Chapter Text
Don’t get her wrong: of course a part of Greta hoped Carson would show up at the train station, talk her out of this martyrdom, and convince her to go back where they came from even though things got hard. Of course a part of her wanted Carson to fight.
But that is the same part that, to her utmost mortification, has been found more than once daydreaming about asking for that same woman’s hand in marriage, and raising three kids with.
So.
It’s safe to say this isn’t a part Greta tends to pay much mind to when contemplating reality, so it stands to reason that she was quite surprised when the voice that had so quickly become her favorite sounded from behind her on that platform.
Nevertheless, from the moment it did, she has been well aware that her plan is done for.
Something spreads in her chest as Carson takes the vacant seat on the wooden bench, making her grow equally agitated and paralyzed. Whatever she says isn’t enough to convince the catcher that this is the right thing to do, and whatever Carson says is too kind for Greta’s vulnerable heart to not take eagerly like a balm to its wounds, regardless of its veridicality.
And yet, although she knows she’s not leaving (quite honestly, would never be strong enough to walk away from the one she loves when she is right here), Greta can’t seem to find it in her to get out of this bench. Clearly, Carson can spot the hesitation from a mile away.
“…But, if you really need to go, can I- would it be okay,” she paces herself, after the first few words come in a jumble, “if I waited here to see you off?”
The redhead can only nod, a slow, wide-eyed movement of her head while she clenches her jaw in favor of making sure it doesn’t slacken in surprise.
They spend a long while side by side on that bench, Carson for once not filling the silence – not even looking at Greta, really. They just stay there, watching the slow movement at Rockford Train Station. 5:30 comes and goes, and with it, the car she’s supposed to get on. As it leaves, worn red signaling a few years’ overdue repainting, she thinks she feels Carson’s eyes on her, but they’re gone too quickly to be sure. About fifteen minutes later, Greta gets up.
As they arrive, Carson looks left, through the window. lights inside bathing the patch of the porch opposite it in pretty golden, a portion of their way back brighter than the rest. In tow, Greta does the same; if only, so she can be distracted from the overwhelming sound of silence that has followed them since the train station.
It’s only a millisecond glance, but she notices most of their team is camped out in the living room, the energy off even from afar after a day that can’t have been easy for anyone. Jess paces near Lupe’s seat, Maybelle next to them looking forlorn, and when she follows Carson into the house, a collective sigh of relief can be heard. Unaccustomed to having so many people care about her presence, Greta doesn’t quite know how to deal with it. She’s never come back to a place after deciding to run away. Never had to look at the faces of those left behind.
She leans against the wall, a few feet behind Carson, where shame doesn’t burn so furiously in her cheeks, because of course they cared. She’s an invaluable player, and had just about jumped ship right before the most important games of the season. That concern isn’t about her presence, specifically: it’s merely strategic.
She feels very much like she imagines a child would: small and protected while everyone’s attention is drawn by whomever had to hold her hand and lead her where they were supposed to go. Carson doesn’t allow for space anyone could use to ask what happened, and so they don’t.
Instead, she watches their Coach easily step up to the plate – so to speak, – confidently wearing a mantle that, not long ago, the catcher had thought too heavy to even pick up.
Carson’s tone is tired, but fierce. She’s still in this to win, and the idea that Charlie’s arrival hasn’t been able to snuff out the woman who turned her world upside down has the tiniest of smiles tugging at her lips.
Greta hangs around downstairs, after the speech. She doesn’t know exactly why, just that she wants more. More of exaggerated gesticulating and sparkling eyes doing that thing they do when they meet her own. Wants more of being embraced when she feels wretched – when she feels like this , – because that time in her room, all those weeks ago, felt too good to not crave for more.
It’s wishful thinking; Greta is well aware of that. Naïve in a way that she hadn’t been in a long time, before getting to Rockford. But, at this point, she’s accepted that her rules don’t apply to Carson – never have, and perhaps never will.
By the time she’s finished with her cup of tea, after rinsing it and setting it upside down on the metal rack, hushed whispers still flow out of the room in which their one phone lies. Hesitantly, she walks by the door nevertheless.
Inside, Carson hovers over the phone, nodding in that way she does when she’s attempting to rein in her anxiety, convince herself of something. It’s still adorable from afar, though nowhere near as heartwarming. When she catches sight of her figure, Carson locks eyes with her immediately. Greta hopes her nod can convey everything she wished she were able to say.
A ‘thank-you’.
A ‘good night’.
A goodbye.