applesaucedream | A Time to Rise and a Time to Fall [Open to Multiple]

Greta dreams of falling (again, and again).

The path ends abruptly. Maybe there never was a path, only a deceptive stretch of ground, free of any undergrowth, that looked like it could be one. Either way, she's left standing on the edge of a sheer cliff, looking down at the leaf-strewn forest floor far below her. A small rock tumbles down, as if for the sole purpose of illustrating the length of the drop. It seems to take ages to reach the bottom, clattering off exposed roots and finally thudding to the ground.

There's a roaring in her ears like a great wind, but it isn't the wind. The earth shudders beneath her feet. She reaches out wildly for something on which to steady herself, knowing even as she does so that she'll miss; she always misses, it's so stupid. Maybe she deserves whatever comes next.

But she doesn't miss. Her hand closes around something - not a branch. An arm? Whatever it is, she isn't letting go.

[ooc: whoops, Greta's dropped into your dream. Or you've dropped into hers. Whether you want them both to be in her giant-plagued forest or in a setting more familiar to your character is up to you. Poor Greta's just gonna have to roll with it either way.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Well he meant in the general sense, didn't he. He knows she can see well enough what's going on, he's not being very subtle on top of her not being an idiot, but if they can just get outside, maybe that will be better, maybe he could think straight.

She finds the door with ease and it's a mercifully simple process of just stepping out. As much and as ironically as he is and indoor person, it is kind of nice. The fresh air makes him feel a little lightheaded, the sun and general pleasantness make him feel distinctly out of place, but he'll take it.

He sighs and sits down in the grass once they've made it a reasonable distance from the house.

"So, uh," he murmurs, rubbing at his face and speaking through his hands. After a moment he looks back at her. "You can ask, if you want. I don't really know where to start."

It's grating to him, the idea that he has to now talk about this, but he owes her that, doesn't he.

And just when she'd resigned herself to not prying into Johnny's affairs, he's inviting her to. Greta blinks down at him in astonishment, then gives her head a little shake. "I don't… you don't have to tell me anything." She poked at a sore spot and was rightfully rebuked; he doesn't owe her a detailed explanation of where it all began.

Is respecting his privacy too close to protecting him? If her mothering him is the problem, maybe being a little less pitying would be easier for him to bear. But she still can't bring herself to ask him about a woman whose memory sends him skittering into corners.

She sits down as well, not next to him, but near him, facing the opposite direction so she can see his face if she looks at him sidelong and watch for any more unpleasant dream creations sneaking up from behind. "I am sorry her memory pains you," she finally says, because it seems a fair assumption and also doesn't demand an explanation.

The response surprises him and he's not entirely sure why. He glances over at her, taken aback, even though she's right, isn't she? He felt like - everything he just put her through, and the way he keeps reacting to her gestures of affection, it's all so unfair, he had to owe her, but - but he doesn't.

The fact that she's answered rightly, dismissing the offer of explanation, is almost too perfect. He doesn't even know what his mother would have said. He doesn't know anything about her, not really, not how she would have handled his insecurities, his fears, anything. It's a gaping black hole in his life.

"It..." he starts to say and is surprised to feel his throat thickening, nooo let's not do that. He swallows with some difficulty and shakes his head. "It's okay. Thank you for... for helping me."

He can't keep it down. Comes fucking crawling back up like an animal dying to get out. He shudders involuntarily, feeling himself weaken, he doesn't want to do this, not in front of a stranger, not when everything's already so fucking weird, but it's too late, when he inhales it's sharp and audible, and impossible to mistake for anything but a prelude to a sob. She's too far away from him to grasp for a handhold, so all he can do, pathetically, is pitch over, half fetal, trembling, reaching, his hand stuck into the grass.

For a few moments, she thinks things are finally taking a turn for the less painfully awkward. Johnny seems to accept her dismissal for what it is - she thinks he looks rather relieved at being let off the hook - and she allows herself to relax a little.

But there's something off when he speaks, a tell-tale thickening in his voice, oh dear, oh no, she hasn't been a mother that long but she still knows what an impending sob sounds like. She watches, stricken, as he curls in on himself again, wanting so badly to reach for him and knowing how badly he'll react if she does… but then he reaches for her.

Greta can't refuse that unspoken plea. She all but scrambles over the grass, tripping over her own skirts in her haste to close the distance between, take his outstretched hand, and pull him over to her. What can she say? No words come to mind, so she just wraps her arm around his shoulders and holds him close, letting him cry into her husband's poor, abused scarf.

This time he doesn't shiver away; this time he welcomes it, lets her pull him in, wraps his arms around her in response. He hates this; he hates it, the heaving of his shoulders, his entire body wracked, the noises he's making - how fucking pitiful, in front of a stranger, clinging to her no less. But she knows how to take it, how to hold him, it's awful how instinctive it is. How long has it been since he had this? Really, really had it? He doesn't want to think about it. He learned not to cry when he was nine (at least not when anyone could see); learned not to trust when he was seven (when they took her away). He feels the sting of the oil on his skin like it was fucking yesterday and remembers how she held him afterward, the only time he can remember anymore, but she's gone, long gone, gone in her letters, gone before he'd let her go.

His voice gives out after a moment but his body keeps quaking, and he stays there, huddled nearly in her lap. No idea what comes next. He can't bear the thought of looking up again, wiping his eyes, trying to carry on like this didn't just happen. He wants to stay here, as long as he can, maybe until he wakes up.

Oh, poor Johnny. She still has no idea what to say to him. Really, there's nothing to say. She knows grief, and she knows loss - mothers, in particular, are lost so often that it can be hard to appreciate the individual tragedy of yet another motherless child - but she doesn't know Johnny's story well enough to know how to soothe this specific ache.

So she holds him, occasionally lifting a hand to cradle the back of his head, smoothing back his hair. He needs this. Maybe not from her, not really, but she's here and she's willing so she'll just have to do. "It's all right," she murmurs quietly - it's not, but it's the tone that matters more than the words, the tone that says 'don't be ashamed' and 'you're safe.'

Even after Johnny's gone quiet, he makes no move to pull away, instead remaining curled against her. So she keeps her arms around him, for as long as he needs.

A Time to Rise and a Time to Fall [Open to Multiple]

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oblique references in child abuse, tw just in case

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