Regina Mills (
st_oriedqueen) wrote in
strangetrip2017-10-06 01:18 pm
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[GP] All we can do is learn to swim
Grief is like the ocean; it comes on waves ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim. - Vicki Harrison
"You're sure?" Regina already knew the answer but demanding that Sam tell her what she already knew satisfied something petty in her. Or maybe just something hurt that hoped he'd have a different answer than her locator spell had already provided.
"Yeah." Sam half-rolled his eyes at her as he leaned across the pink bar counter to grab bottles of beer from the Silver Bar ice bin -- probably the results of Rebekah's last work-effort at the Inn -- for himself and his newly arrived companion.
Briefly, Regina considered burning a hole in the seat of his jeans, but it wouldn't bring Rebekah or any of the absent ones back. Instead, she took refuge in straightening her A-line and walking around the stylish counter Sam lay across like he was surfing the waves of grief. She took down a bottle of pointlessly pricey champagne, and then found the precise cut-crystal glasses Rebekah and Miss Fisher had preferred for their afternoon indulgences. She poured herself a glass and one for the person who dared her openly bitter expression.
"So who all are we missing?" they both said at once, glared at each other and sighed. They both knew the answers, in their own way and for their own reasons. And neither of them wanted to say.
Rebekah Mikaelson. Henry Winchester. Jack Robinson. Phryne Fisher. Dorothy Williams. Angua von Uberwald. Jaime Vegas. Harry Dresden. Lydia Martin. Raleigh Becket. Yasmeen. Joanna Beauchamp. Constance Bonacieux D'Artagnan. Lindsey McDonald.
"Grief is like the ocean," Sam clearly quoted from some fucking where, and Regina tuned him out until he added, "All we can do is learn to swim. Rebekah told me that."
Now Regina rolled her eyes; they weren't friends. "Shut up, Sam."
"You're sure?" Regina already knew the answer but demanding that Sam tell her what she already knew satisfied something petty in her. Or maybe just something hurt that hoped he'd have a different answer than her locator spell had already provided.
"Yeah." Sam half-rolled his eyes at her as he leaned across the pink bar counter to grab bottles of beer from the Silver Bar ice bin -- probably the results of Rebekah's last work-effort at the Inn -- for himself and his newly arrived companion.
Briefly, Regina considered burning a hole in the seat of his jeans, but it wouldn't bring Rebekah or any of the absent ones back. Instead, she took refuge in straightening her A-line and walking around the stylish counter Sam lay across like he was surfing the waves of grief. She took down a bottle of pointlessly pricey champagne, and then found the precise cut-crystal glasses Rebekah and Miss Fisher had preferred for their afternoon indulgences. She poured herself a glass and one for the person who dared her openly bitter expression.
"So who all are we missing?" they both said at once, glared at each other and sighed. They both knew the answers, in their own way and for their own reasons. And neither of them wanted to say.
Rebekah Mikaelson. Henry Winchester. Jack Robinson. Phryne Fisher. Dorothy Williams. Angua von Uberwald. Jaime Vegas. Harry Dresden. Lydia Martin. Raleigh Becket. Yasmeen. Joanna Beauchamp. Constance Bonacieux D'Artagnan. Lindsey McDonald.
"Grief is like the ocean," Sam clearly quoted from some fucking where, and Regina tuned him out until he added, "All we can do is learn to swim. Rebekah told me that."
Now Regina rolled her eyes; they weren't friends. "Shut up, Sam."
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Belatedly, she added, "And no, it doesn't bother me one way or another. It's just easier to observe people when you don't stand out."
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He adjusted his position on the stool and let the fake glass melt back into his hand. "Incidentally, it's even easier to observe people when they don't even know you're there."
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Whoa. That wasn't cool. Treating him like a science project. She blushed and ducked his gaze. "I throw myself into science whenever I'm upset. I'm so sorry."
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"Hum, that is interesting. Even I can't do that." he finally said. "Is it some kind of sub-space phasing technology?"
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"No technology," she replied soberly. "Genetics. Have you meet Piotr yet? The big Russian guy who is sometimes shiny silver metal? He's like me. We're mutants." Yana was, too, but she was difficult to explain even when you knew what mutants were, and Laynia hadn't come out to everyone (neither had Kitty but more and more people knew) so Kitty didn't want to expose her.
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Kitty frowned at the intrusive thought that if they did figure out how to leave, she'd lose Wyatt. Maybe, she argued back. Maybe. And she wasn't about to let this place Stockholm her.
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