#rebamolly

[margotverger]

smoke & lemon | hanniholidays

[Takes place directly after 'The Other Woman'.] After her meltdown in the attic, Molly enters a vague dissociative state. When the world suddenly becomes devastatingly real, threatening her with yet another meltdown, there is only one logical person to turn to for support: Reba McClane. Written for the prompt 'Fireplace'.

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After the meltdown in the dark of her attic, Molly went to bed. She slept, or so she would tell people if they asked (they didn't), dreamless if they would ask further (they didn't), and she continued on with her life. She dropped Wally off at school. She bought groceries. She tidied the house. She drank tea, because it was the heart of winter and that was what people did during the heart of winter, even though she did not feel cold. The truth was, Molly did not feel much of anything in the days following her meltdown. To call it an empty feeling would be incorrect, for that implies a vessel, and she felt like much less than a vessel; she felt ghost-like, intangible, something hovering in the air like a mist after rain, watching as the woman people called Molly acted out every act a single mother was supposed to act. At one point, she wondered if she were going to live out her whole life like this, separated from her body.

      As she watched herself play the part of Molly Foster, how everybody reacted as they had reacted before, not a seed of discord sown, she wondered if that would be quite so bad.

      In fact, on the eleventh of December, she all but resolved to remain in this state. Unfortunately, for miss Molly Foster, it appeared that the universe had made its own resolution: to absolutely go against everything she planned, regardless whether it be in line with what it wanted for her in prior years. So, on that day of December 11th, when Wally had been dropped off, the groceries had been bought, the living room had been cleaned up, and the kettle put on, Molly suddenly felt devastatingly real.

      Every thought that had eaten her up in that attic, every ghost of a bitter memory that had filled the dusty air and hung above her as she slept like some sort of demented mobile for an infant, returned in full force, and suddenly her body—that had been empty of even herself—now felt very, very full.

      This time, however, Molly was not swallowed up by the shock of it all; after all, hadn't she experienced this only a week prior? It may have been as cruel and unforgiving as it had been before, but it was not so dark and isolating; there was no fear that Wally would overhear, there was no crushing dark, and there was a phone right in front of her, which was some anchor to the outside world. And, while there may not have been many who Molly could rely on, if at all, there was somebody who might have been able to help her.

While Molly expected a guest, the doorbell still succeeded in sending a sliver of dread along the line of her spine; it had been all too reminiscent of the insistent visits of paparazzi and hungry journalists from before. Still, this time Molly knew that she was all but forgotten by only the most obsessive of fans and conspiracy theorists, and she knew who her visitor was. So, she swallowed her anxiety down with a gulp of tea, and made her way to the door.

      Each lock—four in total—clicked as if ancient as she undid them, and while the lengthy process did not help the paranoid feeling in her gut that the other would be displeased by her call, at least it gave her some time to prepare. After all, it had been months, and their meeting had been scarcely a conversation; it had been rather dry, actually, spoken over Earl Grey tea and relatively mundane.

      (Weather's nice. It is, yeah. Little cold out. I don't mind the cold. Me neither.)

      But it was a conversation. A normal, regular conversation, when she had been entirely robbed of the experience after the disappearance of her ex-husband. And frankly, a normal conversation was what she needed right now.

      The door finally opened, and with it a rush of cold, but Molly did not feel it. Warmth surged in her stomach at the face of Reba McClane; the soft curve of her cheeks, the dark brown of her eyes, the peek of white teeth. She did have a lovely face. A kind face. It was no wonder that even Dragons could discover tenderness at the sight of her. “You came.” The presence of a relieved sigh, the release of which entirely unplanned, surprised her. Had she been that convinced she wouldn't come?

      At that, Reba frowned the tiniest of frowns; not one ill in intent, but as if genuinely confused by the statement. “Of course I did.” Then, her expression shifted into something softer, mouth curving with a smile once more. “Now, are you gonna let me in or what? It's pretty cold out here.”

      “Oh, yeah, ha. Come on in. I made tea.”

*

It was odd, having someone in the house. Everything felt out of place, including herself, and she had to bite the insides of her cheek to stop herself from fidgeting. Instead, she busied herself with pouring a cup of tea for her guest, as well as topping up her own. God knows she needed it. “Sorry the living room's a mess, I've only gotten in not long ago—“

      “It's fine, Molly. I can't tell.”

      “That's very kind of you.”

      “I mean, it's not a matter of kindness. I just can't see.”

      “Oh. Oh shit, you're right.” Momentarily her horror at her own foot-in-the-mouth moment of stupidity absolutely dominated her, eyes widening with the sheer terribleness of it all. She even had a passing urge to clasp at her mouth—or her pearls, like some faint-hearted Southern lady—before Reba cracked up, instantly melting the hard block of abject horror in her chest. It wasn't long before Molly followed suit, her laugh beginning with a bubbling snort and ending with a wheeze. “Jesus. I'm more out of it than I thought.”

      “No kiddin',” Reba trailed off with a smile, “but I'll let you off just this once.”

      “Generous of you,” Molly grinned in response, feeling the hardness of her muscles melt with the gentle banter, “ah, there's tea on the table in front of the couch.” Reba navigated the room, not effortlessly, but with the kind of care that one would no doubt master after a life of being blind; she folded herself on the couch, sinking into it with a sigh. “Good couch?”

      “Great couch.” She didn't say it, but Molly could tell the plush of the couch must have been heaven after a long drive. God knows how much the taxi charged… It seemed rude to offer to pay, or at least like she would be knocked down, so she would have to find other ways to repay her for her time. “It's cold as hell in here,” said Reba, rubbing her palms together, “you got heating?”

      “Oh shit, I didn't even notice.” She was so used to it, at this point, that the cold hardly fazed her unless it came with a gust. At once, she was called to her feet by the need to heat it up, though not without an apologetic prologue: “I warn you, this is an old building, it doesn't have… typical heating.” Rather, a large fireplace that consumed half the wall, and lets out a gentle breath dragged from the sky above. It was not an eyesore in the slightest, but it was hardly practical. What it had in aesthetics, it lacked sorely in ease; though, once she reflected for a moment, the chopping of trees did provide a useful hobby and a sense of security. Still, sometimes she had to wonder if a government-ordained home really had any use being so… complicated to uphold.

      (If she had to theorize, she would think that its many 'unique' factors would scare her into purchasing her own property, but unfortunately for the government and real estate in general, she was still held firmly by her paranoia, and so neglected to make any purchases that could be tied back to her name.)

      “It's a fireplace. Is that… okay?” Needless to say, Molly was hesitant to get fire involved, in any shape or form, after hearing the horror story the Dragon inflicted on her.

      Reba scoffed, but not with ill intention. “Of course it is, girl, put that heating on before I freeze to death.” Molly smiled faintly, and could not help but think of the Robert Frost poem. After a moment of quiet as she set about preparing the fire, Reba voiced a soft addendum: “But thanks for asking.”

      “Of course,” Molly responded, and then brought the fireplace to life. The flames were large and bold, but far from frightening—although her first few dalliances with such a thing were not so devoid of fear—and the effect was immediate. After appraising the fire, Molly settled down next to Reba. “It'll take a little while for it to heat up completely, but the tea should help.”

      “Oh, right!” Reba reached for her cup and inhaled its fumes. “Do I detect a trace of lemon?” she asked, almost impishly, directing her gaze to where she suspected Molly was.

      “Perhaps,” came her response, as light as Reba's inquiry. She took a sip of her own tea, which had cooled from scalding to a drinkable warmth. It did, in fact, carry a trace of lemon—due to the citrus peels prepared alongside the original leaves—alongside the lemon grass, and of course, the dominance of bergamot orange; all this, coupled with a black tea base—she had considered instead using a green tea variant, but there was a reason she defaulted to this—and a splash of milk and two spoonfuls of sugar, made the cup of tea something delightfully rich yet creamy. Reba drank, and her face scrunched and opened with a realization.

      “Earl Grey?”

      “Earl Grey. I remembered it was your favourite. And, well, it seemed fitting.” For Earl Grey tea had been the drink they had shared over their first conversation, as Wally napped at Molly's side, in the waiting room of the FBI's headquarters. Molly had been prepared to sit in silence—how would she strike up a conversation with the other woman?—and yet Reba had approached her, offering her flask. It's Earl Grey, she half-warned, half-apologized, sorry, it's my favourite.

      “Ah, so you weren't lying when you said you liked it.”

      “No!” Molly laughed, taking another drink. With the ambient scent of smoke—the kind that was woody and safe, compared to the crueller scent of its more nefarious cousin—and the taste of lemon and various citrus on her tongue, Molly felt more at home than she had in a year. “I loved it. I still do. It's becoming my favourite too.”

      “Well, I'm glad to hear.”

      “You know, I never, ah, got to thank you for that.”

      “Hm?”

      “Reaching out to me. I really appreciated it. I still do, actually. I needed it. I imagine you needed it too,” she added thoughtfully, “and I think I was too out of it to even thank you properly. I know it was the tiniest conversation ever—“

      “We were talking about the weather,” Reba said with a smile, and Molly's chest warmed. Reba remembered it, too, even though so many months had passed.

      “Like two strangers in an elevator. Yet it… it really helped. That little dose of normalcy. God knows I've needed some normalcy for a while. That's actually why I thought to call you. In like, what, a year? The span of a year, that was the last proper, decent conversation I had, where I didn't feel like I was being scrutinized or… like I was in any kind of danger. You make me feel comfortable.” Safe goes unsaid.

      A moment of silence as Reba took it in.

      “Sorry, did I go too far?” Her knuckles blanched against the porcelain of her cup, suddenly struck by a pang of anxiety. Silence was always a garden for paranoia; like weeds, fears would burst from the soil of her mind and dominate the entirety of it.

      “No, no! I… That's the nicest thing anybody's ever said to me in… well, ever. It means a lot. And hey, Molly… for the record… you make me feel comfortable, too. That's why I came. Being around you… it's a breath of fresh air.”

And like that, the garden was purged; weeds destroyed to the root, and in their place, flowers of euphoria and joy bloomed in their stead with petals of yellow and pink. She smiled, wide, exposing her teeth; this time without any strain, nor any timidness restraining it from its full splendour.

      “So, about that weather, huh?”

      “Cold as anything!”