People grieve in their own ways. Greta knows that; anyone who lasts in Darrow will be given plenty of opportunities to practice. So when Grantaire explains what happens, and says he needs time, she gives him that without question.
It does gnaw at her, though. Part of it is the shocking mundanity of it all: that Neil didn't vanish into thin air but chose to walk out, leaving but not leaving. Given the usual flavor of Darrow's tragedies, the deliberateness of this one feels downright perverse, as if relationships have no business ending the old-fashioned way, anymore. Which is ridiculous, of course. But it's hard not to wonder if it's worse, this way, if only because after years of living in Darrow, you forget that relative mundanities might strike you, too.
Part of it is simply that she misses him, and that the children do, too. She explained things as best she could, but none of them are exactly comfortable in the odd limbo of waiting for him to return, and it's grown increasingly tricky to practice patience as one week turns to two with no word from him at all.
People grieve in their own ways, but two weeks without some sort of evolution seems... troubling.
Greta considers a call or a text before dismissing both as absurd: too small a gesture, too easy to ignore or brush aside. She wants to check in on him properly, and if he's in need of a nudge back towards some semblance of normalcy, better to deliver one in person. So she packs up an assortment of baked goods — the poor men probably haven't been eating that well — and heads over, chin stubbornly lifted as she raps against their door.
There's a dragging pause before she hears a bit of muffled movement, but then the latch turns and the door opens and Grantaire peers blearily out at her, looking... well, awful, but that's about what she expected, and she stubbornly refuses to wilt.
"Hello," she says, a slightly muted variation on the usual tone. She hoists her bag. "I've brought you something. May I come in?"
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2020-07-22 04:08 am (UTC)It does gnaw at her, though. Part of it is the shocking mundanity of it all: that Neil didn't vanish into thin air but chose to walk out, leaving but not leaving. Given the usual flavor of Darrow's tragedies, the deliberateness of this one feels downright perverse, as if relationships have no business ending the old-fashioned way, anymore. Which is ridiculous, of course. But it's hard not to wonder if it's worse, this way, if only because after years of living in Darrow, you forget that relative mundanities might strike you, too.
Part of it is simply that she misses him, and that the children do, too. She explained things as best she could, but none of them are exactly comfortable in the odd limbo of waiting for him to return, and it's grown increasingly tricky to practice patience as one week turns to two with no word from him at all.
People grieve in their own ways, but two weeks without some sort of evolution seems... troubling.
Greta considers a call or a text before dismissing both as absurd: too small a gesture, too easy to ignore or brush aside. She wants to check in on him properly, and if he's in need of a nudge back towards some semblance of normalcy, better to deliver one in person. So she packs up an assortment of baked goods — the poor men probably haven't been eating that well — and heads over, chin stubbornly lifted as she raps against their door.
There's a dragging pause before she hears a bit of muffled movement, but then the latch turns and the door opens and Grantaire peers blearily out at her, looking... well, awful, but that's about what she expected, and she stubbornly refuses to wilt.
"Hello," she says, a slightly muted variation on the usual tone. She hoists her bag. "I've brought you something. May I come in?"