Chapter Text
The following Friday morning greets Lars with a gentle pattering of rain outside her window, it blurs the semblance of sun as the grey clouds rest like phantoms in the powder blue sky.
She set her alarm early today. Lars felt almost-new. It’s odd, given that nothing had really changed. She definitely didn’t get much sleep last night, it felt unnatural to her often strained nerves to be so effortlessly ecstatic.
Karin was really, very, incredibly kind last night. And Lars went back to the garage and took that lasting look back into the mirror. Her reflection was the same. But, she felt different. There were so, so many things that made her feel like there was a terrible joke being played on her, but as she ran her hands through her disheveled hair, she caught a special angle in herself she had never quite seen before. The product in her hair had dispersed, letting the length come out in layers, and a subtle curl at the base of her neck sticking outward. It framed her face, her soft jaw and blushed skin, in a way that gave her an extra depth in her breath. Like something was stuck there before, not letting her take the fullest of breaths that she could.
In bed, she rubs her hand on her growing stubble, and the texture of hair on her upper lip. Lars falls asleep wondering how she feels about its presence. Lars started growing her facial hair like so because, well, what else is there to do?
In magazines, on posters, textbooks, and even on Dad; Men had mustaches! So, if she was a man, she had to have a mustache. There were a lot of rules to follow. Too many.
Lars wonders if Margo likes her mustache. She would consider keeping it if Margo likes it. Maybe.
Regardless, the morning buzzes on as any other would, she doesn’t like her routine changing too much, anyways. She does her hair, omitting the sticky styling product, cleans up, and has her breakfast. She ponders a few extra moments today to observe her options of clothing. Even though her body is tired, it feels like something even further than her mind is in a quiet, radiating, eagerness.
It’s overwhelming. Like, stupidly overwhelming.
Lars combs through the row of hanging clothes, repetitive sweaters, button ups, and flannels being the predominant articles. She pulls open her dresser drawers, trying to find an answer to what could keep this soothing feeling beating in her chest. In her boxers and undershirt, Lars freezes as she opens a very specific drawer with a reckless abandon.
It reveals colorful arrays of thin sweaters and jeans that used to belong to Bianca . With a quick gasp, like a bug got caught in her throat, she shuts the drawer closed and presses her eyes together. Even in a room that has been harbouring the sealed heat rushing out her radiator, a melancholy chill runs through her fingers, up her arms, and down her back.
She decides her brave step for the day is to take advantage of the rainy weather and layers on her floral thermal, a sweater, and an old raincoat with a pair of light slacks, the flowy ones she got secondhand from the ladies at church.
Lars does slow turns in front of her full length mirror, shuffling with her hair, puffing her chest, and testing the fold of the cuffs of her jacket, “Mhmm, looks nice.” she mumbles to her reflection with a shy smile.
Margo isn’t the most timely person. Lars would like to say she doesn’t mind, but she has been reduced to a quick pace back-and-forth from her kitchen to her bed as every pivot of her heels times another ten seconds she’s waiting. It’s not like Margo is an especially tardy person, she is just the type to somehow make it no more than five minutes after, a small inconvenience that a quick apology mends. And, usually, the muddled up frustration in Lars’ head is the sheer effort to not crumple into the anxiety of it, like a leaf shaking off an autumn tree, just to be crushed in that very specific crunch onto the sidewalk. Lars really likes seeing Margo, though, so once she arrives, Lars doesn’t give it a second thought. The crunch is satisfying, then. The moment her sweet perfume and savory voice reaches her ears, Lars never minds. Maybe, one day, if they are ever an item, Lars will bring up how those extra five minutes make her day start in a shivering mess. It’s more appropriate to bring it up then, right?
Gosh, what is Lars thinking? For all she knows, Margo would never want to be an item! But Lars’ eyes drift to her terribly empty bed (a twin, at that) and can almost see the faint image of pretty strawberry blonde hair cascading off the pillow. A second mug next to hers, an extra towel in the bathroom, a pack of the watermelon chewing gum Margo likes on the nightstand, especially useful in case if Margo would like to—
A knock, and Lars is ripped out of her thoughts. Eight minutes late, but she’s here. It's been slow at work, so they’re lucky that they can make this up with a break or staying a bit after, but the unexpected doesn’t bode well in Lars’ tumbling gut. Lars stops in her tracks and swiftly gathers her things before marching to the door, a deep breath rejuvenating her body as she tries to blink away the worry currently replacing the oxygen in her veins.
But it’s not Margo’s familiar face she sees when she slides the sheer curtain across her door window.
Gus thinly smiles on the other side of the glass, just barely being shielded by the light rain by the eave above, “Morning, Lars.” he sort-of yells, trying to overcompensate being separated by the door.
Lars' face scrunches up in confusion, the thought firmly striking-out any other movement, she waits for Gus to continue on why he’s here, not Margo.
He awkwardly scratches the back of his neck, “ I-uh, Margo called just now, says she’s sick and won’t be able to come by to pick you up today.”
Sick? She was fine yesterday. A sense of low, aching sadness rises in her chest at the fact that she couldn’t take the call and hear Margo’s voice. The landline only goes into the main house. Usually, that would be a perk of the garage, but, at this moment, it is lowly frustrating.
Gus continues, “She, uh- she says she’s sorry for calling so late, but—“
Lars shakes the feeling and opens the door, standing still perplexed at Gus, “But, yeah…” he says, a polite smile still adorning his lips as he gently rocks on his heels, keenly wanting to pivot and leave. He clears his throat.
Lars bites her bottom lip, “Sick how?” she says.
Gus chews the question for less than a moment, “Oh, I don’t know,” he says, inconsequentially shrugging.
He doesn’t know? Didn’t he ask? Surely he asked. From just the sound of her voice, whether it be frail and light or heavy and strained, Margo could be a wide array of bad. Does she need anyone right now? Lars imagines her, her already often blushed face turned hot, a stuffy nose and her eyes closed as she tries to sleep. Alone. Oh, gosh, the feeling tightens deeply and horribly in her chest. Margo is sick and alone.
Lars tries again, the worry slowly creeping up from her gut to her throat, “Well, what kind of sick? Like, flu sick? Stomach sick? Is she home?” Lars’ breath picks up a little, her voice reduced to a whisper. As if a whisper ever made something any less true, “…Is she in the hospital?”
Gus seems to be taken aback by the leap, “Hospital, oh no. No, Lars. I just think she got a cold or something.”
Gus notes the rising panic in his sister’s face, his hand making another reckless sprawl across his own, “I mean, Lars, she’s probably fine. She just needs the day. God knows we all need a day sometimes, she’ll be fine.” Gus has a magical talent of making everything seem very much not fine.
Lars’ bottom lip presses tightly under her teeth, the action making them pale. Her fingers press tight against her work bag and her thoughts come in fast but her body reacts aggravatingly slowly. Gus, although exuding the composure of someone painfully preoccupied, stands before her, scanning her discomfort like it's a fly buzzing around his head and under his clothes. He desperately seems to want to swat away the inconvenience, but Karin takes excessive time to show Gus how it is far more useful to understand the fly, and how they are often far more scared of him than he is of it. The silence persists, and Gus’ gaze darts from his shoes, to the doorframe, and he makes an annoying hum before drawing out his next word, “You know… uhm…”
Lars’ interest piques and Gus seems to have a hard time mustering up the words, “...If you want to go and check on her, I can ring her up again in the house.”
The suggestion sets off alarms in her mind, and Lars' head nods harshly and she takes her initial step off her doorstep, “Yeah, I think that’s a great idea. You can never be too sure right?” and practically begins leading Gus back into the house, using her coat to shield her from the rain.
Gus takes a second to recalibrate the quickness of her action and follows swiftly, “Right, Lars.”
In the house, Lars is warmly met by Karin and Elinor, who is tightly wrapped around Karin’s midsection with a masterful technique. Karin takes a bite out of some scraps from the baby’s breakfast and swallows quickly to say, “Mornin’’, Lars! You’re looking darling this morn–” Before she disappeared beyond the archway that separates the kitchen and living room.
Closely in suit, Gus follows Lars, quickly eyeing Karin and she silently mouths some question to the sudden urgency. Elinor audibly coos in protest to the hushed environment she is famous for imposing into nowadays. Before Gus continues to follow Lars the rest of the way, Elinor’s babbles soften the air of the room and, in a blink, Lars has peeked back into the kitchen.
She takes determined steps towards the girls, stopping just a short distance away from them and says with a practiced, “Sorry, good morning Elinor,” her gaze softens over the infant for a moment as she twists her hands together and adds, “--and good morning, Karin, you look very pretty today.” She says as she makes way to promptly find the phone again.
Gus has gone ahead to dial the number in, and Karin stops Lars in her tracks as she interjects with a familiar smile, “Not so shabby yourself, Lars.” and she gestures to her own hair, doing a ruffling motion to indicate the change in the easiness of Lars’ hair today. She ends the motion with a sturdy thumbs up.
Lars’ hand mirrors the motion and hovers over her own hair, patting it down for a moment. She can't help but duck her head in a bashful smile and skirt out the room with a fuzzy feeling rising in her gut.
The phone rings in Gus’ hand. The incessant tone loops a dozen times.
It goes on.
And on.
Until for a moment the sound pauses and Lars immediately takes the phone out of Gus’ hand, anxiously twirling the cord between her fingers.
A beep cuts through the increment of silence, and then a sweet, artificially chirpy voice chimes out, “Hi! This is Margo! I’m super not home right now, or I’m busy and can’t come to the phone. Or, well, anyways, leave your message at the beep! Thanks!”
Lars takes a moment to calm her body like Berman would tell her to. She takes deep, steading breaths that are supposed to last longer than they are before collapsing out of her lungs.
“I’m sure she just fell back asleep, Lars.” Gus interjects, shrugging and making a cautioned eye contact with Karin who has appeared in the doorway.
Karin continues, the sound is soothing to Lars, “Yeah, honey, she’s sick, let her rest. She surely has someone around to take care of her, right?” Karin’s lips pull down in a uncertainty.
“No, Margo lives alone. She told me she’s lived alone since she moved to this side of town.” Lars says fast as she begins turning new digits into the landline.
Margo lives alone, no family, no roommates, and Lars isn't really sure why. She feels a little ashamed at the feeling. Lars isn’t too good at asking questions. It’s not that she doesn’t want to know, but sometimes the questions are too much, or something the person doesn't want to answer, or incredibly boring. There's a specific lull in conversation that is so easy to miss when trying to calculate the exact phrasing and framing of a question. And, by that time, the moment is long gone.
A couple weeks ago, Margo spilled a million apologies when she forgot her office potluck item back at her place and they had to turn around back to hers to pick it up. It was a raspberry pie. Lars wishes she could’ve been there to see her bake it, her apron a mess with flour and the sweet smell radiating from the kitchen. Of course, Lars would be in the kitchen, cracking the eggs and maybe laying a kiss on her cheek while she carves shapes into the crust. The pie was incredible. Margo took her aside after lunch to tell her she had a bit of the jam left on her mustache. Lars swore that was one of the only moments she wanted to ask someone to touch her face. But, again, questions are hard.
Anyways, Margo lives alone in a townhome by the lake. The lawn is drab, but she has purple tulle curtains and an empty vase at her window.
“Come on, you don’t have to call her again, leave her be.” Gus says, a hint of annoyance seeping through his tone once again.
Lars ignores him, that’s not what she’s doing! She dials in the new number, takes a deep breath, and says with a keen professionalism, “Oh…hello? Good morning, Cindy. How are you?”
A pause from Lars’ side of the line as, presumably, Cindy continues the niceties. Gus and Karin share a mutual confusion.
Lars continues, “Oh, no, I’m fine. Everything is good. I called to–”
After another pause, she interrupted Lars.
“Yes, Karin is home. She’s right here. I don’t know why that matters, though.” Lars looks at Karin, biting the inside of her cheek in a curious impatience. Karin is growing ever confused.
“No, I just called to say I’m not coming in today.”
Gus and Karin’s eyes widened at the statement.
“I’ll be in on Monday, I would like to cash in the holiday hours I didn’t use, please.”
Cindy mumbles on the other line.
“Yes, I’m okay.”
More mumbles.
“Okay.”
Lars twiddles with the phone cord.
“...Okay, I will.”
She must be given step-by-step instructions on how to survive a Friday off.
“Okay, thank you. Bye, Cindy.”
Lars props the phone back on the receiver and stifles the urge to shake off the embarrassment of a phone call. But she needs to check on Margo.
“I’m going to Margo’s” Lars says, an exacting determination in her voice as she makes her way past Karin and the baby.
Karin whips around, Lars is past the kitchen, “Dear, are you sure? She’s probably fine. Come on, you can have breakfast.” She gestures towards the fresh scones that sit cooling on the tile countertop.
Lars’ head rings with urgency, but mulls over her suggestions. After a moment of thought, instead says, “Can I bring her a scone?” She taps her hands together, “In case she’s hungry.” Karin stands in sweet defeat, “Please..?”
With little protest, Lars is out the big house and equipped with a tupperware of scones. She starts up her car with a composed readiness and makes the short drive to Margo’s.
There are no stoplights on this way down the lake, just stop signs and roads that you have to share with the passing tractors and machinery. The rain hits her windshield and the droplets run like hundreds of shooting stars, just to be wiped cleanly away before they puddle and explode. Lars does her best to focus on the road, but her thoughts are in an involuntary state of rehearsal as to what to say to Margo as she lands on her doorstep.
Lars parks outside Margo’s house, the rain making a far more aggressive ruckus as she removes her keys from the ignition and looks across her passenger seat window. Margo’s car is parked in the driveway, she has mail that is getting terribly soaked at her doorstep, and her curtains are drawn together, but there’s still a light emanating from inside. Lars clears her throat because, for some reason, it feels like there’s something in there that she may cough up without the proactive intervention. She picks invisible lint off her pants and pulls at her collar until the worry stops only manifesting in the fidgeting of her fingers and eventually forces her feet to step out of her car and run up to the porch. She flips up the hood of her raincoat and scrambles with the tupperware in her hand until she inhales, holds it there, and knocks a tune of four on the wood paneling. She waits for a moment, a soft shadow blots out some of the fuzzy yellow in the window, seeming that Margo moves inside. Lars’ eyes widen and her shoe lightly kicks the package at the door, and she makes a quick decision to swoop down and juggle to balance atop the scones.
Another beat passes, the hem of her pants are beginning to soak in the rain.
She knocks again, adding an extra thrum this time around.
“One sec!” A muffled voice calls from inside. It’s Margo, and Lars fully lets a breath come into her chest after that.
Lars sees the knob turn and stiffens with both items in her hands as they slightly tremble in anxiousness. Or, is it excitement? She saw Margo yesterday, she sees Margo almost everyday. But some days, like today, it’s rainy. Some days, there's clouds, or there’s snow. Some days, the sun betrays the clouds and finds Margo’s face through the obstruction. It’s like seeing Margo for the first time, everytime. She’s never the same, somehow something makes her more beautiful each time. It makes her a little nervous, each time. Or it makes her excited.
Margo’s door swings open with a creak, and the blue in her eyes suddenly beams as she sees a nearly rain-soaked Lars at her doorstep, “Oh! Lars! What are you doing here?” the words tumble out, and she tries to fix it desperately, “I mean, of course, uhm, it’s good to see you. But, shouldn’t you be at work?”
As she stumbles through her words, Lars notes the pristiness of her voice, although lightly shaking, it's not torn from a cough or any sort of stuffiness. She wears a loosely fitted t-shirt with some sort of easily-forgettable brand logo on it, a weighty knit cardigan that plumess out at her forearms, and thick sweatpants with a drawstring around the waist. She definitely slept in them, which is odd since she’s definitely not sick.
“I called off work.” Lars replies, in case Margo somehow disagrees with her disregard for the workplace, “Cindy says it's okay. She said she can pass the tickets off to Kurt today.”
Margo’s lips curl into a smile that looks like it almost hurts to muster, “Gosh, well, I’ll never complain about giving Kurt more work.” She pauses for a moment, her head falling to the side in miniscule and adorable way. Any harsh line in her face softens as the rain that has just met Lars’ cheekbone runs down to her neck, reflecting in Margo’s eye like summer sun on a quiet, still lake.
In her moment of almost disbelief, her mouth opens and closes until she shutters with the realization that Lars is outside her door.
Lars is outside her door in the rain.
Lars is outside her door in the rain and holding pastries and her mail.
With a small curse under her breath, she ushers Lars in with, “Well, crap! Come in, you’re going to soak out there!” Her hand hovers over Lars for a moment, and Lars’ body instinctually curves aways as she stomps off the excess moisture from her shoes. Lars notices the space, coming into a small entryway with the coats and boots she recognizes from so many days of knowing Margo. The wallpaper and the flooring are of dark wood, making the place feel awfully cramped. The walls have small framed arrangements of things from photos to pressed leaves. Lars doesn't recognize the people in the photos, it’s too far off anyways, but they surely are family. Lars could find Margo’s smile miles away in the complete dark, and so she sees a younger version of it present in a few of the frames. Lars wonders where these people are now.
Margo closes the door behind Lars and they stand in a precise loss of what to say.
Still, Lars starts, extending both her arms to offer up the items clutched in her hands, “These are yours, Margo. Karin made scones and this is your mail.” Lars lists off, her eyes dead-set on the space of hardwood floor between them. Margo begins to grab the items, “It was getting all wet on the porch, so I picked it up. I didn’t just have your mail with me. I hope it’s okay. Whatever’s in it, I mean.”
Margo’s face lightens into an aching smile, her eyes unable to move away from Lars. She lets her speak out her explanations, not mustering up any courage or wanting to interrupt. So, once Lars finishes, she lets the silence between them fester, chasing the soft wave of Lars’ lightly damp hair. Some strands stick to the side of her face, and Margo can’t help but wish to be just a little closer to see exactly how her pretty blonde turns a glossy brown in the rain. Her fingers beat an uneven pattern on the plastic tupperware, her palms starting to sweat at the realization of the great inconvenience she caused. Margo has wanted many times for Lars to come to her house. She must have been waiting for the place to feel like a home, though. There must be something wrong inside of her because some mornings she can’t even recognize the bed she wakes up on. Like, if someone asked her to sign her name into existence, she would be sorely forgotten as the universe grew impatient at her inability to remember how. The creaking floorboards being her only reminder she can still hear.
There hasn’t been a day in quite awhile where the tangled sheets of her bed feel like they weigh upon her so heavy she can’t get out. Mornings where her coffee makes her nauseous and she counts the steps from the bed to the couch. Days where she’s so embarrassed that she finds no point in brushing her hair or changing her clothes. Now, she feels especially ridiculous, because now she has someone who may even like to protest it. Now, she carpools with Lars. She swallows her thoughts and clears her throat before speaking.
“You didn’t have to come, Lars.” She says, a croak in her voice, like a squeak from a coy animal.
Lars’ gaze immediately rises to meet her eyes, “I wanted to come.” Her gaze flickers up for a moment, finding the words somewhere over Margo’s head and, “I was worried. And, I don’t really want to go to work if you’re not there.” She admits, her mouth twisting nervously.
Margo palms her unbrushed hair, trying to flatten it down self-consciously as she chews the inside of her cheek, “There’s no need to worry about me, Lars” She lies, even though it feels like a grace, “I needed the day, you know?” The words come out painfully lilt.
Lars nods, trying to understand, shrugging the words off as if they’re easy, “Hmm. I would feel awful if I left you home alone when you’re not feeling good.”
She tucks her head down to her chest. Lars continues.
“Now we both have the day off.”
Margo can’t help but breathe out a laugh, “That’s true…”
“And it wouldn’t be good to drive off in the rain.” Lars adds, her intention completely serious.
Margo turns her head slightly up to meet Lars’ face again, “Oh, no. We couldn’t have that. That’s really dangerous.”
Lars’ face scrunches at her successful ruse to stay, “I think so too…”
The two take the short distance to the living room, small and illuminated by one tall lamp set behind the couch, Margo scrambles to fluff and fold the pillows and blankets surrounding. The scones and the mail are left majorly forgotten on the coffee table, and Lars waits at the doorframe, her raincoat shrugged off and her hands patiently smoothing the fabric on the sides of her upper thighs. Margo mutters excuses for the mess, but Lars doesn’t mind.
Lars is especially entranced to see the purple curtains from the front window have pink lace sewn onto the hem. And the vase, although empty, has a small yellow flower set right beside it, atop a creme doily. The same flowers that bloom outside her doorstep.
Lars’ mouth bobs open and closed a few times, her voice close to a whisper, trying her best to seem soft and unaccusatory, “Were you telling Gus the truth on the phone?”
Margo stops in her tracks, she has a hefty throw blanket in her arms that she freezes and presses to her chest, “I–uh, no… No, I wasn’t…”
Lars nods, that’s okay. People lie sometimes. Sometimes the truth seems so bad that lying feels like the clean thing to do. But nothing Margo does is dirty. Lars feels a coldness wrap around her fingertips and behind her eyes thinking that Margo may feel like that sometimes, “Do you feel sick today?”
Margo finds it hard to muster and answer, the blanket hugging further into her chest. She shakes her head.
Lars thought as much. She’s sure she would look beautiful even with a fever, but this couldn’t be it. There’s times Lars feels a very certain way where the excuse of a sniffling nose or upset stomach might be easier. Karin has heard many of Lars’ iterations of feeling under the weather right as dinner came around, and she always had the knack for knowing it wasn’t just allergies.
“Well, do you feel okay today?” Lars asks, her hands intertwining in front of her, the intent of her question coming from a far different intention than remembering a bad day cured with chicken soup and warm baths.
Margo shakes her head with a certainty that makes Lars’ chest sink and twist, and Margo’s eyes blink away a begging moisture from her reddening waterline.
Lars takes only a short beat to nod her head and utter a sweet, “That’s okay.”
And the tension in Margo’s shoulders, tension she didn't even realize she was holding, dissipates a little. She invites Lars to sit next to her on her sofa. They allow the separation of the cushions to be a border between them, their bodies comfortably separate, but their gazes nervously fixed on one another. It’s nice. Oftentimes, it's just nice to come and sit.