Work Text:
Mary Beth [the mother] has perfected her technique for coddling a temper tantrum. She can reason with nearly every child (as well as one very temperamental sergeant.) Yes, even at forty-one, Christine can regress into a headstrong four-year old in a matter of seconds, but Mary Beth remains calm, collected, and the keeper of peace.
Forever the exhausted parent, she’s learned to rest in doses: eyes closed, a few deep breaths, reluctant eyes open, the pattern repeats. Here and now, the bright red of the clock reads 5:47 a.m. and she loses track of the pattern. What should be exhaustion is replaced by — hell, she’s not sure. Anger? Concern? Disappointment? Any other night, she’d be trying to nudge Harvey out of a snoring fit; tonight, she stares at a childlike, sleeping Christine and tries to ignore the uneasy ache in the pit of her stomach. Usually a good cleaning rampage would be her go-to remedy for stomping out anxiety, but right now, even surrounded by a mess of empty bottles and junk food wrappers and sticky ice cream containers, she’s numb to the urge.
♦
Mary Beth [the partner] can recall nearly every case they’ve muddled through. She can't imagine going through it all with anyone else. Nervous and unsure on her first day, she’ll never forget how many blessings she counted for the immediate synergy between she and Christine, how the wheels started turning from the get-go (and haven't slowed since.) But she knows better than to romanticize; there’s been friction and compromise and rough edges they’ve never quite learned how to smooth out. Near-screaming matches and uncalled-for accusations, or that troubled look from Samuels as they angrily sign themselves out for the evening without speaking.
Still, the years wear on and somehow the arguments (God knows, there have been plenty) become fainter in Mary Beth’s memory. The early mornings spent practicing their shots at the range, the endless stakeout nights with cold fast food, the conferences in their crummy john: these are the moments that remain clear and intact. Plain and simple, what they have together works.
She just can’t believe Chris is selfish enough to throw all of it away.
♦
Mary Beth [the friend] doesn’t suppress herself in the same way Christine does. She allows her emotions to flow freely, sometimes even erupt when they get the best of her. Warm and consistent, reliable and compassionate, a shoulder to cry on, a sounding board, an audience for the endless parade of boyfriends, an eternal pep talk: she is everything.
Christine, on the other hand, is a different kind of friend (if you'd call it that.) It's not as though she doesn't care, she's just...a little preoccupied — Mary Beth should know, she's used that excuse in her defense to Harvey a million times before. Christine is forever the star of same old show and Mary Beth becomes familiar with the worn-out plot: independence, isolation, detachment. A tagline that reads: ‘Christine Cagney doesn’t need anyone or anything!’ Mary Beth remains one of the chosen few that have seen the cracks in the façade and imagines it must be a heavy burden to bear.
She never asks outright.
♦
When the harsh light of dawn rises over the city and Christine, groggy and hungover and confused as all hell, finally opens her eyes, Mary Beth isn’t sure which one she should be.