rcubens

[rcubens]

He was glad to have found an ally in Sebastian. Of course someone as prim and proper as him would have some sort of downside. Luckily for Reuben’s sake it was a common allergy to manual labour. He brightens at Bas’ suggestion, laughs a little too. Though he’s quick to stop when the other’s expression denotes he may not be kidding. It felt like a fair penalty considering the situation but there might have been a couple wards he’d spare from such an agonizing demise.

“Only if you lock the doors, I’ll be implicated in this crime but I don’t know if I want to be the one at the centre of it,” he offers as compromise. He abandons his current project without so much as a second thought and strolls over to Bas. As he closes the gap he brings his voice down to a whisper, “If we walk at a leisurely pace we can make this whole thing last like 20 minutes,” his hands are waved about to further emphasized the idle future that awaited them.

He bristles as they walk, Bas had a way of remaining silent but making Reuben sing like a canary. He didn’t know whether he wanted to speak about the thing or the other Dante thing or nothing at all. Though the slow heavy silence that hung above them in the summer air threatened. “Do you think Natalia and Angus have been planning this for long? Or more of an impromptu thing,”

Fixing the Greenhouse was unnecessary, or even worse, idiotic. Sebastian should have stepped up and voted against this lunatic idea Natalia and Angus had, not that any of those two were truly going to get their hands dirty, or perhaps they would. Sebastian did not care, he had no intention of getting under the sun and fixing the unfixable —whether or not it was possible to improve the state of the greenhouse was not important, not in this lifetime at least— Why was the place in such bad shape after all? Since when do the wards have to work for Woodrow? Why would Natalia and Angus not suggest hiring others to do it? Why?

The number of questions Sebastian had running through his head were too many to find an answer to each one, but in the middle of his silent cursing against the two, Reuben's voice brought him back to reality, a strange one where Reuben had a shovel in his hands and invited him to flee from the scene. This new reality sounded more interesting than the dust in the greenhouse.

Sebastian looked at Reuben and if the other squinted his eyes, he could catch a slim smirk across his lips. The writer was never one to misbehave or skip his duties, but this one, he had to, and he heard the hidden anguish behind Reuben's words, the younger did not want to be there either. "What if we lock them in the greenhouse and let them die of dehydration?" He asked, with a straight face and his gaze glued to Reuben's. He sounded almost serious.

[rcubens]

He hums in agreement, a toasted marshmallow would solve many of the problems ailing him at the moment. And maybe, juuuust maybe, he was mature enough to not try to get the confectionery stuck in Natalia’s hair. But a blunt bob would be very chic in Paris. “Dining tables are overrated anyways,” he shrugs. He had never bought one for his apartment, opting to eat on the couch or leaning against his kitchen counter. It was rare that he ever had company over either so the makeshift solutions worked. He was in the same takeout boat, he was the sort of chef that burned water. “Maybe 16 screaming kids kind of ruined the atmosphere—” he offers, though he agreed with the initial statement. They were all older and now brought together by grief, if it were a birthday or Mrs.Tristan’s retirement party maybe the situation would be different. “The house feels weird in general now, sort of more museum-y if you will,”

“i would like that. hey, maybe we could even have a bonfire and make some s’mores. that always felt like such a special thing when we were kids…” summers were always bright and warm in her memories, filled with long days outside and colourful nights of movies, bonfires and games. eliza had treasured those moments even back then, dreaming of swimming by the pond and fruit lollies her entire first semester of university. "i think this is the first time i've been having dinner in an actual dinning table in weeks. and something that's not takeout." during her first week in new york, eliza had been reduced to tears thanks to a fire incident with the toaster. she had been making good use of takeout menus ever since, even though it made her feel a bit like a failed adult. "it's funny, you know. dinners here never felt formal when i was a kid..." the clear difference an absence could make had only made last night's dinner worse to eliza.

[rcubens]

He feels the flinch. There’s a slight frown at the fact that his physical touch is not comforting. He wonders if his hands are cold; poor circulation, nerves, something else. Then comes a squeeze that comes from Celia and although his mind tells him it’s a pity squeeze, it feels like more than that. She was better at him than this. He looks down at his hands as they curl back in his lap. “She can take her time, I was always taught to never rush a woman who was getting ready,” he recalls sitting in a stuffy suit as his mom used her Shick Speed Styler and chided him for rushing her. Some might call it vanity but the woman was dedicated to keeping up appearances. For a beat he wondered if she could still brush her own hair or if that was a nurse’s responsibility now.

He nods at the disclosure. It was good that she kept those sort of things, like nothing had really changed. Like a piece she could return to her mother to make today a day like any other. Except it wasn’t and unfortunately as of late, there wasn’t such a thing as a regular Saturday.

He appreciated the rambling, it stopped him from having to fill the silence. Or to let it hang between them. The occasional solace coming in the form of an intercom asking for a certain caretaker or announcing there were chocolate chip muffins in the cafeteria this morning. Celia does the unthinkable and asks him a question he has no answer for. No he didn’t. He had only visited her once in nearly a decade. Renting a car and white knuckling it all the way out to the countryside. It was the sort of place she would’ve loved in spite of the circumstances, a horse girls paradise. He had walked in, asked for her by name and informed the woman at the desk he was the next of kin. They visibly brightened saying he was the first of her family to visit. He trailed behind as they approached her room. Her caretaker offered to go in first to break the news, even through the crack in the doorway he could tell the reaction wasn’t positive. She returned and informed him maybe today wasn’t one of her better days and to try again tomorrow. He never went back.

“I don’t,” He admits, brusquely. There was no use in dancing around it. “I haven’t seen her in awhile,” his eyes have yet to raise to meet Celia’s, instead focusing on the peeling skin around his cuticles.

Celia should have been better than to flinch, even slightly, at Reuben's touch, but recently physical touch felt foreign to her. Once she realized, the sensation of knowing someone else was physically there for her put her at ease. Isn't that what siblings were for, after all?

She squeezed his hand back, hoping it accomplished showing a "thank you" and an "I'm here for you" and an "I'm sorry" all at once. "Hopefully it won't take her too long to get ready." She thought about the outfits her mother used to wear to fundraising galas, ones Richard often also attended. They were lavish and bright, embellished with pieces as big as her personality. Few of them made them to this place, but Celia made great care to pack up an orange knee length dress, breezy for the summer months. She supposed a childlike hope made her think one day her mother would have the opportunity to wear it again. Her mother had never left the psychiatric ward, but this seemed like a very special case. "I brought a dress for her." It was a mindless detail, a thought that usually stayed in her head. Her fingers tapped on her knee. She caught herself rambling, a place she hated to be and quickly fixed that.

"Do you know how your mom is doing?"

[rcubens]

He understands the question is a rhetorical one but honestly, yes. Yes, he would. He had soft hands and enjoyed an incredibly soft life. The blue collar, pick yourself up by your bootstraps rhetoric had sailed clean over Reuben’s head in the generation exchange. He was destined for a life of excel spreadsheets and falling asleep in the back of meetings. He raises his red, itchy, palms over his head to show Vik, “Soft hands. So yes, I would.” There was no shame in sloth depending on who you asked.

He’s forcefully guided to a sink, and is instructed to rinse. The water comes like tea in the Sahara, scratching itches both physical and metaphorical. He looks to Vikram, “Well it depends on how long it would take,” anything longer than three hours felt not worth it. He just wanted to miss all the hard parts, not miss a whole afternoon. “Well if you can drag that process out for long enough for me to not have to do anything for the rest of the day, I’d really appreciate it…and y’know like, owe you big time.”

Raising an eyebrow, he questioned, “You would die from physical labor?” Vikram knew that wasn’t what Reuben was getting at, but the chance of death by poison ivy was low. And it wasn’t as if he or anyone else wouldn’t prioritize safety above all else, so he really had nothing to worry about. He hadn’t been wholly serious anyhow, knowing Davis would be called to handle the situation if there truly was an infestation. Though, Reuben’s dramatics had always been mildly entertaining, and playing along wasn’t all that difficult.

His hands gripped the younger man’s shoulders, guiding (read: pushing) him toward the sinks. He released his hold as soon as they arrived, turning on the tap and leaving the water running as he gestured for Reuben to rinse his arms of any plant sap and oils. “Would you prefer that?” Crossing his arms, Vikram leaned against the counter and regarded the other ward with a level gaze. “I was just going to get you to wash your hands with soap and apply some cream on the affected area. Maybe some Benadryl if the itch is that bad.”

[rcubens]

And just after he had bore his heart and told her about the most harrowing three months of his life, she dismisses it with a monosyllabic. He frowns, honestly. Like a child. She was very real to Reuben, almost too real— like nightmarish really. And here goes Natalia doubting her existence, if she found photo evidence of the radiant beauty she’d laugh in disbelief so hard she might genuinely pass out. He wouldn’t necessarily blame her, he too was shocked when Logan muttered the word ‘sure’. Though Natalia hardly needed more ammunition. “You do that, and then I expect an apology for not believing me,” it sounded more whiny than matter of fact. He toes that line all too often, he’d have to get better at it.

He smacks the heel of his palm to his forehead in a ‘duh’ expression. “Of course I know that—” he listened to instructions on occasion…when it served him best. “I just wouldn’t put it past you to give me an older draft or a different version or something,” he shrugs, he hoped to not be giving her any ideas.

There’s a lot of pen tapping, brow furrowing and ceiling gazing as he attempts to feigning thinking about the rest of the address. He thinks about the question for a moment. He has nothing really. A ruined suit that needed dry cleaning probably. For a moment he wondered if Natalia would burst a blood vessel if he turned up in a t-shirt and jeans. “I don’t know honestly—“ he starts, gazing over at her. “Do you wanna’ go shopping with me? You know having your finger on the pulse of fashion and stuff, do you think you can make me look like one of those Eastern European models— the incredibly tall, unbelievable bone structure, so skinny you wonder how they’re still functioning types?”

Natalia narrowed her eyes at Reuben, daring him to divulge if he had anything to reveal. And then he did. Logan Arterberry. Natalia had never heard of her, but the details seemed realistic enough. She was surprised Reuben managed to lock down a relationship for an entire season — it was far longer than she gave him credit for. She hummed in response after listening to his story.

"I'll give her a quick Google later to make sure," she said, her voice laced with skepticism. "Due diligence and all."

An amused chuckle left her when Reuben shuddered at her impression of Mrs. Tristan. After so many years of close proximity to the woman, she had her likeness down pat. She wondered how much more she could disturb him if she dressed as Mrs. Tristan for Halloween. She was hardly one for such a childish festivity, but if it meant giving Reuben a real scare, she could be persuaded to put on a costume.

"You do know you get a copy of the Welcome Address, right? Like, you'll see it," she reminded him. She hoped his memory wasn't so horrid that he'd forget where he placed jokes by the time they got to the final draft. She shook her head lightly before settling further into the sofa to consider how to continue their Address.

Perhaps it was boredom or a mental block but soon her eyes drifted back to Reuben. "What do you plan to wear to the gala?" she asked.

[rcubens]

no thoughts....head empty...

[rcubens]

Gloves were gloves. He knew there existed a distinction between them and mittens— fingers, mostly. But…gloves were gloves, and forks were forks and ballpoints and fountainpoints all accomplished the same task. Maybe the real allergy was stupidity.

He chews the inside of his cheek as the word poison is repeatedly drilled into his head. At one point in time, he had been a Boy Scout troop leader. He and a friend from prep school had done it in hopes of sprucing up their college applications— both being mediocre students. He knew what poison ivy looked like, what mushrooms were inedible, that you were supposed to walk 40 paces from your campsite to dig a cathole. He refused to believe that he would’ve just grabbed poison oak willy nilly.

Reuben whines uneasily as Vik inspected his arms. “Why would I have to pull them all up? What if it kills me?” He protests. He turns on his heel, feeling like a sailor being asked to walk the plank. Out of spite he wishes to touch everything but, listens to the instructions given. “This is not an emergency room visit, right?”

“I can see that,” he remarked dryly, eyeing the latex gloves hanging out from Reuben’s pockets. No wonder. Must have been a struggle using those in not-so sterile conditions, what’s more, dealing with soil and dirt. Getting in the way was an understatement. Though, Vikram’s curious to know if the younger ward had thought that all gloves served the same purpose and just took the one closest to him. Then the question that begged to be answered would be who put them there in the first place… Not that he’d ask such a pointless question and derail the current situation.

Vikram clapped his hands together, dusting the gloves of any loose soil as he rose to his feet. His gloves were removed and carefully inserted into his cargo pants pocket, the dirty side facing out. “If you aren’t allergic to anything here, it could be poison ivy. Or poison oak. Or poison sumac. Leadwort’s our most likely culprit, though,” he surmised, eyebrows furrowing as he looked at the rashes closer, but still making sure not to touch Reuben. Better one man down than two.

“No, we don’t. It’s a weed, and an infestation would be troublesome to take care of. You better pray it isn’t, or you’ll still be here even after that rash clears up.” Nothing like a fun fact coupled with a threat. Vikram pursed his lips, making up his mind to deal with the rash on his arms first. “Now turn your back to me, arms out. Make sure you don’t touch anything.”

[rcubens]

There was a sort of rose-tinted reminiscence that was occurring the further they got along in this project. He could almost envision everyone as their younger selves as they worked away. He sat with Eliza, wooden pallets acting as both table and chair. There was a sandwich in a ziplock and a dixie cup of lemonade. Yum. He nods, mouth full of sandwich making it difficult to annunciate. “Like an us picnic?” He continues after swallowing. He liked the idyllic image of them all sitting beneath a willow tree on checkered blankets, he’d contend with ants crawling over his watermelon to make the dream a reality. “Too formal—” he concurs. Something about the picnic felt both equalizing and childlike. Who needed to know what fork was for your entree and which was for your salad! “Maybe we should have our next dinner all together out here— sunset and stuff,” he suggests.

where: the greenhouse

when: around 12:30, lunch break

with: @rcubens

even if the scenery wasn’t quite idyllic, eating a pb&j outside made eliza weirdly nostalgic for summers of the past, when the world had seemed so much wider and yet so much easier. Maybe it also had something to do with the greenhouse itself, the warm memories of the greenhouse itself, of richard teaching (or at least trying to teach) her how to water the plants, how to know what must be weeded or kept. unfortunately for current eliza, child eliza never took the lessons quite seriously enough. “you know, we should have a picnic here someday.” she declared. “well, maybe not exactly here but outside, in the gardens. that would be nice.” she doesn’t know if she is trying to convenience reuben or herself. maybe both. "the dining room has been a bit... stuffy." morbid. sad. maddening. 

[rcubens]

He was no better than a school nurse. There wasn’t a combination of ailments Reuben could come up with that Angus couldn’t deflect. Yesterday he was asked if Angus could count on him, if he knew this was going to be a group affair he would’ve flat out said no. Arms cross over his chest as he grumbles something about his advice being too late and too stupid. He squints as the ladder grows with successive metal clinks. Damn it. Light headedness was too good to miss and he didn’t even think of it at all. “You motherfucker—” this certainly was some form of capital punishment. Remind him to never write a eulogy ever again. “So what’s the like workman’s compensation look like when I inevitably fall to my death? Are you gonna’ keep up my bi-monthly donations to the zoo? If you’re going to donate my DVDs just make sure it’s the pile on the right of the TV stand, not the left— incredibly important distinction,” He turns to look up at the gutters that were visibly filled with decaying brush and twigs. “You should get someone taller for this job, really, it’d just be more efficient,”

"Stretch and straighten your shoulders," Angus started. "You should've brought out a hat with a visor." He addressed each invented concern in a quick, dispassionate rhythm. "Also, if that's the case, there's either Imodium or Pepto-Bismol in a cabinet somewhere that you ought to've already taken. Drink some water in the meantime." Not unusually, half of the so-called advice included direction to somehow, retroactively, undo what had been done and do it the right way this time. He reached down for the ladder, pulling it to its full five feet. "But I'm happy to hear a lack of lightheadedness in that rundown. You shouldn't climb while dizzy." He looked at Reuben, then pointedly flicked his gaze to the metal ladder in his grip. "How about you supervise your own cleaning of the gutters?"

[rcubens]

Reuben would testify in a congressional hearing that Angus never lied. He knew everyone lied. Poets, priests and politicians. Though he maintained that Angus never lied, or not to him at least. It allowed him to accept statements like ‘I have no reason to lie to you’ and be truthful with Angus himself. Only lying by omission if it meant saving Angus from being an accessory. The truthfulness of the other’s statements did not bother him because above that, they had trust.

Though some of that trust had slightly eroded in the past 24 hours, Reuben was fine with going a bit neurotic trying to ascertain whether Angus still cared for him or at the very least enjoyed his company.

Angus was correct. Reuben was in fact displeased with the plan in place for tomorrow. He needed to quickly find a way to put himself out of commission. His eyes narrow. The personal call to action was a nice touch, he cocked a brow with piqued interest. “Can you count on me?” No. “Sure,” He wanted back in on the good side. He sighs and straightens, eyes flit across Angus’ features one last time. “Well if that’s everything, I’m leaving so I can beat your ass in this scavenger hunt,” a small smirk pulls at the corner of his lips.

"I have no reason to lie to you," Angus lied easily. There was, in fact, a dumpster of lies he'd told Reuben since he'd met him; big lies, white lies, and lies by omission. But they were said to hide truths that he didn't reveal to anyone. In what world would he tell Reuben why he hadn't slept well the past few nights? Or why did the specific task he'd been given for the gala have him reaching for his half-empty bottle of Tums? Why was a man repeatedly calling his cell phone to talk about the interest he'd received on an 8-acre plot of land two hours north of Woodrow House?

Why why why. Angus had enough money to fund all the antacids it would take to uncomfortably conceal lifelong secrets. He internally repeated to himself that he wasn't upset with Reuben and that nothing overtly bothered him right now; he reminded himself he was coping remarkably well—that perhaps a study could be done on just how remarkably he was coping. It was, obviously, remarkable. And he was glad if he'd managed to at all convince the other man his worries were largely in his head. As cruel as it may have seemed, it was a useful tactic to lean on. His behavior was normal. He was his normal self.

All it took was overarching control, planned structure, and constant prayers sent to a higher power in hopes of ongoing anesthetization in return. No sweat. And so—"I've come up with a plan for tomorrow that I imagine you won't be too pleased with right out the gate." A pause. "The greenhouse requires some minor sprucing," Angus continued, making a concentrated effort to maintain eye contact. If his mind drifted again, the day really would be a lost cause. "I could personally use your help." He paused again.

"Can I count on you?" It was a not-uncommon prompt from Angus' mouth. It was probably said just as often as he barked let's please grease the wheels when he felt Reuben was too slow in leaving a location.

[rcubens]

Lack of care? Unlikely, he cared about all the wards in a way that meant they occupied loads of space in his mind but he would never make an effort to maintain a relationship unless the other would reach out first. He was however, ignorant, if Vikram took the time to explain his curriculum vitae the information would float around in his brain like a lava lamp. He could nod and smile but none of it would be absorbed.

The question is one he has to ponder for a second. He wasn’t allergic to anything when he was younger, except for hard-work as his dad would say. He might be allergic to some edible things but he couldn’t think of anything growing in the greenhouse that could cause a reaction like this.

He scoffs at Vikram’s exasperated sigh, “the gloves got in the way!” He exclaims but as soon as its out of his mouth he realize how stupid it sounds. That was their job. To get in the way of his hands and itchy plants. “You don’t think it’s poison ivy, do you?” his voice is hushed. “You don’t grow poison ivy in greenhouses…right? Is it one of those things that just sprouts up?” For what little he knew about Vikram’s research he did know it wasn’t in herbology.

Vikram remembered when he first came to Woodrow House, looking over Richard’s shoulder in the greenhouse as the old man squatted and explained gardening to him. (Had it been some kind of metaphor?) After that, he had collected books related to plant care and botany as it became increasingly clear that Richard enjoyed their little sessions in the greenhouse with the rest of the wards. Currently, the books sat unread, collecting dust on the shelves at his room in Woodrow and he was sorely out of practice. 

He had some trouble starting out, but quickly got into the swing of things as they progressed. He weeded the garden beds deftly, uprooting the little fellas and disposing of them. He had the whole process down pat, focused on trying to finish as soon as possible. Though that focus was soon broken, diverted to Reuben and his shockingly red arms. The initial question was completely ignored, chalking up the generalization to the blond’s lack of care. It was either that or pure ignorance, which was easy enough to forgive. And while he wasn’t an expert by any means, he had some knowledge that could prove helpful.

“Are you allergic to anything?” He frowned as he examined Reuben’s rash, noting that it was more prominent on his hands, especially the palms and fingers. A pause, then Vikram sighed. “You haven’t been using your gloves, have you.”

More of a statement than a question, really.

[rcubens]

Reuben was sure that one day Angus would thank him, for preparing him for the fussiest of children and how to deal with them with haste. Certainly uncle Reub would be barred from the list of sleepover houses due to the possibility of undoing he and his partner’s hard work. “Well its destroyed my posture which can’t be good, and if I’m in the sun and heat for too long I get nauseous and I spent two hours this morning in the bathroom and I don’t feel as though the specifics of that adventure will help you discern the seriousness of my condition, so, ” he watches as the other eyes gardening equipment he wishes not to hold. “Can I go back inside now or can I supervise— I’m a great supervisor,”

Angus was secretly of the mind that everyone should be periodically reminded that he went to Yale, but he kept quiet on the topic. He watched as Reuben pantomimed some great affliction, feeling a lot like how a father must feel when a child laid claim to a sickness with no markers for it. Angus almost expected him to start brandishing about a thermometer he'd just run under hot water. He sighed—heavily. "And what exactly are your symptoms?" he asked blandly, turning to a pile of gardening tools and supplies; there were shovels, rakes, and a ladder among them.

[rcubens]

Reuben was bad at reading between the lines when it came to important things like scavenger hunt clues and ‘it’s not you it’s me’s. Though conversations like this, where a long withstanding relationship hung in the balance, his mind concocted delusions that made it seem that whole world was against him at any given time. With Angus specifically, he’d give an inch and Reuben was liable to take a mile. Not that he believed that Angus would never put his foot down, he just enjoyed running until the rug was pulled.

“Okay, well I think you’re lying to me,” he states plainly. This was a rare occurrence. He never spoke plainly about anything, always a secondary punchline waiting to surprise. He so badly wanted to turn on his heel and leave Angus and his ideas but curiosity always got the better of him. As he chews his lip, he searches Angus’ measured expression for a single sign. They should never play poker together. “What?” He asks, after a few beats.

Angus remained carefully expressionless in the aftermath of Reuben's onslaught of questions. Here lay a lesson in futile projection, he thought cynically. Through grief, through self-consciousness, through some other unassigned emotion that Reuben currently harbored, something had been invented that wasn't there in the previous moment. At least it wasn't by Angus' personal judgment.

He hadn't been upset with Reuben, and he hadn't reacted in a way that he felt was obviously out-of-character of him. Angus didn't follow most people just because they beckoned him to; Angus did not care for contradictory statements and actions from people who weren't himself. Maybe he sometimes showed more leniency toward Reuben, but that fact remained true. His irritation was piqued by the petulance Reuben displayed in response to it.

"I think you’re assigning meaning to something that truly doesn’t go very deep," he started, then stopped. There really wasn't much for Reuben to poke at. They buried a body and Angus hadn't slept; that was the beginning and the end of the story for him. A split second passed and he rerouted. "Though—I actually have an idea to run by you before you head out."

[rcubens]

If he didn’t already sound vindictive enough, telling her that he went to Richard to moan about how much a failure he was in comparison to the other wards would certainly do it. He could explain the events of August 31st a million different ways and none of them would put him on the right side of history. The man left thousands of burned bridges in his wake, what was another with a man who he could truly never repair the damage with? He nods sombrely at her apology. He was more sorry that never saying sorry is what led him to finding Richard in the first place. He could’ve gone his whole life with never being that close to a deceased person again. The question is hard to answer in any context, but certainly this one. He bites the inside of his cheek as he attempts to answer. “Something stupid like I love you probably, just to hear him say it back,” he mumbles more so into his glass than to her.

He's grateful when the conversation flips back to her. “Deserved it?” He shakes his head and his curls bounce. “That’s some shit you process on your own time, in order to get over it. No reason for all your cards to be on the table in front of all of us— if any of us knew anything about Natalia she’d be furious if we had done the same,” he retaliates. “Majorly…but a partner that doesn’t let you go to your dad’s funeral? Either there’s a reasonable explanation…or she’s psychotic..sorry.”

she knew he was lying, it wasn't nothing. if it was nothing, he wouldn't have wanted to apologize and then regret not being able to. was this why he said what he did at the funeral? he never got a chance to talk to richard one last time and years of resentment came out in the form of calling him a bad father hours after they put him in the ground in front of everyone from his long life. maybe mickey was so lost in her own world that she couldn't see how differently her siblings were, reuben especially. it made her feel guilty for never noticing. "i'm sorry you weren't able to tell him," she says genuinely. she was sure they all were regretting not being able to say final words with richard before he passed. bringing her glass to her lips, she takes a small sip before pushing a little. curious what was really going on with reuben. "if you could tell him something, anything, right now, what would you tell him?"

mickey forces a tight smile at the mention of natalia. she knew it would come, maybe she should have stayed in her room all night. "i don't know, maybe i did deserve it," she says with a shrug. "she's been telling me for days i need to get over it. what's the point of hiding it from everyone?" but still, she had to agree, "it was shitty though." it was one thing if mickey chose to tell everyone, it was another to tell them at dinner without even caring about how mickey felt.

[rcubens]

8am was such an early call time he was sure that somewhere in the New York State legislature, it was written that working this early was against the law. He surely must of been last to arrive, donning black sunglasses, an old promotional t-shirt for the 1992 classic Beethoven, and the only other other pair of jeans he brought that were worn enough to have a good bend in the knees. The hunch in his back made him look forty years older and he glowered back at a chipper Angus. If he could pot one plant and be done with today, he’d be the happiest sonuvabitch.

There’s a moment for the Yale shirt. Then another where he ponders parodying Jess Mariano’s “No Yale? Why did you drop out of Yale?” But he presumes it would fall on deaf ears and he didn’t really want to explain five seasons of Gilmore Girls lore this morning either. He responds to Angus’ question with, “I don’t think there’s anyone who needs reminding you went to Yale,” before the sunglasses are pushed atop his head and he reacts as though someone has blinded him. He shuffles behind Angus, “Can I take a sick day? I didn’t get a chance to get a doctor’s note but I can get you one tomorrow,” he would be of no use to them in a state like this anyways.

LOCATION: Outside the Greenhouse DATE: Tuesday, September 6, 2005 (8 AM) Open starter for all @woodrowhub

It felt good to have a project—an easily attainable goal. Angus was no stranger to manual labor, though he hadn't been closely acquainted with it in some years. His father hated the idea of any of his boys going soft; blisters, sunburns, and splinters were all in a weekend's work. Now at 33, however, it wasn't so often that his hands were dirtied in many ways that weren't strictly metaphorical. It would be like riding a bike, he reasoned, or putting on an old coat. It would come back to him, but it would fall across his shoulders a little differently. Between himself and Natalia, getting the message to all the wards about the plan was easy. Angus got to work as soon as the sun rose over Woodrow House. They had tools, gloves, cleaning supplies, garbage bags—etc. They also had a large window to complete what he'd envisioned, but he also thought that if they could possibly, as unrealistic as it seemed, work together efficiently, then it'd get done far quicker. It was a rare optimism that he didn't put too much faith in, given who he was working with. The first true test would be to see who'd even show up. Donned in his least expensive pair of pants that he'd packed, which he normally wore to the gym, and a navy blue t-shirt with YALE LAW SCHOOL printed on the front, he smiled graciously, but thinly, at a person who approached. "Reporting for duty?" Angus posited as he scribbled something down in the notebook he held. "You've come just in time. There should be a pair of gloves waiting for you, just give me—one... second..." He finished his writing, hooked the pen over several pages, then closed the notebook with a snap. "Follow me."

[rcubens]

Reuben was the epitome of the wards who were mumbling about all the side effects of manual labour. If they needed to elect a leader, he’d do it gladly. His campaign promises included keeping their fingers lithe enough to tap delicate keyboard keys and ensure the salt stains don’t ruin their power suits. He would be steadfast in his whininess. Who else would stand up for the complainers if not him? He found the work he was doing stalling to be very profound.

He had been carefully managing his perceived output. Not too much as to over exert himself, not too little as to be called out for not participating. In the flurry of helpfulness he has somehow ended up next to Sama. She’d get it, he could reel in the trying. He pauses at her next words. Surely she wasn’t alluding to him? He scoffs at the suggestion and places hands at his hips. The moment required his full attention because any excuse to stall was a good one to him.

“Are you implying that I’m not working hard enough? ‘Cause I assure you, I’m doing my part.” He most certainly wasn’t but, if everyone was frustrated with his performance he would gladly depart to his bedroom and sleep off the nagging hangover.

who: Sama and open! @woodrowhub where: the greenhouse when: Tuesday, 10:00am

Sama was trying hard not to be precious about the day’s activity, mostly on principle. She wasn’t opposed to manual labor, and she didn’t want to be lumped in with the wards who were grumbling about sweat and impending blisters and sore muscles. They sounded like exactly the kind of pampered brats you’d expect to come from a house like Woodrow, and Sama had always made a point of avoiding that. Under different circumstances, she would have relished having a task with such a tangible outcome. Sama fully expected to feel quite satisfied once the greenhouse was cleaned out, knowing that it was a result of her own hard work. 

The bigger problem was that spending an entire day on something they could easily pay someone to do seemed like a waste of precious time. Sama had a ticking clock in her head, counting down the remaining time until their week was up. Five days and fourteen hours to go. And her mental to-do list for the week, though neither as detailed nor as exhaustive as she’d like it to be, wasn’t getting any shorter. No one else could go through the books and movies and games to decide what, if anything, each of them would like to keep. She didn’t know anyone outside of Woodrow she could trust to catalog the antiques, or sort through Adelia and Winnifred’s things in storage. The list went on and on.

Really, it was impressive that it took two hours of diligent work, on Sama’s part at least, for her patience to wear thin. She huffed, and commented to the person next to her, “I know this isn’t the most fun way to spend a morning, but if everyone put their back into it we’d be able to finish that much quicker.” And then they could focus on something more important. But she didn’t say that part out loud.

[rcubens]

🕑 DAY 2 — GREENHOUSE CLEAN UP 🌱 ☏ @nurturercelia

For as much as he would complain about this— and he would complain about this a lot, he understood what the greenhouse had meant to the others. He could remember the occasional class Richard ‘taught’ in there but rather than learning anything about plant care he learned he throughly enjoyed squishing dirt between his fingers and occasionally sprinkling it some ward’s hair.

Reuben was in the business of bending at Celia’s whim. He didn’t mind being her little project, in fact he didn’t mind being anyone’s pet project if it meant being the object of their affection. He relished in being someone’s favourite. He found Celia’s comforting nature maternal, and would be willing to fight a holy war for her. He who controls the spice, controls the universe. In this case, spice being slight tolerance for Reuben.

He would make a mountain out of a molehill by pushing dirt and debris from one end of the greenhouse to another. The illusion of being busy had served him many times before. He once filled 10 000 rows of an excel spreadsheet with the letter ‘R’ because he wasn’t assigned a task at work. He’d list it on his resume as a proud accomplishment. He stops when he notices Celia, feigning wiping sweat from his brow. “This is nice, right?” It’s more a question to himself than anything. “Collective action and stuff,” he motions vaguely to the work they (he could not include himself in this narrative) achieved.