
He exhales. ]
We could banish him. Would it bother you if I went up to see him, if you could guess that was where I was going?
[ The last few words lose some of their surefooted pleasantness as he wonders if it would bother him. If seeing her go out the door and knowing Byerly was off-limits until she reappeared—and knowing every minute he spent with him himself was a minute she couldn’t—might make him keep count of the waking hours in a way he hasn’t felt any need to do with the nights.
He hopes not. But he wonders. ]
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And then it isn’t. No-one has abandoned her. No-one betrays her. No-one takes vengeance. No-one is snide, or cruel, or cold to her. She stands like a deer who does not know to run, open and soft and vulnerable, and no-one shoots.
It will be a few minutes before she replies, because she is calming herself so she does not cry again, but then she returns. ]
No. No. It should not bother me even if I did not need to guess because you have said “good-bye Alexandrie, I am going upstairs to be very tender with Byerly now and I expect he will be very tender with me and then we will kiss each other on every surface of the office including the ceiling.”
It only hurts to see it. It is only that I cannot see him turn to you in a way he does not turn to me without making a spectacle of myself.
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But then she’s back, and he’s relieved, and he makes a doubtful little humming noise at spectacle and offers her that metaphorical fistful of flowers off the shelf. ]
You know, I think it would be stranger if we could do something like that without a hitch. Can you imagine— [ with all warmth and affection ] —how Byerly would behave if you invited your husband up for breakfast?
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She shakes her head a little, comes back, is warm too. ]
I should like to witness it, so that I do not feel I am the only one jealousy makes intolerable.
There is little comparison, however. I am fond of you, and I think Byerly would murder my husband if he could manage it.
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But he knows she doesn’t mean it, so he only laughs. ]
Yes, there is that. Still, though. It is all right. I wouldn’t have gone up, honestly, except the dreams were bad, and I thought they were only mine.
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[ a breath, then, ]
I do not wish it to hurt. I should like my thoughts and heart to agree, but they do not, and it would be careless of me to pretend it is other than it is.
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[ He contemplates the nib of his pen, still and quiet. ]
You will be all right. Even if it takes time and bargains and crying. You will be. He wouldn’t be so nervous if he didn’t love you so much.
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[ She sounds a little strained. ]
But he will not say it. If that is true and it frightens him to love me as he does, he will not say so. He did not say that I was important enough to make any interruption in the path the two of you were taking—he did not speak of that at all—and then he says ‘of course I want you’ only after I drag it from him with my fingernails.
I cannot understand why he is confused by my being afraid that—
[ A pause. With some self-recrimination: ]
You do not need to listen to my grievances.
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Yes.
I only wished to be told that I am beautiful, that I am loved, that I would be missed. To be told these things because I need to hear them while I try to figure out how it is I am making myself afraid.
But he would not, and so I think I am not, and I do not think it confusing that I should come to such a conclusion and be fretful about it.
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He could do it for you.
And that is why I cannot be there.
[ A breath, and she sounds again as she did when she first called; herself again, if subdued. ]
But I will stay in the office, if you like.
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But he thinks she knows, and knowing doesn’t make it better, and hearing it again wouldn’t either.
So he smiles. ]
I do. I’ll see you there. And I will tell him he is not allowed. Exiled. Maybe he will write you your paean after all.
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Thank you. For your kindness.
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