maskormenacelogs | i'd keep you safe, i'd keep you dry.

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i'd keep you safe, i'd keep you dry.

WHO: Gremlinson & Garbagemom
WHERE: MF #004
WHEN: Early June (RIP Cassandra)
WHAT: Building a treehouse and talking about death
WARNINGS: TALKING ABOUT DEATH

[ They haven't really talked about it. What happened with Cassandra. Andy's never been one for those kinds of talks — even when they're more warranted than not. Martin loved Cassandra, she knows, and she was a part of their family. They all gathered around her as she slowly fell apart, their efforts to find a solution futile until that moment that Rex's hand was forced. It's just another one of those things — one of those things that they all poignantly feel but don't discuss, just like when Woden made false gods of Andy and Martin. When Andy died. Or all the times one of them has been hurt. It's just left to fester quietly as they try to move on, putting one tired foot in front of the other.

It's some attempt at a semblance of normalcy, building this treehouse together. She'd brought the idea of it up months ago, a vague idea of an activity for her and Martin when the weather warmed up — half-forgotten too, after the chaos of the past several weeks. Doing it now feels like going through the motions, but maybe that's better than nothing.

She's laid the beams out in the backyard by the thickest tree, along with a number of tools and a bag of screws and nails, all various sizes. This might be a disaster. Who knows. Not Andy. She's winging it. Eying the tree with her hands on her hips, she mutters half to herself: ]

Guess we better start with the beams.

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[since getting the news, Martin's tenuous sense of the passage of time has all but vanished. scant few days have actually passed, but for all he knows, sometimes the sun is there and sometimes it isn't. most of that time is spent in bed: all the energy was gone, having been over spent in keeping afloat in the days and hours prior.

moving doesn't help as much anymore: it just makes him wonder what more he could've done. what he should've done. what he'd done that had no value whatsoever. moving and thinking like that only makes everything feel valueless.

he's come out at Andy's behest, his expression drawn and bleak, his brain still in a chilly fog. there's a balm to numbing his feelings: it makes breathing a bit easier, his body a little less sluggish. it lifts a weight of guilt that comes with being so inert.

he stands at Andy's side, his eyes down on the lumber she'd bought. he has no idea what to do here and she knows it, but it probably bears repeating:]

I don't know how.

[ It might be questionable how much Andy herself even remembers. She's built enough houses in her time, sure, and some of them were definitely in trees, but. Well, fuck it. They'll wing it. Building the damn thing seems almost beside the point now anyway — it's a distraction, something to do with their hands and keep them from dwelling to much on how circumstances have battered their family.

It's not working yet. She's still thinking about it. ]

We'll figure it out. We always seem to manage.

[ With an exhale, Andy turns to fetch the ladder, propping it up against the tree. Then she steps back and grabs the drill, eying it in her hand a moment or two before she decidedly passes it over to Martin along with two long screws. ]

Okay. We're going to start with the base. [ She picks up one of the long boards, then comes up to the tree, climbing the ladder while carrying the unwieldy plank. Holding it up horizontally against the trunk, she puts her hand out down towards Martin. ] Screw first, then the drill.

[Mightyena snorts, ever at Martin's side at Archie's request, maybe slightly more dubious than either humanoid about this venture. that's because he is a good, smart dog, and also not blinded by depression at the moment. someone could get hurt! where's the proper PPE? even magic dogs know this!

yet Martin quietly complies, picking through the bagged assortment and rolling up on his toes to drop it in her hand before going back to pick up the drill. this much, at least, he hesitates in handling, because...he's never handled it before. he stares at it blankly for a beat before handing that up in turn.

idly, he wonders if this is all a bad idea. or a pointless one? maybe both.]

[ Woodworking might be a better outlet for bad feelings than most of Andy's other coping mechanisms, but it's still a poor substitute for just talking about it. Gods forbid that the woman should ever express herself in a remotely healthy way. She's bottled it all up, picked a few fights, and absolutely refused to discuss what had happened outside of a few brief conversations with Rex and Rex alone. Everyone else gets "we're fine" or "we'll manage."

They are managing. But maybe only just.

Andy is barely paying attention as she drills the first board to the tree, the whirring of the tool in her hand background noise to her thoughts. She doesn't even notice how tightly she's screwed the damn thing in so tight the wood nearly starts to split. It's only then that she stops, staring at her hands for a long moment before she finally climbs down from the ladder, sets the drill down, and just... Sits. In the dirt. Right there.

Flatly: ]

I'm tired.

[very little time actually passes, but to Martin, seconds stretched out for a while as Andy struggled up there. he remained on the ground, his idle fingers being nudged by Mightyena's nose for attention, resulting in a few absentminded scratches.

Martin doesn't really regard Andy's descent -- not until she's seated on the ground, unmoving, announcing her status. at that he actually focuses on her, staring for a beat longer to process that.

somehow, amid the fog, he feels a dim pulse of aggravation. he could've been upstairs, laying in bed.]

...We didn't have to come out here.

...No. [ She agrees at length, feeling a twinge of annoyance at herself at the same realization. Did she really thing they were going to just... Build a treehouse like nothing had happened? She's good at bottling her feelings, but fuck if that bottle isn't almost damn well filled.

Slowly, she sags down onto one side, laying against the grass and dirt. ] We didn't. But we're out here now, so.

[ Fuck it.

At length, half to herself: ]

This month has been shit, even by my very low fucking standards.

[he doesn't reply, but he feels the heaviness of her words. typically, he'd say sorry. then Andy would sigh and go through the trouble of having to try and absolve Martin of his guilt, all while miserable and exhausted.

instead, he sits down beside her, and Mightyena paces around and lays between them, snuffling at Andy's face.]

[ There's more comfort in his proximity than she knows how to explain. Some part of her doesn't even want to bother trying — as if it might be some additional burden to the boy, just to know how much it can soften the harsh edges of her mood, being near him. The peace of mind she gets from even having him in her line of sight. Maybe that's just motherhood. She wouldn't know.

When Mightyena comes to settle in between them, she rolls over to half-bury her face against its fur, muttering low and muffled: ]

I'm sorry I couldn't save her.

She said it was inevitable.

[on more than one occasion, always with pain in her eyes and voice. Martin hates that the first thoughts of Cass are always of her so troubled and unhappy, but he's just so predisposed to those negative things.

his eyes fix on the pile of lumber, losing sight of them in the patterns of the grain.]

Like a...self-fulfilling prophecy.

[it always seems to come back to that. those words, the ones Danger said months ago.]

[ A self-fulfilling prophecy. She lifts her head from Mightyena's fur a little to squint at Martin when he says that, like she didn't know he knew what that was and she isn't sure she'd be pleased to know where he picked it up from. But he's not really wrong. It's just... Depressingly fatalistic.

Pot, kettle. Like mother, like son. ]

...Maybe it was. [ She sighs. ] Maybe I just like the idea of being a failure more than I like the idea of being powerless.

[ A small pause, then quieter: ]

I wanted to shield you from it. I didn't want it to hurt you. But you loved her. So it had to hurt.

[in a mumble:] It has to.

[that's part of what it means to care, right? at least, in his experience. it can complicate so much, but there's comfort in it -- comfort he clings to, even now, in such a miserable time. it's why he hasn't run away again, hasn't tried barring the doors shut when called, hasn't yelled at anyone about being proven right.

it's worth something, because having that is a reprieve from suffering alone.

though...sometimes he wishes he didn't feel anything at all.]

It's probably why...we didn't get to stay together in the same rooms very long.

Darkovs, I mean.

Otherwise we'd get too attached.

[ Maybe that's a tragic perspective on a beautiful thing, but Andy's often felt the same way about love — that to love means you accept the inevitable pain, that you open yourself to that wound willingly. Sometimes it's almost unbearable for her to be with them, to feel the intensity of her emotion for them and know that it could never last forever.

This business with Cassandra's death — it's a poignant reminder of all that. Of how temporary it has to be, and her heart's been nothing but a dull ache since then. ]

Maybe. [ She glances over at him. ] That's what I used to do too. Never stayed in one place too long, so I wouldn't get attached. [ With a tinge of weary wryness: ] Wouldn't even tell people my name.

[he still hasn't pried his eyes away from the lumber, but he's not really focusing on it -- or much of anything. just a dim sense of space, which in turn heightens his awareness of being seen.]

Was that better?

[ She doesn't answer him right away — just watches him for a moment, seeing the distance in his eyes and wondering if that's how she looks sometimes, when she's numb and tired and feeling the weight of her age.

Finally: ]

It was lonely.

[he goes quiet for a time, slowly starting to turn his focus on other things. on Mightyena, whose slowly swishing tail caught his eye. then to Andy herself, though he can't linger on her expression long.]

When you died... [he hesitates, focusing on her again properly.] What was it like?

[ It still hurts, to remember it. To remember what was taken from her, after all those centuries of loss and loneliness. To remember too, how she let Martin and Rex down — how the Porter's cruel joke brought her back to face their disappointment and their grief. Something tightens in her expression when he asks her that — as if the pain is physical, an old wound that never healed quite right.

She looks away. ]

I don't really remember it clearly anymore. [ Maybe the human mind isn't meant to comprehend such things. ] I think it was dark. And quiet. I felt peaceful. Like I'd been running for a very long time and finally found a place I could rest.

[it was probably better than here, he thinks. she'd rather be there, wherever it was that he'd led her to as Peklabog.

if he says that, though...she'd agree. he doesn't want to hear her agree. she's already struggled to tell him, again and again, that she's trying for his sake. even if it's not worth it, she's trying.

it makes his throat tighten up, just thinking on it.

in the end, all he can manage to croak out is what he always seems to say:]

I'm sorry.

[ She has a strange relationship with death, this one. And as much as she seems to want it — even in the way that she speaks of it — the truth is, Andy doesn't really wish to die. But she prefers it, sometimes, to the enduring ache of loss — to her overwhelming loneliness, the emptiness in her chest, and the weary depression that gnaws at her.

But it's different now. She has love. And purpose. And the rest — if she sometimes longs for that eternal dark quietness, it's more habit than conviction.

When he apologizes, she doesn't answer right away, not even to correct him or tell him he has nothing to be sorry for. She's said those things a hundred times by now. But whatever she's done to make him feel like he should be sorry — sorry that she didn't get to keep her death when she had a family to come back to... That's on her, isn't it? She hasn't been the best parent. She's...

Finally, she sits up, reaching carefully for him to draw him towards her, gently enough that he could brush her away, if he wanted. Her voice is gentle too — rough around the edges, but quiet: ]

I don't want to leave you. I want to be here, with you. With Rex. [ Quieter still: ] Do you believe me?

[coaxed by her pulling, Martin shifts so he can lay down: now Mightyena's just smushed between two very miserable people, which requires some fidgeting on his own so his snout can prop up on Martin's side.]

I don't want you to go, either. [his volume matches hers, while his gaze fixes just slightly past her, still weary, still dim and heavy, the way he feels all over.] Or...if you all go...I don't want to be left behind.

[if everyone has to die, why can't he, with them? would that be just as good?]

[ She drapes one arm over him, giving his shoulder a little squeeze when she hears his answer. Why does she feel guilty? Did she teach him that? That kind of tragic, lonely sentiment — the same sentiment that makes her long to be with the great loves of her life, long gone and far beyond her reach? ]

No. [Soft, but fierce, as she leans to bury her face against the hair on top of his head. ] No, you and me — we have to learn to live. And if someday I'm not with you anymore, you have to promise that you'll keep going. You have to be strong. Stronger than me.

[he grimaces, closing his eyes.]

I don't want to be by myself...I'm not strong. I'm not even tall.

[ That earns a quiet exhale of something that might have been a laugh on a better day, with a little more effort. ]

You will be. Tall as a fucking tree. Taller than Rex even, I bet.

[but that won't do him any good alone, he thinks, grim. all that comes of that thought aloud is a pained noise through his nose in a breath.]

I just...want things to stay the same. The good parts. Whenever something new happens, or...or changes...

[chaos ensues. fourteen years of a fairly predictable-but-unhappy life in small spaces have really groomed him to fear how fast things can go south; he doesn't have the foundations laid to take the brunt of a blow without bowing over backward, so close to breaking.]

[ She understands. More than she wants to admit. If only the good parts could last forever — gods, that little ranch she had with Achilles, those idyllic days, just watching as the gray slowly crept into his hair over the long years. She would have given anything for it to go on forever. But everything ends, and things always change. Seven thousand years, and the transience of life has always poetically, tragically been the one constant.

Reaching out, she rubs his upper arm gently. ]

Things can never stay the same, kiddo. You're not going to stay the same either. You're going to grow up. You have been. You've been changing this whole time.

[that much is undeniable, even if he would want to grumble against it. even without considering the dream of himself...versus himself...versus Rex...

he exhales heavily.]

I mean...the bad things.

[ She watches him for a little while. Maybe she could reassure him — promise that there won't be so many bad things, or that she'll protect him from them. Or that he'll grow strong enough that it won't matter. But those aren't promises she knows she can really make, comforting as they might sound. And maybe not saying them makes her a bad parent, but. She doesn't want to lie to him.

She'll... Listen, instead. Commiserate, if she can.

Finally: ]

Like what?

When someone gets hurt, or...sick, or... [or dies, of course. that needn't be said. Martin's eyes only open partway before closing again, feeling heavier by the second, and not just because of the weight of Andy's hand or Mightyena's head. if he could sink into the ground here, it might actually be comforting, part of him thinks.]

If things have to change, then...just for the better. That's what I want.

[ Her hand stills on his arm, but her touch lingers as she listens to his faltering words. The things he speaks of — these aren't things she can fight against. She's never had power over them, and it's more poignant now than ever. If only she could accept her powerlessness, maybe it would hurt her less. But she hates it, the helplessness she felt when she held Cassandra in her arms, bleeding out, or when she looked at Rex and had no way to comfort him afterward. Now, when she lays here in the grass and dirt with Martin, unable to protect him from any of it.

Quietly, she withdraws. ]

Me too. But that's just not how it works. [ Good and bad. Ever cycling. Centuries of it, over and over. ] All we can do is keep going. Keep trying. Hope we find a little happiness along the way — and if not that, then maybe a little peace.

[a little happiness and peace...that would be nice, wouldn't it? Martin stays silent, ruminating on that, his mind tired and groggy. yet somehow still awake, thinking, picking at her words.

he has some of those things, doesn't he? the happiness, the peace. it comes in small doses: the weight of a hand resting on his head as he's curled up on the couch, praise of a good job cleaning up or finishing some chores, watching the people he knows mull about, eating and chatting and laughing... those things resonate with the memories of strangers he still carries in his heart, resonates with the glimpses of idyllic family life he sometimes sees on TV.

but when things go wrong, they just...go so wrong, and all those nice things get taken away again and again. how many times can he handle that before it's no longer worth it? Andy's been putting up with things worse than this for ages -- he knows he has no right to complain. it's part of why he's silent. she's so much stronger and smarter about life than he is, it seems impossible to catch up before it's too late.

this quiet, unhappy meditation gets interrupted eventually by Mightyena snorting loudly and beginning to roll on his back between them, legs in the air. with a puff of pokemon-breath hits his face, Martin grimaces, shifting and cracking an eye open to see an upside-down snout and a tongue lolling out. it's a pointedly silly sight compared to the weight of his gloomy feelings, pulling him back into the present.]

...Maybe...we should get out of the dirt now...

[ She doesn't feel strong. Or smart. In the face of a child who's lived a mere fraction of her lifetime — knowing how much he's suffered, how little he's had to call his own, how little freedom he's ever had — sometimes the truth is, she feels very small. ]

Yeah. Maybe.

[ She concedes, at length. After a moment, she gives a great sigh, as if sitting up is the greatest challenge she's ever endured, and finally rights herself. Absently, she brushes some dirt and grass from her clothes. At length, a bit quietly: ]

You do make me happy, you know.

Even now?

[there's a flat note in his voice, not dissimilar to tones she takes herself, as he sits up, dirt on his cheek and a stray twig in his hair. Mightyena rolls back upright, sniffing at his hands.]

[ Softly, and a little tiredly: ]

Especially now.

[ Carefully, she reaches out to pluck the twig from his hair, then rubs at his face with her thumb to scrub the spot of dirt away. ]

[Martin squeezes his eyes shut while she's tending to his face, finding a little beat of comfort in the care. grimmer parts of him knows he ought to be better than this, but he's too tired to put up a fight over it right now.

he gets up when she does, wiping his backside off and following her inside. none of this really fixes anything, but...it doesn't make it worse, either.

that counts for something.]

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i'd keep you safe, i'd keep you dry.

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