Work Text:
Guilt.
Something everyone has felt (earned or not) in their lifetime. It can be dealt with, moved on from- but if you let it, it can infiltrate your very being, sink its hooks in and invade every other part of you.
*
For Jen Harding, guilt, grief and anger were ingrained in her from the ripe old age of 19, after years of watching her mom battle cancer. When she felt a wave of relief wash over her after hearing "I'm so sorry, your mother is gone", the guilt settled itself into the pit of her stomach. The grief overwhelmed her, made the next few years of her life a blur, but once the guilt took root, it was there for good. They had a symbiotic relationship, Jen and her guilt. She felt it in every breath she took. Her constant companion, it kept her from ever truly letting another person close to her, into her heart. She didn't know how, and there wasn't space, anyway.
She experienced moments of happiness. Meeting and marrying Ted, who she did love- as much as she could. Followed closely by more guilt, and anger, as she soon realized he was not enough for her, nor she for him.
The boys brought so much joy into her life, and gave her and Ted a reason to stay together, to be a family. Yet as much as she loved them, yearned to be a good mother, it did not come naturally to her. Ted, although a shit husband, was a great father. Charlie and Henry responded to him in a way they didn't with her, and she knew it was her fault. The guilt was nearly unbearable.
After her double mastectomy, Ted gave up on the pretense of loving her enough to touch her, couldn't even bring himself to try. Then, all Jen had felt for years and years, this weight she had carried around that was constantly being fed, began to morph into rage. The night Ted died, everything she had screamed at him, she'd meant. She'd meant it when she said she never wanted to see his face again. She'd meant the punch she threw that landed squarely on his cheekbone, and she'd relished the way it stung her knuckles so badly she could have sworn something broke. At least that physical pain had momentarily distracted her from the constant agony she felt in her chest, with every breath.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Harding, your husband didn't make it."
This guilt, she knew she could never come back from.
All the rage she could no longer direct at Ted, that she couldn't bear to turn inward on herself, was now pointed directly at the fucker who ran down her husband with their car.
*
Judy Hale had her own experiences with guilt.
All she'd ever wanted as a child was for her mom to love her. She did everything she could to be good, to be worthy of her love. No matter what, it was never enough. And when people started asking her questions about her mother, of course she was going to tell the truth. It was ALWAYS right to tell the truth, wasn't it? Judy was born with this need to always do what was right. That would get people to love her, wouldn't it?
"Well, Judy Ann, you did it. Congratulations, maybe you will get a better mother now. Oh well, at least in here I don't have to worry about taking care of you," muttered quietly the first (and only) time Judy saw her mom after her testimony put her in jail, and the seed of guilt was planted. It was all her fault. Her fault that her mother didn't love her, didn't want her, and now her fault she was in jail and there was no hope for either of those things changing, ever.
The only thing Judy could do was love with everything she had. Give, give, give, and she could make up for all the wrong she had done. When she had children of her own, she knew she would give them all of her, and they would never question how loved they were. Ever.
The foster care system hadn't been kind to Judy. No family was able to give her the love she needed. She'd had boyfriends, and girlfriends (because she truly did fall in love with a person's soul, their aura), who she poured all her love into. Usually, it was too much for another person to handle. Steve was the first person who had accepted her love, and truly made her feel loved in return. So she could stomach his abusive tendencies, his harsh words, because he always apologized, and of course she said it was okay. Because as long as he loved her, it was okay. She could handle it. She could handle it for the family they were building.
With each miscarriage Judy had, the place where she held hope and positivity shrank. This energy had to go somewhere, of course, and it went right to the place that told her it was her fault. That something was broken inside her. That she didn't deserve a child, someone to shower with the unconditional love that wanted to burst out of her tiny body. It was her fault.
Her relationship with Steve was already hanging on by a thread that night, what would be the worst night of her life.
"Just drive, stupid!"
"We have to go back. We have to see if he's okay, we have to call the police, tell them what happened!"
"Oh yeah, how has always telling the truth worked out for you in the past? How's your mom?"
She felt it like a punch to the gut. Steve was her only chance at a family, so she went along with it. Of course, the relationship couldn't withstand it all, anyway.
The guilt overtook her life. She channeled it into an obsession, into finding out all she could about the man they'd hit and his family. She knew she could help. Because if there was anything she knew how to do, it was give, and love, and she would pour all she could into helping his widow. She would be the best friend Jennifer Harding ever had.
*
"Come to this group often?"
Jen couldn't explain the immediate connection she felt to Judy. I mean, she was a fucking weirdo, but something about that weirdness put her at ease. At ease in a way no one had made her feel since Ted died... or since her mother died... or, well, ever. As they got high on the beach she knew she'd never had a friend like Judy. Someone who truly saw her- through all the layers of guilt, shame, rage, grief- saw underneath all that in a way she barely could herself. She'd laughed so hard she almost pissed herself, and felt a rush of true happiness for the first time in as long as she could remember. Of course, this was accompanied by a pang of guilt for being able to feel happy, but looking at Judy, she was able to swallow that feeling down and focus on the good.
She also couldn't explain the visceral reaction, the fury, she'd felt when she learned Steve was alive and the bedrock of her new friendship was bullshit, that this person she'd already trusted wasn't who she thought she was. She told herself it was because Judy was a liar, had used her and her grief for some reason, but knew her devastation was really at the fact that she may have lost this friendship that already held such a huge space in her, a space that was actually positive. If it was gone, she knew what would fill that space once again.
Jen's rage had exploded out at Judy, in front of the grief group, who all definitely thought she was a psychopath now. The rage quickly turned into guilt and shame as Judy explained the truth of her situation. It was a truth Jen believed, regardless of her still angry words, because she knew, could feel how much pain Judy was in from the moment they met. But Judy was so special, had still filled Jen's life with such positivity that Jen hadn't paid enough attention to her new friend's feelings, was too busy enjoying how Judy made HER feel.
As Jen broke down in her car (for the 12th time that week), she knew it was her fault, too. So it was out of guilt, and selfishness (of wanting, needing Judy near her to feel NORMAL), that she made the snap decision of telling her she could stay in the guest house. Judy was shocked, she could tell, and maybe the whole thing was nuts, but Jen didn't care. For once, she let herself lean into something, someone that made her feel good about herself. It ended up being one of the best decisions she's ever made, or at least it seemed that way for awhile.
The hits kept coming. Lorna (enough said), Bambi, Charlie doing his best Heisenberg impression (okay, maybe more like Jesse Pinkman, but still), Christopher "professionally" dumping her... and while these things all fed into Jen's self-hatred, Judy was there. Judy supported her, loved her, loved the kids, shined a bright light on her even in the darkest moments when she didn't really want it, would have liked to pull a shade down over it. Regardless, it was there, and some cracks were beginning to form in Jen's pain. Some days, somehow, she was breathing a little easier. Slowly, Judy was allowing her to heal.
Four words brought that to a screeching halt.
"No, I hit him."
*
All Judy ever wanted to do was help Jen. And as soon as she met Charlie and Henry, help them, too. She thought she could be there for them, bring some positivity into their lives, be a rock for them. She never intended to take from them, to get so much in return.
The true connection she'd felt to Jen was instant, and she hadn't anticipated it. When Jen started to open up, to truly let her in and SEE her, Judy knew what a big deal that was, could sense that was something Jen never did. And when they got high on the beach, Judy knew she could fall in love with this person, probably was already falling, a little bit. But Judy knew she would never deserve Jen in that way, plus, Jen was straight, and Judy did not make a habit of chasing straight women. Platonic love was more than she deserved from Jen, and she'd take however much of it she wanted to give her.
Judy had felt so terrible when Jen found out the truth about Steve, so guilty, accepted Jen's anger and that she was probably out of her life now (heartbreaking, but also some relief mixed in because that anger was the only tip of the iceberg of what she deserved, of what she'd be on the receiving end of if Jen ever found out the OTHER truth). It was one of the most shocking moments of Judy's life when Jen not only forgave her, but offered her a place to live. No one had ever shown her such generosity before. She should have said no, but she was greedy, wanted more of Jen, and wanted her chance to atone.
The guilt was eating her alive, but the love she felt for Jen and the boys grew every day. It killed her to see the pain they were in, pain she knew SHE had caused, but as she poured love into food and hugs and jokes, made them laugh, she knew they needed her just as much as she needed them. Like she told Steve, she couldn't lose them. They couldn't find out the truth.
Until she saw Jen placing the blame on herself. The pain Jen was in made Judy feel as if she was splitting in two, and at this point, she loved and valued Jen more than her own happiness, her own FREEDOM.
"No, I hit him."
"You can die."
At that moment, she wanted to. The anguish swallowed her whole.
*
"I love you."
"I fucking hate you." Jen said it with as much venom as she could muster, willing herself to feel it. The guilt that she couldn't, couldn't even hate the woman that killed her husband because she loved her so much, was truly fucking her up. She couldn't even begin to process it.
*
"I'm going away."
At least she could give Jen this. She could disappear off the fucking planet.
*
"SHE was the one driving, SHE did it!"
Jen couldn't believe she hadn't seen it before. Of course it was Steve who was truly responsible. He had a power over Judy, and Judy would never willingly hurt a fly.
Something (everything) exploded inside her, and next thing she knew, Steve was floating in the pool.
"Judy, I need you to come home."
(She felt guiltier about using Judy than about killing Steve. What did that say about her?)
*
"What do we do?!"
Of course Judy's guilt, knowing this was all her fault, is what allowed her to go along with helping Jen hide the body and cover it up. Whatever she needed. None of this would have happened if Judy hadn't brought Steve into Jen's life. She had to protect Jen, protect the boys. They needed their mom.
So what if it was destroying her soul. It's what she deserved.
*
The weeks after Steve died were a blur, an ever-more-complicated blur. Constant anvils of guilt were being dropped on Jen, settling in her gut, her chest, when she let herself think about all she'd done.
You killed a man who was walking away from you. Thud.
You lied to Judy about it, and manipulated her into helping you cover it up. Thud.
You didn't even let her grieve him. Thud.
You aren't allowing Judy a chance at happiness with Michelle, because it may be bad for you. Thud.
You're gaslighting your own son. Thud.
You're the reason goofy ass Ben will never be able to make amends with his brother. The reason crazy ass Eileen will never see her favorite son again. Thud, thud.
You got drunk and needed to feel wanted so badly that you slept with the identical twin of the man you murdered. THUD.
You lied to Henry, and now he doesn't even want anything to do with you. Thud.
It was crushing, a wonder Jen could even walk around with everything she was carrying. The night in the garage, when she finally broke down and came clean to Judy, and said all those awful things to her, is when it all snapped. Then she saw the pain Judy was in because of her, watched this perfect human who she had taken such advantage of, yet loved so deeply, hurting herself because of Jen's words, and Jen knew something had to give.
Judy fell asleep in her arms that night, in her bed, after Jen whispered over and over again how sorry she was, how she didn't mean what she said, how much she loved Judy, how she'd be lost without her in her life. She crawled out of bed when Judy was asleep. Jen tucked her in, brushed some hair out of her face, and everything she felt overwhelmed her. Judy looked so angelic, so peaceful, so beautiful, and amongst all the guilt and shame, Jen felt something like heartbreak. But she knew what she had to do.
Judy deserved happiness. Judy was a better mother than Jen could ever be. Judy would love and protect the boys with everything she had.
Jen had to confess. She couldn't live with the guilt anymore. Almost thirty years it had been building. It was time.
She'll never be able to explain what happened in Perez's car.
*
"Jen?!"
A wave of panic came over her when she woke up to an empty bed, expecting to see Jen and instead finding a letter.
The tears fell down her face as she read it, feeling so many conflicting emotions. Jen forgave her, Jen was glad she was in her life, even with the fucked up circumstances that brought them together. Jen trusted her enough to leave the boys to her. Jen loved her more than wine. So although her heart shattered at the thought of Jen going away, of not being there, Judy felt a resolve like she never had before in her life. She would be the strong mother the boys needed. She would do everything she could to help Jen.
She would always feel regret over what happened to Ted. But Jen forgave her, and she forgave herself. The need to be there for the Hardings was no longer borne out of guilt. It was borne out of love.
The relief she felt when Jen walked back through the door almost knocked her on her ass.
*
As they sat on the outdoor couch together, in what had become their spots, Jen felt the need to give Judy an out. It would kill her if Judy took it, but it's what she deserved.
"I forgive you."
"Oh, shut up!"
Jen knew Judy was right; she had to figure out a way to forgive herself. As she held Judy on the couch, a wave of thankfulness washed over her. She really had been given a second chance. And while she couldn't cure cancer (she knew her limits), maybe she could cure herself. For her boys. For Judy.
Going back to the grief group, and participating honestly, was a good first step. As soon as she opened up about her mom, about her anger, her guilt, she felt a little lighter. It was a start.
*
"You need to start saying 'no' more."
Jen was right. While Judy had forgiven herself for Ted, knew it would never have happened that way if not for Steve, she still could have stood up to him. She would never put herself in that position again. She had to be stronger.
When she sat across from her mother, hearing how she blamed a BABY for her drug habit, Judy realized it had never been her fault. Her mother was broken, and nothing Judy did would ever change that. She deserved love, and happiness, and she'd never find it in this woman.
"No. You haven't changed."
Judy walked out of there feeling like a new person. Or on the road to it, at least.
*
After Judy fell into a huge pile of money, and they were able to buy Lorna out, Jen felt another small weight lift off her shoulders.
Jen felt joy when they picked out a new car for Charlie. Then they were driving home, and Jen allowed herself to laugh at Judy's lighthearted flirting, the fucking weirdo, and knew looking at her that she felt happy, too. For the first time since they'd known each other, there weren't all these other layers of shit between them. Jen could just enjoy Judy's company, and she was realizing it was the best company she'd ever had. Then they'd stopped at her stop sign, and a new sense of pride settled on top of her happiness. For the first time in years, she felt… good.
Of course a car fucking hits them.