Work Text:
"Ma'am? Do you need help finding anything?"
Marie starts, making sudden eye contact with the store clerk. She must have been attracting attention to herself, blankly staring at a pair shoes for what could have been an hour, for all she knows.
"No, I'm fine," she replies, wincing at the rasp in her voice. "Just looking."
The clerk eyes her skeptically. Marie bites her lip to avoid screaming at her to go away, unable to do much else. They stand in awkward silence until the clerk forces a smile and strides off, probably to gossip with her coworkers about the crazy woman in the shoe section.
Now aware of her surroundings, Marie gathers herself. She's finding it hard to focus on her task; it keeps escaping her memory. As she exits the isle, her eyes land on a gaudy Christmas tree in the corner of the store. Right. Present shopping.
She's already gotten presents for Flynn and Holly. Flynn's getting a couple new games for the system she bought him for his birthday, and new clothes, for practicality sake. She's gotten heaps of toys and picture books for Holly, as well as basic necessities to take some of the weight off Skyler. But she can't think of one thing to get her sister.
She's been wandering around the mall, staring at displays in hope that something will stand out to her for - she checks her watch - two hours now. Disorientation has become part of her everyday life. She's been uprooted, twisted into someone she doesn't recognize. Time passes idly, and she feels like an observer, merely watching as her life goes by.
She passes a Macy's and heads to their jewelry section without thinking. Something grabs her attention: a necklace. It's flashy, studded, but not expensive enough that it's behind glass. Skyler wouldn't like it, she knows. It wouldn't be appreciated.
Marie keeps staring at it anyway.
Her therapist would describe this as an obsession. She can hear his business-like tone, explaining that she's experienced several traumatic losses, which have made her feel isolated and powerless. A fixation on an object leads to a compulsion to steal, which temporarily provides a reward; according to him, she steals to have the illusion of control in her life.
She wonders what Dave would say if she gave her sister a stolen present for Christmas. Perhaps she has repressed anger. Perhaps she feels Skyler no longer has any high ground to stand on. Perhaps she just wants to feel something, anything other than the dull ache of loss.
Well, she doesn't want to hear it. Marie twists away violently, just to spite him, and walks out of the mall empty-handed and empty-hearted.
*****
Marie once heard that suicide rates were higher around Christmas. She understood the idea; sure, a person would be more depressed if they felt alone at the holidays.
It's one thing to understand, and another to experience.
She tries to distract herself at work, but no one there will let her forget. They all treat her differently, even the people who think she's annoying, plaguing her with condolences and homemade dinners. Before, she had to fight for any time off, and now her boss is offering her paid leave she doesn't want.
She also sees bitter irony in the unavoidable media attention. Several news stations are desperate to interview the wife of a fallen hero. Once, she would have jumped at the opportunity to be on TV, but the idea makes her sick. And she can't avoid coverage on the "exciting" Heisenberg case. The public fascination with the story makes her sneer. "Trying living through it," she wants to say.
Marie can't take solace in the past, either - what memory would she escape to? Her first Christmas with Hank? The year Walt fell through the ceiling, when he'd gone up to the attic to find home video? Even her childhood Christmases with Skyler are violated. She used to treasure memories of the years they worked odd jobs to buy each other gifts, as their parents couldn't be relied on to provide them. Back then, they knew each other better than anyone else. Now she can't think of a single thing Skyler would want. Her own sister is a stranger to her.
How is Marie supposed to continue to be herself, when all the experiences that shaped her have been tainted by loss and betrayal?
*****
Dave insists that some part of her is angry at Skyler. She doesn't know if he's right. She knows how she did feel, after she discovered Skyler was in on it with Walt. She can remember the resentment, the disgust, the self-righteousness. She's too tired for all that now.
Dave's right about one thing: she's aware that if her sister had acted differently, Hank might have lived. She doesn't know what to do with that thought; it sits at the back of her mind, stewing. Sometimes, she's afraid it might boil over.
But Marie also remembers the day it all fell apart. She remembers how Skyler's hands wouldn't stop shaking. She remembers the blood on her sleeves, her face frozen in fear and grief, her voice strained and eyes teary. She remembers that Hank's death had broken something in Skyler, as well. And then it's easier to put the thought away.
*****
Yet, when she makes her way to her sister's small apartment for Christmas Eve, she feels nothing but a detached sense of duty. Her heart isn't into much these days, but she holds on to what she can. She knows she loves her sister, and that's enough to push her into action.
It's funny that Marie used to be the careless one, while Skyler was the rational planner. This Christmas, Marie had to take charge: she drove to Santa Fe to get Flynn the day before, and picked up take out for dinner tonight. Skyler doesn't have the time or energy to do that kind of thing, any more.
When she arrives, Skyler and Flynn are sitting on the living room sofa in silence. Not a bad silence though, and Marie is very familiar with those. Flynn keeping an eye on Holly as she toddles around the room, a dedicated brother as always. Perhaps some time away has done Flynn well; he went to stay with friends for the first weeks of the winter break.
Skyler follows as Marie walks briskly into the kitchen, putting down the Chinese she'd grabbed. "Do you need... help with anything?" Skyler asks in that too-quiet voice of hers, so unlike her old confidence. There are times when Marie doesn't recognize her, and she wishes Walt was alive so she could kill him herself.
But those thoughts aren't useful. Marie puts on her biggest smile and shakes her head. "Nope, it's all pretty much ready," she says, cheery tone foreign to her ears. "Let's get this party started!" Skyler smiles back, though it looks almost like a grimace.
"Flynn!" Marie calls to the other room. "I got the wonton soup you're so fond of."
"Th-thanks Aunt Marie." She hears the sound of crutches as Flynn gets up to join them.
They eat dinner in companionable silence, punctuated by Marie asking Flynn questions about what he's been up to with his friends. He answers reticently, either hiding something or feeling standoffish. Skyler says nothing and barely eats, instead fussing over Holly, who's vehemently rejecting her greens.
Holly's become a sort of intermediary for them, a way to avoid difficult conversations. After all, it wouldn't do to get in a fight around the baby. Besides, taking care of her feels constructive and gives all of them a purpose. She's the only good thing that came out this whole goddamn mess.
Eventually, Flynn takes over feeding her, since he's more than willing to make silly faces until she giggles and opens her mouth. Skyler is left with nothing to do but make small talk, asking about work and fidgeting with her hands. Spurred on by the opening, Marie feels compelled to voice what's on her mind.
"I-I didn't get you a present this year," she says in a rush. "I couldn't find anything that felt right. I got stuff for the kids, but - I'm sorry."
Skyler looks startled. She tries to smile again, but this time it's sad. (Marie wonders if she'll ever actually smile again.) "That's fine," she replies. "I didn't get anything for you, either." And of course she didn't - she can barely afford to pay her bills, much less get a present for her sister.
So why is it this which makes Marie break down in tears? She feels herself shaking, liquid streaking her face, lungs gasping for air. She'd almost forgotten how it feels to cry, but she certainly remembers now.
"Marie?" She barely registers the word. "Marie?"
Skyler's arms wrap around her shaking shoulders hesitantly. This is the closest they've been in months, but Marie can hardly pay that attention, drowning in the suffering that she managed to avoid until this point. Flynn comes to her other side, trying to calm her. Holly bawls in her high chair, upset by this emotional display, but Marie can't stop. A world which has felt distant to her is suddenly all too real. Even through her tears, colors are brighter than they were, sounds more intense. Her sleepwalking through life has abruptly ended.
She buries her face in her hands and follows Flynn's advice to take deep breaths. Eventually, she begins to calm, and she looks out at what's left of her family blearily, too spent to be embarrassed. They're taken aback, worried; on autopilot, she opens her mouth to reassure them.
"Sorry," she says, feeling inappropriate humor bubble up inside her, like a joke from a man on death row. "Didn't mean to ruin Christmas." No one laughs, but the tension eases. "I promise I'm fine, I just... realized how much things have changed."
Skyler reacts like she was slapped, like Marie's words have forced her into the same awareness. They're not those teenage girls any more - they're not even snipping housewives. That they only have each other is nothing new, but things will never be the same between them, even if they forget and forgive or a hundred other platitudes. Their bond itself has become a source of pain, an unintentional casualty in the war Heisenberg waged on the world. They meet each other's eyes, and an understanding passes between them.
Acceptance steels Marie. She puts her smile back on. She tells Flynn that she can't wait to give him his presents. She gives Holly a sloppy kiss. She says I love you to Skyler.
Marie can face the truth. That's what Hank would do. He's not here, so Marie is going to appreciate what she has left, no matter the cost.
This is the first of many Christmases. They can make new traditions.