Private with Cellar Door

[Lady Odyssey]

As the title states, this is private. Please do not post unless given direct permission. Thank you, and enjoy readin'. c:


─Runner♥

 

[cellar.]

Ruth Romanov.

“Speech” “Signing” ‘Thoughts’


• • • • • • • • • • •
​

‘Lethargy creeps in the same way winter does,’



Ruth thought.


Sometime overnight, the west coast rain had crystallized into snow – not six-pointed and perfect, but into heavy and slushy clumps that fell from an all-encompassing blanket of gray. Through her bedroom window, she could see the swirling clouds above, her eyes following the falling motion of the snow clusters towards the soggy ground. Reflexively, Ruth wrapped the blankets around her shoulders tighter, the exposed skin prickling goosebumps from an imagined chill. For a few quiet moments, she sat listlessly in bed, staring blankly outside through the pane of frosted glass. A fort of sheets were piled protectively on top of her like a cushiony armor. It had been more than the month since she had been back to this town, and yet it was only now that the cultivating hum-drum weariness had finally slapped her in the face.


There wasn’t any tangible reason as to why she had applied for a job back here, especially not when she had spent a great majority of her existence wistfully craving a life somewhere else bigger and better. But Ruth had always done things by instinct, by impulse, on a whim. She figured now that it had been a misplaced dose of nostalgia that had pulled her back – some sort of idealistic notion that she could

find herself

(or some other ridiculous cliché crap like that) if she returned to her roots. Well,

jeez-us

, that one romantic thought had lead her back to a dead-end town with a shitty job, everlasting tiredness, and it was all for an indefinite amount of time.

Ugh.




And it was a Saturday, goddamnit!

She was supposed to be doing things and going to places, and certainly not just wallowing in a sea of self-pity all day. After all, she was Ruth, and Ruth was a girl that kept her shit together even in the worst of times. With that imperative thought in mind, she forced herself to roll out of bed and stumble towards the bathroom door in a weary stupor. It didn’t matter that there wasn’t anything she wanted to do – besides nap tons. It was the

act

of getting up and going out that mattered the most. (And somewhere in that off-kilter head of hers, she was

three-hundred percent

positive that if she let herself fall asleep again, she would never want to get up.

Ever.

)


So thirty minutes later, Ruth was slipping into her rain boots with the prospect of seeing her childhood memories play out in parallel to the present. As she did up the buttons to her coat, she considered the options before her. There were a couple of places she could see, and then a few more she could re-visit: that family-owned café, the tiny museum of antique mirrors, and the old bookstore she liked…




‘Sounds riveting,’

she thought, the sharp edge of sarcasm poking through.

‘Absolutely exciting.’




(Circumstance was fickle, but fate was a sure wicked thing.)

 

[Lady Odyssey]

Jackson Tyler Wilde





- - - - -
​

No sunlight greeted him in the morning, much to his disappointment. He had never very much enjoyed winter--or anything to do with cold weather, really. He was more of a summer person, soaking in the sun whenever he got the chance. Now that winter is approaching, the temperature had dropped drastically during the lonely nights, the clouds looming over the sky with the threat of rain once again. The remaining water from the previous day's rain had quickly become somewhat frozen sleet, though he knew within a day or two it would all melt away out of existence. A frigid air circulated in the small bedroom, causing him to stir underneath the warmth of his sheets. His feet poke from beneath the blanket, growing colder by the second. He cracked open his blue, tired eyes, and skimmed them over the dark outlines of his bedroom for a few moments before finding the energy, and strength, to pull himself out of the comfort of his bed.


The skies were overcast with somewhat dark clouds, the occasional piece of blue sky peeking through. Jackson stood on his feet, now untangled from the warm sheets. He bent over the small twin bed to neatly fix the bed--mostly out of habit, though--and step back to admire the thin layer of sleet stuck to everything. He thought it looked pretty neat, but certainly hated living in the cold, despite it's profound beauty most people loved in the winter. He winced as he walked across the bitterly cold tile in the kitchen, preparing himself a cup of black coffee. Once the preparations were made, he grabbed a armful of clothing, a towel, and walked into the bathroom across from his bedroom. 'Can't wait for summer already,' he thought to himself as he shut the door gently behind himself. His hand reached inside the tub, turning the shower on with hot water.


Fifteen minutes later, he emerged out of the bathroom with somewhat damp, messy hair, a plaid flannel with a white t-shirt underneath, and simple jeans. He brushed his teeth, and took one last glance at himself in the mirror. With a unsatisfied sigh, he looked away. It seemed to him no matter how much sleep he could possibly get--four hours on a good night, that is--, the dark circles underneath his blue eyes could never seem to go away, and it bothered him, though he quite sure why. He flipped the light off, and headed into his bedroom once more, taking a peek at the time. 'Dammit.' Twenty minutes away from his first shift, and he is going to be late. The traffic, lately, hasn't been fond of him because he suspects it must have something to do with the upcoming stress of the holidays. With a sigh, he sat down on the edge of his bed, slipping his boots on, lacing them securely before reaching for his keys as he headed out the door.


The musty smell of books and dust hit him, along with the warmth the heater brought. He was grateful he had, for once, dodged most of the traffic by being a bit later than usual. Jackson tucked his keys away in his front pocket, glancing from side to side around the old store. No one here. 'Good'. He hadn't been too late--only a few minutes, now he realizes. It is a good thing his boss, Andrea, is away for some time, apparently on some vacation with some family. She would have killed him if there had been customers and he had been late. Jackson settled his things in his usual spot, and stepped inside the backroom where the newly ordered books waited to be put up to be bought. Since he is deaf, there isn't really much he can do for the customers, as many do not know ASL, so Andrea always has him keeping inventory, cleaning the place up, and in general keeping things under control as he restocks the bookshelves daily. Jackson leaned a good pile of books against his chest as he carried them out front, refilling the empty gaps on the bookshelves. The door opened, and he saw a few coworkers arriving, waving towards him with a small smile. He waved back.


A few hours went by. Only a handful of customers breezed through, but only two actually bought books. Jackson had done everything he had supposed to be doing--made sure the books are orderly, the front windows are clean, and even held the door open to welcome in some customers. Now, the bookstore is empty, the coworkers on standby. Olivia, the first person to be hired by Andrea, chatted with her best friend, Brooklyn. Though their mouths mouthed, and the corners by their eyes crinkled as they laughed, he heard nothing. He tried to understand what they were speaking off, but it simply was nearly impossible. He gave up within a few moments of watching the two. He stood behind the front counter beside his coworker, Joshua, in silence, his arms folded. Josh is two years younger than Jackson, but the two got along pretty well, despite the communication barrier. The door opened. Jack looked up, and felt conflicted. It was her. After all these years, it was his old-time best friend, Ruth.

 

[cellar.]

​

Ruth Romanov.



“Speech”

“Signing” ‘Thoughts’



• • • • • • • • • • •








Slush splashed underneath her feet with each step,

slosh slosh slosh

. The sound was way too tempting, and Ruth had to fight the urge to stamp her feet and watch the spray of icy water splatter across the sidewalk. A five-year-old Ruth had once believed that puddles were something like portals to the sky, holding far more worth than just the watery reflections of grounded heavens. Countless days had been spent jumping through the rain, looking for that one elusive doorway that would take her to above and beyond. However, she was years and years older now; she was supposed to have already left that world of make-believe. But

supposed to

was the sort of suggestion that Ruth didn’t like to follow.


The sleet began to come down harder, icy pellets that rattled on the streets when they fell. In response, she quickened her pace to a brisk walk. Not many other people were out today – probably due to the

less than pleasant

climate conditions outside. Well, she had never minded it all that much. The cold wasn’t anything particularly bothersome to a girl that had been born in the middle of a late-March snowstorm. Freaky weather was practically bred into her bones, and a little bit of sleet wasn’t anything to be concerned with. Looking up, she could already see the bookstore across the street from where she stood.


The door opened with a jingle – the novel and unfamiliar sound of some kind of bell.

‘That’s new. Gosh, how progressive!’



Even in her own head, she never stopped with the acid-dipped comments. Ruth brushed a few strands of damp hair from her eyes, tucking them behind her ear. Despite her initial thought, she did like being here.

‘Bookshelves are the walls of a castle of words,’

a certain someone had told her. She dated a poet once. He had been a goddamn liar, and even more carelessly rash than she had ever been – but

oh man

, did he ever make sentences fly off from pages and letters sound so indescribably beautiful. So he had been right about one thing at least.


Tearing her eyes away from the rows of shelves, her gaze caught on the front counter.




Gravity

. That was the only word to explain it. That intense rush of thought and breath, the invisible force that pulled her unavoidably towards him was

gravity

. For a few seconds, she stood dumbfounded. Yes, she had thought about this happening,

(she would’ve been a robot not to)

; it had always been the great

what if?

that inhabited the back of her mind. But that’s all it ever was until the present moment – only a mere passing idea of what could

maybe

happen if she returned. But Jack had been some memory lost to her over the span of four years. Four years of unanswered texts and emails and calls,

that asshole.

If it wasn’t for the occasional news about him, he might as well have disappeared off the face of the earth. But now here he was, live in the flesh and no longer only living in her head.


Presently, there were three possible things that Ruth could do:


a) Walk up to that idiot and hug the crap out of him.


b) Walk up to that idiot and

beat

the crap out of him.


c) Proceed calmly and civilly, like a normal human being.


Option C, she supposed, would be the most suitable. It would make her seem less insane at least.


Hesitantly, Ruth made her way over the counter.

(Her stomach was dancing a quickstep to the beat of heart.)

She stared at Jackson, gaze unfaltering.

(He still remembered her, didn’t he?)

Not giving herself any room for hesitation, she leaned on the counter and sucked in a breath before vomiting out an incoherent sentence,

“OhwowhiJackwhataweirdsurprisehuh.”

Luckily, her hands worked better than her mouth did.




"Hi…Jack."




(And his sign name had come so easily to her again, just like that.)

 

[Lady Odyssey]

Jackson Tyler Wilde





- - - - -



​

Memories flashed in his own mind, watching her with stunned silence. They were ten years old, smiling and laughing as they chased each other through the thick woods behind their neighborhood, running faster toward their improvised fort made out of materials they had both managed to find scattered throughout the forest (they both didn't know their parents had gotten up early to place random boards of planks and even a sheet for a roof). Jackson remembered seeing her mouth open with laughter, and running underneath the summer sun. Then the memory was gone. He hadn't thought much about their friendship for a while, other than the occasional dream reminding him of her. It almost made him ache to think about the memories they shared--there were too many, good and bad combined and rolled into one. He had to remember to breathe as she walked casually through the door.


She hadn't changed much, last he saw her. She grew maybe two inches taller, and looked... grown up. Her style of makeup was relatively the same. Her clothing was, too. But she held herself differently, he observed, though he can't quite place what it exactly is or means. Still, it was shocking. He could still see her as the brave six year old little girl, having been dared to put Tabasco hot sauce on her candy and eat it without spitting. In that moment, Jack wondered how different he looked to her--did he looked somewhat the same, or different, older? Did she even recognize him? For a fleeting second, he believed she did. She barely even made eye contact, as if they were nothing more than strangers. She walked casually, and even briefly looked around the place, ignoring his presence. It hurt more than it should have. He knew he deserved it, though. He deserved it for distancing himself from her.


In his peripheral vision, he knew his coworkers, Olivia and Brooklyn, were still chatting, though they seemed to stop when they looked up towards the door. 'Oh, right. The bell,' he thought as he watched Olivia smile at Ruth, presumably asking if there was any kind of book she can help her find. He had completely forgotten that Andrea had ordered some kind of bell to signal to her employees when a customer enters--apparently there had been some complaints that the workers were busy talking and often didn't notice the customers when they needed help. Jackson blinked, steadying himself against the cold counter. He tried acting casually, as she has done, as she approached him in silence. Did she remember him now? Or was she just going to ask about some book she would want to find? The wait is killing him, really. If she remembered him or not, he wanted it over with. May as well rip the Band-Aid off quickly.


It happened so quickly it left him frozen. She remembered him, he realized--she was greeting him, in ASL. Her mouth moved as well, though he couldn't decipher what she had said. Jackson wasn't sure what to think. He is happy to see her, yes, but he knows that they hadn't left on good terms, either. He's half surprised she hadn't slapped him already, quite honestly. It baffled him almost. "Hey.. Ruth," his hands moved fluently as he looked up at her, meeting her eyes for the first time in what has felt like a eternity. Jackson tensed, expecting her to start yelling at him or something. He wouldn't blame her if she did, actually. He would stand there and listen to her with guilt weighing down on him, and then he'd... he'd say something. Maybe apologize. As if they would be any help. He fiddled with his hands, looking away from her gaze.


After a quick moment had passed by, he looked back at her, waiting for her to either yell at him, telling him what a horrible person he is, or for her to say that she missed him and they should catch up. Maybe a little bit of both wouldn't be so bad. Jackson leaned against the counter as she did, face to face with her.

 

[cellar.]

​

Ruth Romanov.

“Speech” “Signing” ‘Thoughts’

• • • • • • • • • • •
​

A train of recollections were playing like a rewound tape in her head, all broken bits and pieces of their days spent together.

(Summers of building forts, climbing trees, and trying to coax Jack into the water. Huh, he had never liked swimming. Her brother had laughed at that…)

A complete, coherent memory threatened to surface above it all, but Ruth shushed it before it could take a hold of her head. There was no point in getting lost in the past when the real life Jackson Wilde was standing before her, words at his fingertips. She waited for his response, stomach on a perilous edge.




"Hey… Ruth,"



he finally signed. He looked at her for a brief second, and then glanced away.


This was not how she imagined things would go: not the unsettling awkwardness, not the hesitant eye-contact, not the wordless exchanges. Then again, she had never actually imagined the moment before it had happened. This, she guessed, was about as good of a reunion they were going to get. No running into each other’s arms, no instant reconnection, no nice warm cup of

feelsy feels

. She could dream it, but those were only ever going to be picture-perfect story character reactions. Ruth was a cynic on top, a dreamer below, and a realist at her base. It was only that tower of thoughts that kept her grounded from doing anything too stupid, too often.


Without replying, she leaned back slightly and surveyed him. There were small changes to his appearance, nothing more drastic than the new presence of the dark shadows underneath his blue eyes. But he

felt

different, not like the boy she had known, but more like the Jackson he had been in the last few weeks before they departed. He had grown into that iron exoskeleton of a person and then straight into a stranger. There was an air of weariness to him; it was heavy enough to feel permanent.

(She couldn't help but wonder what had happened.)


…And he looked tense too, like he was expecting a huge response of some sort.


There wasn’t enough sickly sweetness in her to feel happy, to brush off the whole incident with a shrug and a hug like she had forgiven him already,

no problem

. On the other hand, she could be angry…

she was angry

, but she also kept him away from the burning lick of a white-hot flame.

Rage

would mean that she still cared about the events that had transpired years ago, and Ruth was not about to let him in on the fact that, yes, she still gave

a flying fuck

about him – many in fact; the fluttering feelings in her chest was enough of an indication that she most definitely had missed him. Finally, Jack returned her gaze, leaning against the other side of the counter.




“…Kind of a lame greeting, don’t you think?”

She signed, pulling a smirk to her lips.

“Come on Jack, you can do better than that.”

It was silly, but she was going to play the whole situation down like none of it really mattered.

(She didn’t think she would be able to take it seriously without bursting into a flood of emotion anyway.)

There was something mean in the way Ruth had signed those words, her eyes resting in a stony glare despite the half-smile she managed to conjure up. Keeping her eyes locked on his, she tilted her head slightly to one side in typical-Ruth fashion. They could play the staring game – see who broke first. After all, she had years to get good at it.

 

[Lady Odyssey]

Jackson Tyler Wilde





- - - - -



​

The guilt slowly crept in, making his stomach sink and flip as he tried to push it down, but the truth is, he can't. He can't push the feeling of guilt knowing that it is, indeed, his fault he had left her, along with his family. He had abandoned her, and why? He didn't even explain anything to her--he had just.. just upped and left without a goodbye. Sure, the two had exchanged a few emails and texts, but he had purposely kept a safe distance from her. And now, he is paying the consequences for it, weighing heavily between the two right there, in a bookstore early in the morning on a Saturday morning. He isn't sure what to make of it. He's almost too afraid to ask if she is still mad at him, for he already knew the possible answers to that:


a)Angry and pissed


b)Pissed and Angry


c)All of the above.


Jackson knew she is mad at him, even after all these years since their last contact. And she had every right to be, really. Hell, he wouldn't fight back if she came up to him and slapped him, maybe kneed him in the gut, too, for good measure. He anticipated it. A few moments went by without her responding. For a fleeting moment, he thought that perhaps she had forgotten a lot of ASL and wasn't sure how to respond. Or she is trying to think of a way to scream at him for the things he's done all at once. Either way, he hated waiting--and she knew it, too. Ever since he was a kid, he has been a bit impatient. He'd rather just get it over with instead of holding it off. Face it head on, uncomfortable or not. That's just who he is.


He realized that his coworkers had left into the backroom, giving both him and Ruth some privacy. In a way, he is grateful for it, but at the same time, made him even more uneasy and on edge. He shifts from one foot to another, remembering to breathe. His blue eyes met her eyes, and he held the stare. It was almost like a stand off, he thought in the back of his mind. Then, teasingly she replied with a half of a smile, but her eyes said it all--she was furious with him, and there is no hiding that. Jackson was determined not to back down from the little staring contest. The two had always stared each other down when in a fight since they were kids. Some things just never change, perhaps.


"I know I can, I just.. just don't know what to say," he paused for effect, still looking at her. "I know you're mad at me, Ruth, and you have every damn right to, believe me, I know that. It's too late to apologize, I know too, but... I'm not sure what else I can say, so I'm sorry Ruth. I'm sorry for leaving you. There is no excuse. I shouldn't have left you." He felt his chest contract with fear. He settled his hands on the counter to keep them from shaking. Suddenly, he is glad Olivia and Brooklyn aren't around. Or anyone else, for that matter. Jackson takes in a deep breath, trying to relax himself. But he can't. He's tense, and it's getting harder and harder to breathe, and... He forces himself to focus. He blinks, shoving his hands inside his pockets, waiting for her to either slap him or accept his apology. Maybe both, now that he thinks about it.

 

[cellar.]

Ruth Romanov.​

“Speech”

“Signing” ‘Thoughts’




• • • • • • • • • • •








He returned her gaze with the same ferocity, and she realized that

he knew what they were doing now.

Jack began to sign some shaky apology, his fist pressed to his chest for an

“I’m sorry.”



For awhile, Ruth did not respond, taking in his words as her mind raced to make sense of what she was feeling. There was nothing as black and white as

anger

and

happiness

by now. It was all some kaleidoscopic swirl of emotions that spun wild circles in her head at dizzying speeds.




“…Ah jeez,”

she breathed out. Ruth had thought that this was what she wanted. It was likely that Jack had said sorry because he wanted some sort of closure – she did too…

but not the same kind

. In truth, now that she had his apology in her hands, she didn’t want it at all. What she wanted was for him to have an explanation, a purpose, a reason. So what if he had basically abandoned his best friend? He could’ve been off saving polar bears cubs from extinction, going on some great expedition through the Amazon Rainforest, or learning how to paint like Picasso –

it didn’t matter!

Just as long as he had some sort of concrete reason for leaving, Ruth could understand it.


That was forgivable.

An apology was not.


And then there was always the open option of walking out the bookstore and never coming back again. Impulse told her to, and she was itching to flee the inevitability of realizing that they had grown apart, that it was impossible to pick up where they had left off. The illusion of being able to slap band aids across their fractured friendship still remained, but it was splintering under the weight of each other’s presence. Ruth could leave now and save whatever good memories of Jack she had left. She could…but

oh damn

, she had missed him. She wanted the

real person

and not just a perfect, crystallized version of a half-forgotten boy.




“Stop being so sappy, won’t you?”

She finally signed, feigning nonchalance.

“That was a real pretty apology Jack. Recite me a poem while you’re at it.”



(Sarcasm was littered in everything she thought, said, or signed.)

The truth was, he was asking for a forgiveness that she did not know how to give. No one had ever taught her to be merciful. Ruth wouldn’t get angry, but she wasn’t about to accept everything either. So instead, she slipped under his words, and dodged the whole deal completely, easily, effortlessly.



‘Just not right now,’



she thought.




“Don’t worry, I’m over it,”

she lied with a smile.

“Lighten up! We’re seeing each other in…what? Four years? I can’t believe that’s the first thing you say to me. I was kind of expecting a ‘how have you been,’ you know.”

She could be cheery and jokey about the situation, but the static between them wasn’t about to disappear any time soon. Their continued stare-down said it all.

It was also taking her an insurmountable amount of effort not to reach across the counter and pull Jack into a strangling hug.

 

[Lady Odyssey]

Jackson Tyler Wilde





- - - - -



​

The silence that followed his apology was, to say the least, agonizingly painful for him. Conflicted emotions washed over her face, and it felt as if the weight of the whole world was on both their shoulders, making it impossibly difficult to remember to breathe and to calm his racing heart. Still, he couldn't help but to feel happy--something he hasn't really had the time to feel, really--to see her again, after four long years apart. They all seem to be a blur to him, now that he looks back upon it. The first year had been the hardest, he recalls. He had felt guilty, and even briefly considered to call her up in the middle of the night to explain everything to her and just hope she wouldn't be mad at her. He never did make that call, however. And now he's regretting it. She, of all people he knows, deserves to know why he ran away from it all. Why he distanced himself from everyone. Maybe it is a little late, but is it too late for a explanation? He hoped not.


Jack found himself clutching the counter so tightly his knuckles turned white. At least he can breathe without forcing himself to remember to. He didn't dare take his eyes off her, afraid if he did, she'd bolt out of the bookstore never to look back. He could see her considering it, too. And for a brief second, he believed it. He believed that is what she'd do. But he's determined to keep her here, right in front of him, so close but at the same time so far away. It felt like an invisible barrier is placed between them, blocking their connection they had once had as teenagers. Now it was gone, severed. 'And it's all my fault.' He swallowed another breath. Suddenly, he wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her the very reasons why he had ran away from his problems instead of facing them head on, with her by his side. He wanted to tell her that he missed her more than anything, and he needed her. He didn't.


A fake smile plastered her face, not matching her eyes the way he had grown familiar with. If anything, the smile didn't comfort him or reassure him--it was a tell-tale sign that she still did, in fact, not believe him, or accept his apology. She isn't over it. Guilt washed over him once more, along with a pang of shame. Shame of what he's done, and now, he tried to seal it all with a flimsy, worthless apology that would get them nowhere in the long end. He needed to get away. He needed to get away from her false smile. He didn't. He couldn't run away from his problems as he had done four years. Not again. Jackson couldn't find the strength in himself to smile back at her, or laugh at her sarcasm. It was all a mask. A mask concealing her burning anger. He looked away from her, not finding anything to say. There was nothing left to say now except the reason behind it all. It was all he had left to give.


"Ruth, I know you're lying," he signed hesitantly, afraid. "I know you really don't buy my apology, so.. so I'll give what left I have to give. A reason. I know it isn't much, but... it's all I really got at this point, alright?" Jackson lifted his eyes to meet hers, their faces inches apart now. He looked into her eyes, as if asking for permission to go on. "I left because I couldn't deal with it, Ruth. I ran away from my problems. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about, but I'll explain anyway. That year, I never had felt so... depressed. It hit me especially hard the year before I left. It ate away at me, and I didn't know how to tell you, or anyone else. I felt that I didn't need to burden you with my problems, you know? I thought it was better if I dealt with it on my own. I was wrong. I distanced myself away from you so I wouldn't hurt you, Ruth. I didn't want to drag you down with me. "


"So, I did what I knew to do at the time. I ran from my problems. I didn't want to deal with them. I wasn't sure what to do with my life at that point. I had everything a guy could want. Good grades, proud parents, and an amazing best friend. I just felt so... empty. Like I was missing something. And I still feel it, Ruth. I can't make it go away--that's why I closed myself off from you, to try to find what I'm missing so I won't be a burden to you. And I just made it worse. God. I hate myself for it. I hate myself for being so... selfish. All I could think about was that I felt alone, and there you were, just trying to be there for me, and I pushed you away," he took in a deep breath. "I pushed everyone I loved away."

 

[cellar.]

Ruth Romanov.

“Speech” “Signing” ‘Thoughts’


• • • • • • • • • • •
​

He would not let her waltz and skip away from the situation like she had wanted to.

Ruth could twist questions in her favor just as well as she could breath; she was used to telling lies like they were truths, and truths like they were all just lies. It wasn’t that she was particularly good at fibbing or anything,

she was just a master at inconsistency

– it took a real sucker to endure her two-faced flippancy long enough to start to find the gaping holes in the periods of when she switched her masks on and off. Well, it was a sure-fine-thing that Jackson was that

sucker of sixteen long years

, and by now he could certainly tell when she was unhappy or angry or sad. Even after all this time, he didn’t let her get away with anything.


The knots in her stomach loosened as he signed, and Ruth breathed a secret breath of relief. For every illogically warped thought that had entered her mind, one of the worst was that

Jack had distanced himself because he had gotten

sick

of her.

People had a habit of doing that, so it seemed, (herself included.) She, after all, was never anything more than a token item – an Admit One ticket, a good-only-once sort of thing, a novelty.

(Ruth Romanov was just one replaceable girl out of billions, and she knew this for a fact.)



‘Huh, well lo and behold Ruth, the world doesn’t revolve around you,’

she mused bitterly. With one knot untied, her stomach was still doing backflips from everything else he had just spilled out.


It wasn’t his fault, not at all. She could never blame him for feeling emotions, for being depressed, for wanting to protect her.

He



wasn’t selfish.

But the confession had only made her angrier, and it because she was furious that he had never told her this, and that she hadn’t tried hard enough to get it out of him. Jack, herself…she wasn’t even sure what she was even mad about anymore. Ruth couldn’t find the proper words that would allow her to convey the

okayness

of the whole thing – that it utterly and completely

okay

that he had wanted to deal with his problems alone…

’

Just that why the fuck did you never tell me that?’



she thought. He was so goddamn stupid for keeping something like that to himself...and she...

she was just as dumb for not realizing it at all.

It was four years too late, and there was nothing they could do to fix that.


Slowly, she reached forwards, bringing her hand up…and slapped him lightly on the cheek, fingers barely bushing skin. Ruth let her palm rest there for a second – just briefly as their eyes met. It was the first time that she had really looked at him. Not a glass-bottle glare of something both hard and brittle, not a hesitant, fluttering feather glance…but a look that was plain and real. She took in the features of his face and let them embed roots into the coils of her brain.

(They were close enough so that she could see her own reflection in his blue eyes.)

Finally, after the moment had passed, she leaned back again, letting her hand drop to her side.

“There,”

she signed,

“payback.”


She was motionless for another few seconds or so, trying to reassemble her thoughts into something intelligible.




“...

Just stop apologizing, okay? We're even now. It doesn't matter.”

Ruth signed with an impish smile, mechanical and ready. She was not forgiving,

never had been

, but forgetting was a thing that she was quite desperate to do.

And yes

, she knew they couldn't pick up where they'd left off, but it was pretty darn nice to delude herself with the idea for the time being. It wasn't something she could wrap her mind around without being reminded of everything that they had lost, all bits and pieces over time. Eighteen-year-old Ruth had dissipated when the age ended to nineteen purple candles on a birthday cake; that girl was long gone to years of a steady stream of continuous changes.

She

was no longer the same person.


And neither was he.




“Hey Jack...

You want to get out of this place for a second?”