Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It’s the blaring of the alarm from her phone that wakes her up so suddenly. Reaching out blindly, feeling around for her phone with her eyes still closed, she attempts to silence its screeching. The only salient thing in that moment is her thumping head and the exhaustion becoming increasingly apparent. After silencing the alarm, she lies back down on the pillow, throws an arm over her face, allows herself a moment to simply breathe before she has to face the day ahead. It’s when she opens her eyes, reaches for her phone to check for notifications that she realises it’s only 1am. She squints her face in confusion, doesn't remember setting an alarm.

Groaning dramatically, she curls back around into her covers to chase sleep again when she hears a pounding from down the hall. A thumping so loud, on what she assumes is her front door, that she wonders whether the FBI were attempting to raid her premises. Hesitantly, she gets out of bed, gripping her phone, grabbing her robe on the way out of the bedroom, towards the front door. She checks the notifications on her phone on the way there, considers it could be one of the girls in trouble or more likely Roman, but there is no indication of anyone being expected. She feels the thrum of another three loud blows to the walnut door vibrate through her. She moves quicker towards the fish eye to check who it could be, simply glimpses at what appears to be a short older man she doesn’t recognise in a red uniform.

After unlocking the door, she pries it open slowly, keeping the chain on just in case. 

“Hello?” She croaks, not realising how strained her voice still was from sleep. 

She takes in the older man’s appearance; perhaps in his 80’s, pure white hair with the dark red concierge uniform, hat and all. The uniform looks too big for him, but he looks quite frail and undernourished. His cheekbones are sunken, his hands shakily holding a small yellowed piece of card in his hand, but he offers a kind smile, gentle eyes when he looks up to her. 

“Gerri Kellman?” He asks quakily. 

“Yes,” she answers softly, instantly feeling sad for him. 

“Ah good,” he sighs with a small titter after, tremorously attempting to put the card into his inside jacket pocket. “I’ve got the right place then.” After two failed attempts, he successfully secures the card in his pocket. 

“Can I help you?” She asks now, opening the door as far as it’ll go with the chain. 

“I think the question is more if I can help you,” he answers kindly, clasping his hands in front of his stomach. 

“Sorry?” Gerri breathes dazedly. “Is there an emergency or something?”

She looks as far as she can down the hallway to see if there is any movement, tries to listen out for any bustle of an evacuation but it’s completely silent. 

“Indeed there is,” he answers seriously. “And that’s why I’m here,” he offers a very genuine smile now. “I am the ghost of Christmas Past.”

“The what?” she more or less mouths, her breath stolen from her lungs. 

“The ghost of Christmas Past,” he repeats proudly again, his chest puffing out a little, both of his clenched hands shaking now. “Baird Kellman sent me to help you.”

“Baird sent—” She chokes out.

Three ghosts are going to visit you tonight.

“No,” she refuses. “That was a dream.”

“That was no dream,” he shakes his head with a sad smile now. “Baird advised I should come help you. I’ve been out of commission for such a long time, but he insisted that I was the perfect person to do it.”

He smiles brightly again, clearly honoured to have the responsibility. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I can’t help you,” she says, beginning to close the door. 

“Mrs K–,” he tries to stop her, holding a hand out. 

“I’m sorry,” she interrupts, shutting the door firmly, turning the locks rapidly and pressing her palms against the door. When she’s finally caught her breath, the concentration on her rapidly beating heart becomes too much, she chances a peek through the fish-eye again but doesn’t see anyone there. 

A relieved sigh escapes her. This had to be another fever dream. 

Wake up, Gerri. Wake up. 

She reasons that she really does have to make a conscious effort to cut back on drinking before going to bed. This was the worst she had ever experienced dreams like this. 

When she turns back to head to bed, she can’t help the yelp she lets out, clutching her hands to her mouth when she sees the concierge standing a little lopsided across the hall. 

“Oh my god!” she shouts, as he also jumps in surprise at her outburst, uses the wall to balance himself. 

“You scared me,” he tells her as he laughs a little. 

“ I scared you !” she exclaims, clutching her heart as she wills it to stop beating so fast. 

“If my heart were still beating, it may have had an attack,” he laughs, beginning to cough a little. 

She realises then he’s not joking, his intentions too pure to be lying, that he is in fact a ghost, in this dream anyway. If this is another dream and the only way is through then she didn’t exactly have much of a choice but to go along with it and hope she woke soon. 

“Baird sent you?” She asks him gently. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he nods beaming as she wrinkles her nose at the name. 

“Please,” she protests. “Just Gerri.”

“Cecil,” he responds, taking his hat off slowly and tipping it to her. 

It was such an ancient gentlemanly gesture that reminded her of so many men from her youth that she can’t help but feel fondly towards him. 

“Cecil,” she repeats quietly. “So how are you here to help me avoid the depths of despair?” She laughs a little at the absurdity of it all. 

However, she watches as the smile immediately wipes away from his face, a sobering greyness washing over him. 

“Forgive me, but this isn’t something to make light of,” he warns her. “I’ve seen things that–,” he catches himself, clears his throat. “Things a lady shouldn’t see nor hear.”

She nods slowly, takes his distressed demeanour as a signal that perhaps it’s something she really doesn’t want to know the answer to anyway. 

He takes a deep breath then, tries to shake off the dread hanging over him. 

“So should we get to it then?” He smiles again at her, wags his white eyebrows conspiratorially. 

“What exactly are we getting to?” She asks reticently, her grasp tightening on her phone as apprehension begins to flood through her.  

He chuckles under his breath. 

“Baird said you were an inquisitive one,” he gurgles again, wagging a finger at her, as she watches him, still waiting for any indication of what is going on. “As I said before, I am the ghost of Christmas Past… your past.”

“My past?” 

Her past isn’t exactly something she ever wanted to delve into, particularly not with a stranger. There was nothing worth exploring anyway. It had been a basic, ordinary past. 

“Your past,” he confirms with a smile, nodding his head enthusiastically. Suddenly a thought seems to startles him, his trembling hand reaching up to the pocket watch in his waistcoat. She watches as he strains to look at the time and then gasps when he sees it. “But we have to get a move on or else we’ll miss the boat.”

He begins to shuffle in her direction.

“A boat?” She asks as he passes her.

“Just an expression, my dear,” he laughs again before walking completely through the closed door as Gerri watches. 

She stops for a moment, shakes her head, looks back down the corridor towards her bedroom and wonders if going back to bed would somehow wake her from this madness. Then she looks back to the door, considers the gentleness of the man, somehow feels relatively safe, and makes the insane decision to unlock her door and follow him. 

When she moves out into the corridor, it looks exactly the same in structure, but completely different in decor, as if it had been transformed back into the 1920’s or something. She sees Cecil propping himself up against a wall, his chest heaving, his hands shaking worse than before. It’s then she notes how tattered his uniform is; moth eaten and dirty. Also slightly different to the one downstairs, clearly older. How long had he been dead? Had he been a concierge in this building? She can’t help but approach him, a kind hand placed on his arm. 

“Are you alright?” She asks him, watches as he raises his tired eyes to her own, gasping out a strained breath before offering that beaming smile again. 

“Oh yes,” he assures, propping himself up again so that he can begin moving. The more he walks though, the more she realises he shouldn’t be moving. That he should be in a wheelchair, or at least have a walker. When he halts again for a breath, the sympathy builds up within her and she can’t help but offer. 

“Would you mind if I took your arm?” She asks him, moving up to his side, a hand already looping through as she tries to take a little of his weight and help steady him. 

“Oh,” he coos in delight. “It’s been age since I had a beautiful woman on my arm.”

She can’t help but chuckle with him and shake her head at his innocence. 

“Flatterer,” she jests back, as they begin walking along the corridor until he stops in front of the elevator. It’s not the same elevator though. This one was antique with a gold cage protecting it, a dial above the door on the outside pointing in a semicircle with no numbers to be read. 

Without calling it, the elevator arrives promptly; Gerri immediately opening the caged door in fear that it would somehow be the last straw for him. 

When they enter, the door pulled back over, the elevator doesn’t move. It’s then Cecil begins a war with the card within the inside of his jacket. She tries to peek over this shoulder to see what it says but with the calligraphy and messiness of the writing it is incomprehensive. It’s only when she watches him move towards the numbers and press them that she begins to have an idea of what is about to happen.

‘1’

‘9’

‘6’

‘5’

The elevator begins to move abruptly downwards, the screeching of the old mechanisms working hard to get them to where they need to be. She continues to hold onto Cecil’s arm and when she catches his eye he simply smiles back at her, his head now swaying from side to side to a tune she imagines is within his own head. 

When they come to their apparent stop, he encourages her to open the door, even puts a light hand on the handle above hers to help her move it. 

It shocks her to see a grand foyer that she is extremely familiar with but hasn’t set foot in for almost 40 years.

It was exactly how she had remembered it. From the twin staircases that met in the middle, the spiralled wooden inlay flooring that she would walk around in circles almost every day until she became too dizzy, the large chandelier that she would stare into as a child until she was blinded, the small plump woven chair by the door she would fight over when they were waiting for her mother to get ready for an outing. It must have been Christmas as the garlands were wrapped around the staircase and the large tree was set up in the corner of the room. Then there was the smell that penetrated her, one that she would never forget but never be able to replicate if she tried. Was it the cigars? The furniture? The candles? The wood? She honestly couldn’t put her finger on it to this day. 

She feels Cecil’s hand on her elbow, moving her forward, one step at a time as she looks everywhere from the floor to the ceiling, recalling so many small details of the things she passes including the wallpaper in the hallway, the crystal box on the side table, and the painting of what her younger sister would call “the pretty lady” on the wall. It was odd being back to her childhood home - a mixture of familiarity and unease.

As she explores her surroundings, Cecil still leading her with one step at a time, she begins to hear a familiar voice booming from behind the dining room door. She feels her stomach drop, that fear that she used to feel whenever he would raise his voice, hoping it wouldn’t be directed at her. 

But she can’t help the pull, can’t fight the temptation that draws her towards pushing the door open to see them all in the flesh again, to hear their voices clearly, to remember what they had been discussing. It had been decades since her parents had died and she had forgotten what they had sounded like, was kind of glad that she had. 

“Benjamin!” She hears her fathers voice angrily scolding her elder brother.

“Can they hear or see me?” She asks Cecil immediately, anxiety torn over her face. 

He offers a sad smile before offering a solemn shake of his head. 

With that she enters the room. It’s exactly how she remembers how it had been, especially on Christmas Day.  

A large eight placement table with a white tablecloth, each place setting including every possible piece of cutlery despite it being predominantly children at the table. She stands on one side of the table, three sets of high back chairs directly in front of her. But her eyes go instantly to her left, the head of the table, her father’s seat. 

He looked exactly as she had remembered. From her memory, he seemed as though he was in his early 50’s here though. His moustache hadn’t quite greyed, his hair hadn’t quite fallen out, and his waistline hadn’t quite filled out yet. But there he sat, his knife and fork gripped in his swollen hands, his knuckles turning white, his frown severe: he was still the same uptight bully she had always remembered. She looks around the table, sees her younger sister Elizabeth, looking at her plate, a look she recognised oh too well, a wish she wasn’t next. She looked so adorable, docile, and petite. Had her younger sister ever been that tiny? She really should call her. Make more of an effort.

“What did I tell you about sitting up straight!” Her father bellows again. 

She moves along and sees the receiver of the scolding, her older brother, Ben who wore his own frown, angry at being scolded, would turn into his own father in only a few years before he dropped dead from a heart attack at 61, just like her father had. 

“Sorry father,” Ben responds meekly, though she can see the underlying seething in the aftermath. 

“This is your doing!” Her father now directs directly towards the opposite end of the table, her eyes drawn towards the newest and most common victim. 

There she was. Her mother. She wishes this was how she remembered her mother. Younger, more beautiful, less worn by life. Her hair was blonde and pinned up, her eyes a piercing blue. A true beauty. A obedient, tender woman who wouldn’t hurt a fly. 

And he fucking knew it. 

“You’re too soft on them,” he rages, piercing his fork into a chunk of lamb and cutting it so forcefully that she’s shocked his steak knife doesn’t pierce through the ceramic plate. 

She looks back to her mother, sees her quietly ignore him, watches as she reaches over to the seat next to her that her youngest sister, Victoria had been plumped up on with several pillows. She couldn’t have been more than five, her blond ringlets topped off with a black bow. Her mother takes the napkin Vic had pulled out of her neck and tucks it back in before tapping Vic’s nose with her finger, eliciting a giggle from the girl. 

“Geraldine!!” He shouts loudly, Gerri jumping out of her skin immediately, Cecil jumping with her, almost losing his balance as Gerri tries to steady him whilst simultaneously trying to look towards him in fear that he could suddenly see her. “Do not play with your food! If you want to act like a swine, you’ll eat it off the floor like one. Do you understand?” 

It’s then she realises he’s not directing it at her at all, but to the child sitting to her mothers left. 

Gerri lets go of Cecil’s arm, begins walking slowly around the room, her eyes focussed on the blond locks peeking up above the chair. 

“I’m talking to you, Geraldine,” he shouts again, staring at her younger self. It’s then she finally sees herself, the plump pale cheeks, a perfect frilly dress, a black bow of her own, her big eyes trained to her plate. 

When the silence goes on too long, Gerri darts an eye to her father, then back to her younger self who still hasn’t responded, her eyes fixed to a potato on her plate. She darts her eyes to her mother, sees the tension in her shoulder as she too wills her to respond. She flickers an eye to her younger self’s right and sees her grandmother still eating, not paying attention to the situation at hand. Her hair is grey, her dress black, her hands as bony as she remembers them. She wasn’t a very kind woman, not someone Gerri got on very well with, but she appreciated the boldness of how her grandmother would sometimes jab at her father, one of the few people who could get away with it to an extent. 

“Geraldine!” He shouts so loudly now that as it reverberates through the room, her grandmother's face wincing at the disruption, her younger self jumping in fear. 

“Please, Charles. It’s Christmas,” her grandmother croaks out. “Is there a need?”

“Quiet mother!” He barks towards her instantly, his eyes back on young Gerri. 

“Your father never would have shouted at the table on Christmas Day,” her grandmother says weepily, raising a handkerchief to her eye. It’s then that she spots the empty seat next to her grandmother, the seat her grandfather would have taken. She takes in her grandmother's black dress, the age of Victoria and realises that this must have been their first Christmas without him. 

She had loved her grandfather completely. He was an older man, firm and staunch in his demeanour but had a twinkle in his eye for Gerri. She was devastated when they lost him. 

1965 sounds about right for the year he died. She would have been eight.  

“Yeah, well, he’s not here is he,” her father mumbles under his breath. “All your fault, Catherine,” he directs to her mother again as he picks up his whiskey, taking a large gulp. “Too damned soft on them. They need to learn some respect. It’s the belt that girl needs,” he groans, his concentration fully on his plate. 

Her eyes dart towards her younger self in alarm, watches as her younger eyes grow panicked, the small blond head darting towards her mother to save her. 

Just tell him what he wants to hear, Gerri almost screams towards the child. 

Her mother looks to her solemnly, an unspoken exchange between them before her mother sighs quietly. 

“Geraldine,” her mother says softly. “Apologise to your father.”

She sees a wave of betrayal cross her youthful face, before turning around blankly, her face hardening. “I’m sorry, sir,” she finally responds, her eyes filling up as she tries to suck it back in. 

Her father only offers a humph, mutters under his breath. 

“Need to learn some damn respect in this house.”

The dinner goes on silently as Cecil hobbles around the table towards her, only the sound of cutlery clambering off plates and other utensils. She can’t help the anger that begins to build within her as she stares between her younger self trying to keep it together and her oblivious father becoming progressively drunk. 

“You all right?” Cecil asks her, a hand on her elbow. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” She answers defensively, looks towards her mother helping her younger sister wipe her face with a napkin. 

“I don’t know,” he shrugs a little. “Seemed a bit harsh to me.”

She doesn’t speak, doesn’t think she can. 

“You did what you had to do,” Cecil tells her with a pat to her shoulder. 

They sit silently through the dinner with the rest of the family, all through the main course, all through dessert, no words spoken, the tension thick in the air. 

It’s only when dinner finishes and they go to move into the other room, she notices that her younger self has refused to move, her mother second behind as she helps Vic from her seat. 

“There you go,” her mother says fondly, placing the child on the floor as she totters to the adjoining room, following everyone else. Her mother stands breathing deeply with her hands on her waist, watching as the child goes, turns around to check the table when she notices the remaining child still sitting still at the table. 

“Hey,” her mother approaches softly, moving to the girl and placing her hand on the back of the high-back wooden chair. “You not coming in to play with the doll you got for Christmas?”

She watches as her younger self shakes her head sadly, her lip petted. 

“Well that’s very sad,” her mother says with a dramatic pout. “Poor Millie is going to feel very abandoned if you don’t play with her.”

Both Gerri and her mother watch as the child shrugs her shoulders. 

She can feel the wave of her mother's exhale, all the pent up hurt and sadness that she must have been continuously holding onto for a long time. She moves to sit next to the child, twisting her body towards her, her fingers playing with Gerri’s curls.

“You know that not answering him antagonises him, Gerri,” she reminds the child sadly. 

“You’re not supposed to call me that,” the young girl finally responds in a know-it-all way, scolding her mother. “He doesn’t like it,” she reminds her mother. 

“Very true, smartie pants,” her mother laughs, wrapping a ringlet around her finger. “But I happen to like it so maybe it can be our secret,” she whispers with a smile, watches as the child looks around to her with her own conspiratorial smile. 

“Yeah?” The child breaths in return, leaning into her. 

“Yeah,” she whispers back, leaning back, their foreheads almost touching. “Ben, Liza, and Vic too,” she doubles down, both younger and older Gerri’s face lighting up with amusement of her mother using those names too. Gerri hadn’t realised until now that this is why she hated being called Geraldine to this day though.

“Should we go back in then?” Her mother suggests, pressing her forehead against her childs, but Gerri pulls her head back, frowns, and shakes her head sadly before looking down at her shoes. 

“I don’t like him,” she whispers again since they were in the process of spilling secrets. 

“Me neither, kid,” Cecil shouts, before Gerri shushes him and turns back to the mother and daughter. 

“That’s not a nice thing to say,” her mother reminds her quietly, though her eyes are more reflective of Cecil’s sentiments. 

“But I don’t,” the child doubles down. 

She sees her mother sigh deeply again, a hand through the girl's soft hair once more. 

“You know,” her mother says decisively. “You’re such a smart girl. One day you're going to get your high school diploma, and go to college, and live in a big fancy city. And you’re going to be so successful that you’re going to live your life and forget all about him.”

Gerri can feel her stomach drop, her eyes begin to fill up though she wills them away; Cecil’s hand comes comfortingly to her shoulder.

“Forget about him?” The girl says with her head tilted to the side. 

“Yep. All of you,” her mother nods. “If it’s the last thing I do. I’ll make sure all of you are going to leave here and never have to look back. Mark my words,” she finishes with a wink. 

“But I don’t want to leave you, mama,” the child tells her, a little distressed, moves her head up again, to rub her nose against her mothers. 

“I know,” her mother whispers back. “But you’re not going to have the life I did.”

Gerri can feel the tears leave her eyes now though she furiously wipes them away as she comprehends what her mother means. 

“What life?” Her younger self pulls back confused, her head tilted to the side.

“Never you mind,” her mother smiles. “Nothing for you to worry about now anyways. But what I am very worried about is how lonesome Millie is getting. In there all alone, with no one to play with her. What if Ben gets a hold of her and tries to introduce her to G.I. Joe? What if they run away together and marry?”

“No!” Young Gerri protests immediately, trying to jump out of her chair. “She can’t run away.”

“Well you best go get her then,” her mother encourages, shooing her away as Gerri jumps out of her seat and runs into the other room. 

As Gerri stands by Cecil, her eyes are stuck on her mother as she watches the girl, her eyes becoming sad, her head bowing in defeat as she takes a few breaths. However, she raises her head in defiance, a hunger in her eyes, before she stands back up and confidently walks back into the room with her family. 

Gerri wipes her eyes harshly, takes a handkerchief that Cecil holds out to her. 

“It’s not easy,” Cecil observes. “A mother who sacrifices everything for the good of her children.”

“She stayed with him until he died,” Gerri divulges to him. “Never remarried. She should’ve. I wish she’d left just him.”

“Not the way things were done then, was it?” He nods thoughtfully. 

“He was an asshole,” Gerri spits angrily. “Never had a kind word to say about anyone. Nothing was ever good enough for him.”

“Really?” Cecil asks interestedly. “But the achievements you made, the heights you got to, surely he was proud of that?”

She scoffs at that, wipes her nose angrily. 

“He died before I ended up in Waystar, before I was married,” she tells Cecil. “He wasn’t happy when I went to Penn,” she jeers. “He went to Yale. Ben went to Yale. He wanted me to go to Yale. But I didn’t want to go there. I didn’t want to be like him.”

“So you chose not to go?” Cecil presses. 

She turns around, takes in yet another painting that she had forgotten about. “I didn’t get in. No idea why. You would have thought I would have gotten in from legacy alone, but for some reason I didn’t. They said I failed the interview. I sometimes wonder if he set it up so I couldn’t go, just to put me in my place, because I was a girl. He told me all the time I was getting above my station,” she shakes her head, thinking it all through. “I wanted to go to Penn anyway.”

“Penn’s a good school,” Cecil agrees.

“Warren fucking Buffet had gone to Penn.”

“You don’t have to justify it to me,” Cecil tells her. “I’m very impressed. I never even went to college.”

She takes a moment to breathe, acknowledges Cecil’s calming smile. 

“Nothing wrong with that,” she says kindly as he bubbles warmly before looking down at his pocket watch again. “I’m glad he taught me at least one good lesson though.”

“What’s that?” 

“How to handle tyrannical assholes like him,” she breathes out, her own eyes filling a little again before she sucks them back in; Cecil nodding sadly in understanding. 

“We should probably get going,” he tells her, holding his arm out again. “We’re on a tight schedule.”

She feels the panic rise in her then. She had so many questions she wanted to ask her mother, so many observations she wanted to take in. She wasn’t ready to leave. 

“I’m afraid we have to,” he tells her gently, knowingly. 

“Okay,” she breathes, taking his arm, never so thankful for how slow he walks as they move around the table to the front door so she can take a last peek at her mother in the other room. She never realised until now how much she had missed her. She died just before Charlotte was born and despite a hard battle with cancer, even seeing her now, healthy and youthful, doesn't make it any easier to be without her. She wishes she could hug her, one last time; thank her for pushing her out the door, for giving her that ambition from such a young age. She sees her mother look up then, almost as if making eye contact with her. 

“I thought she couldn’t see me,” she says quickly to Cecil, her mothers smile increasing, her chest puffing up with pride, Gerri likes to think that it was perhaps at who she had become. She feels her own heart swell at the connection between them, that maybe if she didn’t make her father proud, she at least achieved it with her mother.

“What?”

He hadn’t heard her. She goes to ask again when her mother looks away, picks up a rabbit to play with Vic and Liza. 

“Nevermind,” she whispers as she helps him back towards the elevator. 

***

“Where to now?” She asks, looking up to the ceiling, trying to process the grief she feels at having left her childhood home, dabbing her eyes a little when she thinks he’s concentrating too hard on the next stop. . 

“Oh yes,” he mutters, trying to read his yellowish card again. “Uhm,” he looks again before pressing a new number into the elevator buttons. 

‘1’

‘9’

‘9’

‘9’

She frowns, wondering in that year what could have been so important. If memory serves, it had been the year she started working in London. Oh, now it made sense. The year her whole world started going to shit. 

She waits for the elevator to stop, Cecil once again humming a tune she doesn’t recognise. She’s surprised when the elevator opens that she enters a home she doesn’t recognise. It’s well decorated with bows, bells, wreathes, and baubles everywhere, but she can’t for the life of her remember who’s home it is. 

Gerri takes more of Cecil’s weight when he stumbles a little out of the elevator, her eyes darting from side to side, taking in the expensive decor of the hallway full of people chattering over drinks, unsure which direction to go in first. 

She moves off to the side to ensure Cecil was stably on his feet, when the elevator dinged behind them again. 

“Lester!” She hears Baird’s voice shout behind her, her eyes flashing around to him immediately as she sees her 6 foot 3 tall late husband bounding into the hallway to embrace none other than Lester McClintock. That’s whose house this was, god dammit, her memory was shot. 

In her peripheral, she sees a younger, much more slender version of herself moving out of the elevator grasping the hands of Catherine and Petit on either side of her. She looked very well put together in a sleek black velvet dress with her blond hair in a low blond ponytail with a large black bow and her children looked adorable yet clinical in their matching black velvet and tartan dresses, though Catherine was at least a foot taller. 

1999, they must have been nine and six? 

“But mom, it’s itchy,” she hears her youngest complaining whilst grabbing at the back of the neck of her dress. 

She watches herself lean down to talk quietly in the child's ear.

“Why didn’t you say back home and I would have cut it off?” She watches herself asking whilst still grasping onto the hands of both girls. Gerri’s eyes float to Catherine who is looking around the room, taking everything in - always such a smart girl. 

“You were on the phone,” her youngest babyishly moans, rubbing the back of her neck some more. 

Punch to the gut. Her own gut, and the gut of her former self clearly. 

“Why didn’t you say to Susan then?”

Susan had been the nanny. The one she had had to hire after Baird had fucked the younger one, Rachel. 

“I don’t know,” she whines. “It wasn’t sore then.”

“Okay,” younger Gerri huffs, standing up and looking around. “Well, I’ll ask Maria if she has some scissors and we’ll cut it off, okay?” 

The child seems at least momentarily appeased, though she pouts heavily. 

“Don’t keep touching it or it’ll get worse,” she warns as the child removes her hand, holding her breath as though bearing through the annoyance.

“Gerri!” She hears Lester calling her name excitedly, watches her younger face momentarily falter before leaning down to Catherine. 

“Remember what I said about keeping your distance,” she reminds her, before moving towards her husband and colleague. 

She feels uneasy just watching that exchange with her child, doesn’t know why she ever allowed her children in the same room with him in the first place given what they had known he had done, the whispers of what he was capable of doing to young teenage girls. Maybe it was that she thought her children were too young from him yet. It doesn’t make the feeling that she allowed it any less nauseating though. 

“Lester,” she greets, plastering a fake smile on, moving towards him to give him a kiss on the cheek. She doesn’t miss how his hand brushes her breast, before settling a little too low on her waist, her younger self pulling away before he could settle it on her ass. 

“Catherine, Charlotte,” Baird directs. “Say hello to Mr McLintock and thank him for inviting you to his Christmas party.”

Both girls don’t move until Lester holds out a hand, Gerri’s moves to stand behind him, a hand on each of the girls shoulders to pull them back if needed. 

“Thank you,” Charlotte, none the wiser, piped up enthusiastically, holding her hand out to shake his eagerly. 

“Thank you,” Catherine holds her hand out more reticently to shake before grasping it back quickly. 

“Ohh, she’s acting shy,” Lester laughs, looking to Gerri and Baird. “Two beauties. They’ll be heartbreakers just like their mother when they’re older.”

Gerri can feel herself wincing at the compliment, however, her younger self expertly fake laughs and plays along. 

“Oh you!” She sees herself laugh loudly. “Always the flirt!”

It was odd seeing how good she was at playing the game from the outside in. 

Lester’s wife, Maria, approaches then from the sidelines to greet her, she takes the opportunity to put some distance between her and Lester, allowing both daughters to shake her hand. 

“Logan’s here,” Maria tells her, Gerri’s eyebrows perking up, already looking around the room. “He’s already asked for you both.”

“Shit,” she seethes. “I thought he was going to be in Aspen for Christmas?”

“He was but things with Sally Ann took a turn,” she offers amusedly with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh?” Younger Gerri is more than intrigued, but older Gerri knows that story. “Spill.”

“Go see Logan, grab a martini, and come find me in the lounge later. I need to say hi to my in-laws anyways,” Maria offers with a wry smile. 

“Deal,” Gerri laughs mischievously before Maria scuttles away. 

“What happened with Sally Ann?” Cecil asks with intrigue. 

“Made a comment about how he could improve in the bedroom,” she reveals with a laugh. “If you catch my meaning,” she continues, raising a knowing eyebrow. 

She didn’t think the details that Sally Ann had tried to suggest how Logan should start giving head instead of just receiving it would be something poor Cecil could take. 

“Oh,” Cecil groans knowingly. “Got it.”

They’re conversation is disturbed by her youngest piping up again. 

“Mooooommmm,” she shouts frustratedly, pulling on her hand until Gerri lowers to her level again. “You didn’t ask for the scissors and it hurts.”

She watches as the younger Gerri rolls her eyes and looks around for any servers she could ask, but no one is in sight. 

“Why don’t you both go upstairs and play with the other kids and I’ll get some scissors and come find you?” She suggests, Catherine also listening in intently. 

“No,” Catherine groans. “I want to stay with you.”

“It’s a party, sweetheart,” Gerri laughs, dismissing Catherine immediately. “Go and play with the other kids.”

“But you’re only home for a week. You said we could spend time together,” Catherine reminds her as Petit looks on sadly with a petted lip. 

“And we will,” Gerri promises. “Mommy just has to go and meet with her boss and a few other people she hasn’t seen in a while just now. But we’ll have every other day before I go back.”

She watches as Catherine remains unsatisfied. 

“But you said if we came to this party we could stay with you,” Catherine says staunchly, folding her arms over, nearly slamming her foot. 

She sees the flash of guilt in her own eye, the flash of selfishness in the other. She knows from that look that she did promise that and she knows from the same look that she’s about to break that promise using the most evasive manoeuvre. 

“Catherine, don’t take that tone with me,” Gerri warns. 

“But you said!” The girl shouts a little loudly, Younger Gerri looking around to see if anyone had heard. 

“Catherine Kellman, that’s enough,” her younger self warns more seriously this time. Gerri takes both of their hands and moves them into a corner where she hopes that no one will hear them. “You need to learn how to give a bit more respect, young lady. Now you go upstairs right now and play with the other kids or I’ll call Susan to come and pick you both up and you can go to bed. Are we clear?” 

She watches as Petit begins to tear up, older Gerri slightly disgusted with how much she sounds like her own father. 

“I don’t want to go to bed,” she whines, her little fists curling up in protest. 

“Then go upstairs like a good girl and play, okay?” Her voice begins to soften a little. “Then we can spend all day together tomorrow.”

Her younger self, moves a hand through her youngest’s hair, rubbing a thumb across her cheek with a smile before the younger girl nods. 

When she looks at Catherine, there is further defiance in the eyes of both a mother and her daughter. 

“You lied about us staying with you tonight. How do we know you're not lying about that?”

Gerri watches the stand off between her younger self and her oldest daughter, her teary youngest stuck in the middle between them both. But Gerri is an expert at deflecting, and doing it with her children will be no different. 

“Upstairs or home to bed? Take your pick,” she offers Catherine staunchly. 

Catherine’s eyes bore into her mothers, Gerri on the sidelines wishing she had been kinder, wishing she had been more apologetic at this moment. 

Catherine doesn’t speak, simply moves past her to stomp up the stairs, both Gerri and Petit watching her go. 

She looks back down to her youngest, the child unsure what to do. 

“Mon petit chou,” she smiles at her affectionately, placing a kiss on her head. “Go on,” she says, patting her bum as she encourages her up the staircase too. 

She can see the large exhale her younger self gives, her head whipping around to look at the room as she reads exactly what Gerri is likely thinking in this moment; that she needs a drink. 

“Excuse me,” she says to a passing server. “Could I get a martini with a lemon twist?”

No, Gerri thinks. The scissors. You didn’t ask for the scissors. 

She watches as her younger self skulks towards Baird, a hand on his back as he notes her there, already a scotch in his hand, swapping it into his other so he can invite her into the conversation with an arm on her lower back. She watches the minute movement of the woman’s body encouraging Baird to slowly remove the hand from her back and back around his glass. 

She remembers that it hadn’t been a good time then, the affairs had increased as she had been sent to London. He stayed in New York with the children so they didn’t have to leave school, but whilst the cat’s away… 

She doesn’t remember them even kissing in that Christmas she had visited from England. Can’t imagine that they had sex, since she can count on one hand how many times that had happened after she had discovered the affairs; pure animalistic scratching of an itch more than anything else. Could have actually been in separate rooms at that point for all she recalled. 

She watches as Gerri whispers something in Baird’s ear, looks as if it’s flirtatious when he gives a sexy smirk back as though she has suggested something illicit. They both excuse themselves and skulk away together, weaving through the hoard of people to somewhere quieter. 

Gerri leads ahead to follow them more quickly, Cecil keeping up behind at his own pace. 

“What does he want to see us about?” is the first thing out of Baird’s mouth. 

She’d whispered about Logan? Fuck they were both good at this. 

“I don’t know,” she responds anxiously. “Maria told me a few minutes ago.”

“I suppose we should go and find out. Mo said he’s in the study,” he provides as his intel. 

It’s then that she remembers what happens inside the study, her heart breaking when she realises what she has seen until now. Despite knowing the outcome, it’s like watching a train crash, you just can’t look away. How had she been so unaware back then; so self-centred.

“You look beautiful tonight, you know,” Baird flirts so easily, his most charming smile on display, his body gravitating closer to hers. 

She’s always known why she fell for him in the first place; the magnetism of him, the intelligence, the charisma that always radiated from him. 

Her younger self simply narrows her eyes and stares him out, eventually giving him a small nudge backwards away from her as he scoffs at the defeat, shakes his head at being shot down. 

“How long are we gonna do this, Gerri?” He asks confidently, bringing his drink to his lips. 

“For as long as I like,” she fires back quickly, her arms folding over protectively in front of her. 

“It can’t go on forever,” he reasons as though it were obvious.

“Can’t it?” She challenges with a taunting raised eyebrow. 

“Don’t be like this,” he semi-whines. “I told you I was sorry.”

“Yeah, well, sorry doesn’t cut it,” she slices back ferociously in a hushed tone. 

She can see the hurt in her eyes, still remembers to this day how angry and lost she had felt. She had loved him so deeply, trusted him wholeheartedly, and been shattered when he had betrayed her. There had been no one like Baird; a strong, virile, independent, astute man who was supposed to give her that kindness and stability after the childhood she had known. He had promised to protect her, to love her, to elevate her. It’s a shame that he only succeeded in one of the three. He had helped her find her place in Waystar, there was no doubt about that though she had raised through the ranks on her own merit. It was just a shame he protected her from everyone but his own selfishness. 

“What do you want me to do?” He asks in an angry whisper. “Beg? Because I’ll do it.” He’s using his frame to surround her now, cornering her up against the wall so no one can intrude on the conversation, so no one can catch him engaging in the weakness of apologising to his own wife. 

However, it doesn’t work, not on her, and she’s so glad now that she stuck to her guns, that she hadn’t given into those light blue eyes of his, because at least she still had her dignity. She looks up to him, blue meeting blue in a battle of the wills.

“There’s nothing you can do,” she tells him seriously. “I told you that I won’t leave. It won’t help either of our reputations, nor the girls. But nothing will change what you’ve done,” she states plainly before watching as he stumbles back in realisation, while she takes the opportunity to remove herself from the situation and head to see Logan with Baird on her heels. 

Gerri moves along the corridor with them, Cecil following her slowly behind. 

“I didn’t realise he was such a cad!” Cecil chokes out as they move along. Gerri looks back to him, a slight smile on her lips. 

“Yeah, well,” she dismisses with a shrug, a conversation she wasn’t willing to have with him, ancient history. 

“He’ll be getting an ear full when I return!”

When they get into the study with Logan, there is no merriment, no wishes of yule tiding, he cuts straight to the case. 

“I’m going to need you in LA tonight,” he directs to the pair. 

“Who, me?” Baird asks, a hand to his chest, her younger self gawking as she looks around to him. 

“No, Gerri,” he clarifies as her head darts around to him, watches him writing in his diary, completely uninterested at the bomb he had dropped.

“Me?” she almost squeaks out. “But Logan,” she scoffs as though it were obvious. 

“But Logan what?!” Logan barks loudly, looking up to both of them. 

There is a beat when everyone in the room is silent, Frank in the corner sitting silently, trying not to draw attention to himself. 

“Logan,” Baird begins calmly. 

Baird had always taken the ‘appealing to better nature’ conversations. That man-to-man bullshit, the family things easier coming from a man than a woman, they would always make her look weak and she refused to look like that.

“With all due respect,” he continues, “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and Gerri has just come back from London to see the kids for a week.”

“And?” Logan asks. “We have the fucking threat of a writers strike in the studios and it can’t fucking wait. Disasters don’t fucking stop for Santa Claus!”

“Absolutely,” Baird agrees resolutely. “Completely agree it can’t wait. Can’t we send someone else though. Gerri and I will be on the other end of the phone to advise.”

Logan seems to change tactics, takes his glasses off and huffs as though disappointed that Baird would be so idiotic to make a counter suggestion. 

“Baird,” he shakes his head sadly. “You know why Gerri has to be the one to go there. You’re the one who married her and now the assets that she has.” He takes the liberty of looking Gerri up and down now. “Physically speaking,” he clarifies. “And you know that the head of the union took a shining to her last summer. With her in London, this is the only opportunity we can get her over there. He’s already willing to meet.”

She wishes it was the first and only time she had used her femininity as a negotiation tactic. She had never gone over the line, but a little flirting with the correct clients; a little flattery, allowing them to think they stood a chance worked very much in her stead during those years when she was in her prime. Now not so much, expect Laurie. 

They all sit in further silence, unsure what to say. Gerri’s eyes are trained on her younger self. She thinks of the two children upstairs who will be heartbroken when they hear and hold onto it for the rest of her life. The origin story of how Gerri chose Waystar over her children. First London, now Christmas. 

“Look at it this way,” Logan continues. “The sooner you shut this down, the sooner you come back. Meet with him in the morning, you’re home for putting out the cookies and milk tomorrow night, hmm?” 

She sees the challenge in Logan’s eye, the dare that he doesn’t think she would be able to do it in that short a time period. Gerri watches in real time as something switches within her younger self. 

“It’s fine, Baird,” her younger self says, patting his shoulder fondly. “I’ll be back in time for Christmas.”

She watches as Baird nods his head, Logan's scornful smile watching her, though she admits there is a hint of being impressed by her ambition. 

Gerri can’t help but shake her head at her own self, Cecil coming up beside her. 

“It’s time to go,” he tells her quietly. 

“Good,” she sighs, turning around as the others continue their conversation. “I don’t want to relive the next part.”

“They were upset?” Cecil asks, holding his arm out as she takes it and leads them towards the elevator. 

“Only for the rest of their lives, yeah,” she responds flippantly, trying to avoid drunken attendees at the party. 

“So you didn’t make it home for Christmas?” He presses further, just as they approach the lift, but she’s silent as they get in and the doors close. 

“No,” she breathes, looking down at her feet, the dread filling her as the sad eyes of her youngest, and the anger in her eldest repeats over and over in her memory. Those same emotions crossed over the same two girls as they had become older.  “There was a snowstorm. I had the deal was sealed by the next afternoon. Avoided one of the biggest writers strikes in history which would have catalysed an actors strike too and billions of dollars lost for not just our studio by the way. But there was a major storm on the East coast. I couldn’t get clearance to land. Had a driver take me over 12 hours from Chicago. Didn’t get in until the afternoon on Christmas Day, which you can guess didn’t go down very well.”

“That’s not your fault though,” Cecil tries to sympathise. 

“No,” she reasons. “But I could have pressed harder against going.”

They stand in silence as Cecil tries to take his card out of his breast pocket again, looking down to it as she stews in her misery. 

“Oh!” He shouts with mirth. “Don’t worry. This one will cheer you up!”

She looks at him with confusion as he reaches for the buttons. 

'2'

‘0’

‘1’

‘9’

She considers the date, thinking back to Christmas Day the year before. Another failed, strained dinner with her daughters in her apartment, not exactly what she would consider a cheer up session. 

However, when the elevator dings again and she opens the doors, she realises she is in the foyer of a hotel, the room across the way loud and roaring with music, shouting, and laughter. 

The realisation hits her that she was at the Waystar Christmas party. 

It was an annual fixture that she didn’t exactly enjoy; too many opportunities for a mishap and the need for a call to HR that she would rather avoid. But she had been one of the main players since she had become General Counsel; not even Baird’s death could save her from attendance. It was expected she would be there and what the boss made mandatory, she performed, as was her duty. 

Cecil offers his arm once more as they exit the elevator and slowly make their way into the room. As usual he directs her to exactly where he wants her to pay attention. She sees herself standing at the bar in the blueish grey dress, a throwback which makes her realise just how much more flamboyant and chic her wardrobe had become in the past year. She looked like a wallflower here in this plain dowdy dress. 

Like a boring, old filing cabinet.

She feels the pain in her stomach, a nausea at remembering such a simple moment when they had both been together trying to rule the world together. 

No, fuck no. She wasn’t going to do this. 

It’s then that she realises why she has been brought to this moment, starts flickering her eyes around the room for him when they land on his lithe frame. 

As if on cue, he rocks up behind her with that coquettish smirk, her former self completely unaware that she is about to be pounced on. This had been after Tern Haven, when he had become progressively bolder and she had truly been questioning her own fucking sanity for everything she had already been involved in with him. It was something she realises now that she really should have questioned harder considering she would have a marriage proposal from him a month later than this party. 

“Gerri,” he says politely, when he lands next to her on the bar, his body framed towards her, his hooded eyes giving her an obvious lewd once over. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Sure, Roman,” she acknowledges firmly. “Who would think you would see a colleague at a work function? Such a small world,” she offers sarcastically as he titters under his breath before ordering a drink. She watches herself take a sip of her martini, and can see that she was particularly proud of herself for extracting that laugh from him. 

“So, where’s your date?” He asks quite obviously fishing for information on her personal life. 

She feels herself smiling at that, at how obviously apparent he is being, wonders now if he had done so deliberately so she had known how he felt or if he really did think he was being subtle. She can see her former self was not smiling in the way she was, her poker face more than on display. 

“Karl’s right over there,” she says without missing a beat, watches as he splutters on his drink whilst she takes a merry sip of her own. 

“Karl?!” He splutters, looking over to where she had pointed with her head. 

She had allowed herself a small smile then, something Roman had apparently relished judging the look on his face. 

“Please,” she scoffs. “Gimme a little more credit.”

“So you didn’t bring anyone?” He asks further, sidling up to her again. “Left all the old fogies back at the retirement home?”

“Where’s the Amazonian princess?” She distracts, her tone a little more pointed. Had she really been this obvious back then? She had known deep down how she had felt then but she didn’t realise it had been so fucking apparent. “Training for battle?” 

“Fucked if I know,” he shrugs. “Could be,” he nods as if he thought it was entirely plausible. “Riding a horse into unchartered territory or maybe she’s riding junkie Pierce. Who cares anyway.” 

She watches as her former self is taken aback a little by that, yet a small sense of relief of victory maybe. 

“Going well between you both, I take it?” 

“Eh,” he shrugs noncommittally. “Don’t want to talk about that. Did you know that Hugo hires hookers and makes them dress up as Who’s from Whoville and then he dresses up as the Grinch and fucks them?” 

She doesn’t know now, nor did she know then whether that was actually true or a deflection tactic, either way, the image is burned into her hippocampus. 

“That is maybe the most revolting thing you’ve ever said,” she deadpans as he gives that little chuckle under his breath again. 

“Not my fault he’s a kinky fuck,” he observes, leaning his elbow on the bar and looking out over to where Hugo was standing. “Would be hot if it wasn’t him. Don’t you think?”

She gives an involuntary wrinkling of her nose to show her disgust. 

“You have issues.”

“What?” He asks mock offended as he looks around to her. “You don’t want to be the Martha May to my Grinch? I can do the rhyme like Seuss if you want. Roman and Gerri sitting in a tree, freaky fucking like they shouldn’t be.” 

She has to hold in a smirk at his sheer stupidity, remembers having an appreciation for his quick witted rhyming then, but she knew then shouldn’t encourage it. It’s now that she’s glad that he can’t see her, that she’s free to give a small laugh at his flirtation like she had wanted to. 

She watches herself lean in conspiratorially, until he follows suit. 

“Too much fuzz,” she grinds out provocatively, keeping her voice quiet, slow, and him on a cliff hanging onto her every word. “Only a fucked up little creep would be into a fantasy like that.”

She watches as his eyes blacken, his body squirming like it took every inch of willpower to keep the sexual energy he wanted to realise onto her pent up in his little body. Who knows what he would have done if she had actually let him. 

Had she ever been desired by a man in the way that she is desired by him? Had she ever been as stimulated, challenged, driven crazy in the best way possible by any man other than him? If only he hadn’t fucked it up so terribly, who knows where it would have led. 

“I don’t know, Ger,” he growls out, his hips curling minutely against nothing when she leans away from him, takes another uninterested sip of her martini. “You didn’t say no. Seems like its got your panties in a twist.”

“I didn’t say anything,” she deflects, looking around the room casually. 

“You’re hotter than her, you know,” he observes without thinking, looking at her profile as she ignores him. “Than Martha May.”

She turns back around to him, flutters her eyelashes wildly as though she can’t believe her ears, looks at him like he’s a silly boy, and he was one. 

“Am I supposed to be flattered by that?”

“Fuck yeah,” he shouts, downs the rest of his drink as she looks on. “She’s as hot as they come, but you,” he pauses for impact, raising his hand higher than his head to show her the levels. “Above them all,” he reveals seriously. When he catches her eye, the energy all of a sudden shifts. She watches as he becomes embarrassed, pulls his hand down slowly, looks at his shoes. She watches her former self become uncomfortable and look out to the remainder of the room, licks her lips nervously before rolling them against each other. 

“For a geriatric relic, obviously,” he tries to save while gesturing to the bartender for another drink. “Do you have medicare yet, or what? I’m sure someone from HR was supposed to contact you about that.”

She watches as her former self rolls her eyes at him, her current self shaking her head with a smile. 

“Merry Christmas, Roman,” her past self offers flatly before picking up the remainder of her glass and gathering her clutch purse. 

“Merry fucking Christmas, Gerri,” he says to her with that flirtatious smirk again, as she begins to walk away. “You fucking siren,” he adds when she’s a step away, her past self’s head looking back over her shoulder at his self-satisfied form propped up against the bar. 

“Don’t forget we have an 8am tomorrow, don’t be late,” she warns lightly, before walking away again. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he blows off before making a jerking off gesture. “Don’t forget you said you’d make out with me under the mistletoe later,” he shouts after her as she gives a serious warning glance over her shoulder this time. 

“She did say that,” he repeats to a nearby stranger who he catches staring at him.

Gerri looks around to her former self retreating, in a flash of a moment she decides not to follow as she can’t help but take a minute to watch him. She sees him as he turns around towards the bar, puts his head in his hands and lets out a large groan. 

“Really,” he mutters under his breath to himself. “Geriatric relic, Jesus fuck,” he mumbles to himself before running his hands through his hair and messing it up before smoothing it over again. It’s then that the bartender puts a drink down on the counter in front of him; Roman knocking it back in one. 

She can’t help being drawn to him, the thoughts and emotions so deep within that she didn’t think she could ever share them with anyone. As she watches before her very eyes the disaster he can be, she wants to move up closer to him, wrap an arm around his back, her fingers through his hair, tuck him into her neck. A moronic man-child who has no idea how to navigate something as basic as a crush. He had no cool, and yet bucket loads of charisma that could have blasted him into the stratosphere, and yet, he’d thrown it all away. 

No, she shakes her head again. She couldn’t do this. Not right now. 

She feels the ache in her chest as she begins to pull away, Cecil at her side again. 

“He really is taken by you, isn’t he?”

She plays it nonchalantly.

“Is he?”

“Well it’s as plain as the nose on your face,” Cecil tells her with a laugh. 

She watches as Roman starts becoming unsettled, frustrated with himself, watches as he puts a fist on the bar top, gives a small kick to the bottom of the bar. 

“Fucking moron,” he says to himself, before he storms away quickly through the crowd. 

She moves to follow him, doesn’t want him to do something to hurt himself like he had after the funeral, however, Cecil catches her arm, holding her back with a surprising firmness. 

“It’s time to go,” he tells her kindly with a sad smile. 

“But, I just have to check…,” she begins talking, pointing in Roman’s direction before he cuts her off. 

“I’m afraid we have to leave now,” he explains further. “Time’s up.”

He offers his arm for a final time, moving slowly with her towards the elevator. On the way out she searches the crowd, sees no sign of Roman, she sees herself in a group of top minds. The eyes of her former self continue to leave the conversation every so often to search the crowd for him, moving back to the conversation when she’s unsuccessful. 

When they get into the elevator, she closes the door again, watches as Cecil types in 

‘2’

‘0’

‘2’

‘0’ 

“It’s been a real pleasure, Gerri,” he divulges with a smile, the shakiness still slightly there, his hand coming to settle on her own momentarily. 

“I’m glad that if I had to do this, Baird suggested you take me,” she praises kindly, matching his smiles. 

“Well,” he sighs heavily, “he did say that you were a tough nut to crack. That limp old men were your only kryptonite. I believe it’s specifically why I was selected. Only way he thought you would even come along.”

She’s shocked by the reveal, that this is something that Baird had even observed in her. Her mouth lies open as Cecil begins to laugh. 

“I’ve seen your past, Gerri Kellman and it’s all right that I remind you of your grandfather. It’s a good thing. It’s good to remember,” he reassures with a pat to the top of her hand.

“Is it?” She asks, quite uncertain that it actually is. All it drudges up is sad memories that she would rather forget. Reminders of what a terrible person she had been. Mementos of things she would rather leave behind.

“Oh yes,” he beams knowingly. “And it’s not all bad. That you’ve seen tonight.”

She thinks back to Roman; that elation she had felt when they were jibing back and forth. 

“You see,” he notes when he sees a light smile appear on her lips, his hand leaving the top of hers now. “Goodbye, Gerri,” he bids, pulling his hat off, offering a tilt of his head once more. 

“Goodbye, Cecil,” she whispers before she’s plunged into darkness, an uneasy pull of her entire body into what felt like some kind of void, before she wakes up with a start in her bed. She sits up quickly, her hand instantly clutching her chest, the other going to the lamp so she can look around the room for some kind of answer. 

Another dream, she observes. Her chest is heaving, her breath ragged. 

But they were so vivid, so real. 

She grabs her phone, notes that it’s 1.39am now, still early, though part of her is afraid to go back to sleep for fear of another wild dream. As much as the last one was harrowing at points, she would do it again to feel that elation she had with Roman, to view with hindsight the pain she had put her daughters through, and to hear her mother’s voice again. 

The more she considers it, what she doesn’t have now, she begins to bury it again when the sadness creeps over her and then she remembers Cecil’s words. 

It’s good to remember . 

With that she turns the light off and lies back down, waits until she’s comfortable until she begins to replay the good memories again as she drifts off to sleep.