Work Text:
Octavia came home mad. She hated her job at the best of times, serving stupid burgers and stupid fries to stupid people who were always full of stupid complaints -- but today had been particularly infuriating. Some kid had asked for a water cup, then proceeded to run along the soda fountain hitting every single drink. And then when she asked him to stop, he looked her dead in the eye and dumped the whole thing on the ground. And then her boss yelled at her for upsetting a customer and made her mop up the sticky, slippery, stinking mess.
One of these days she was going to punch someone. The only question was whether it would be a customer or a coworker.
She threw her work bag onto the ground, sighing loudly. A head popped out from around the doorway to the kitchen, her roommate’s smiling face making Octavia’s mood feel all the blacker. “Rough day?” Carole asked.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Octavia grumbled, kicking her shoes off. They slammed against the wall, leaving muddy smudges, and Octavia could feel Carole wince at the mess but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She’d clean it up later. Maybe.
Carole Hanson was so fucking perfect. Always on top of bills and cleaning and cooking, always had her perfect life perfectly figured out, always did exactly what she was supposed to when she was supposed to. The only reason she was even taking a gap year between high school and university was to save up money, so she was working at Pine Hollow Stables and gaining experience and it was all just perfect. Gross.
Octavia knew she should be grateful for Carole’s organization and her patience, for every time she reminded Octavia about rent or made dinner or took out the garbage. And she was, most of the time. But today, she just hated everything. Today, she just felt acutely aware of how much she didn’t measure up.
Carole would have gotten into Boston University. Carole would have aced a political science major. Carole would have made friends and joined clubs and gone to parties. She just didn’t want to.
Well, now Octavia didn’t want to either. But she still wasn’t sure what she did want.
She’d just gotten home, and her legs were aching from the long shift, but Octavia shoved her feet into sandals anyways. “I’m going for a walk,” she said. “I need some air.”
“Oh,” Carole said. “Okay. I’m making lasagna for dinner if-”
Octavia shut the door -- a little harder than she meant to -- cutting off the end of Carole’s sentence.
There was a wooded area just behind the apartment complex, and Octavia plunged into it. She felt the sticks breaking under her feet, heard the leaves rustling, and she tried to feel soothed or calmed -- but she was just angry in a new place.
It wasn’t fucking fair. Bellamy had always been the golden boy, and Octavia had only ever wanted to be just like him. She wanted to follow in his footsteps and show she was just as smart, just as talented, just as good. He was top of his class in high school, got into one of the top political science universities on the east coast, graduated with honors, and was halfway through a law degree. And she… wasn’t. Hadn’t. Couldn’t. Never would be.
It was hard enough being homeschooled due to her poor health, leaving her few opportunities to make friends. It was harder when Boston University had rejected her application -- she’d at least gotten into University of Massachusetts Boston, which almost sounded the same if she said it fast enough, but it wasn’t. And it was even harder when she realized that she was desperately out of her depth, that she hated political science and hated university and hated Boston.
She wasn’t Bellamy. She’d never be Bellamy, no matter how hard she tried.
Octavia growled a deep, guttural sound that was half-expletive and half-animal. She kicked a fallen tree trunk, hard, then slammed the heel of her hand into a dead branch. It broke off, and she grabbed the loose stick, instinctively settling into a fencing stance as she gripped it. She held the pose for a long moment, then let out a wild yell and charged at the nearest tree.
Lunge. Feint. Parry. Riposte. The movements came easily to her as she wielded the stick this way and that, slamming it against the tree over and over. She settled into a drill pattern, the steps flowing together like a dance. This was soothing, in a way that the forest itself hadn’t been. As she fought, there was no space for anything else in her mind, no worries or insecurities or frustrations. She knew these drills like the back of her hand, in a way she’d never learned how to make friends or budget or file taxes. She felt confident, powerful, calm.
“Holy shit.”
The voice behind her broke her concentration. She spun, the stick in her hand stabbing forward and stopping just short of-
“Carole?” Octavia blinked, quickly lowering the stick from Carole’s throat. “What are you doing here?”
“I saw you from the window,” Carole said. “Figured I should check on you before someone called the police on the crazy lady swordfighting a tree.”
“Oh.” Octavia shifted from foot to foot. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear before.”
Carole burst into laughter at that, the sound carrying through the trees. “I guess I don’t swear very often,” she agreed. “But really, if watching your roommate absolutely go to town attacking a tree -- with one of its own limbs, no less; very dark -- doesn’t merit a ‘holy shit,’ I’m not sure what does.”
It was hard to argue with that.
“Sorry about -- you know.” Octavia shrugged. “Being grumpy. Almost stabbing you. Today was… it hit a nerve.”
“I’ve been there,” Carole said, smiling softly. “No hard feelings. Did fighting a tree help?”
Octavia laughed, partly self-consciously but also genuinely. It felt good to laugh. “It helped a bit,” she said. “My fencing lessons were probably my favorite part of homeschooling. It’s one thing I’ve always been good at.” She sighed again. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel like there are a lot of things I’m good at.”
“That’s nonsense,” Carole said. “You’re good at tons of things.”
Octavia shrugged, kicking at the leaves. “Not things that matter,” she muttered.
Carole tilted her head to one side, considering her. “Come with me,” she said suddenly. “I have an idea.”
Octavia frowned. “What are you-”
“Just trust me,” Carole said. “I think it’ll help.”
Octavia didn’t trust her, not entirely, not without knowing what on earth Carole was planning, but she didn’t really have any better ideas either. So all she said was, “Okay.”
Fifteen minutes later, Octavia climbed out of Carole’s beat-up pickup truck and looked up at the sign welcoming her to Pine Hollow Stables.
“Why did you bring me to your work?” she asked, glancing around.
Carole laughed. “Well, first of all, I need to check on a couple of the horses -- Samson’s been off his feed this week, and Topstar strained a ligament. So I needed to come down anyways. But mostly...” She reached out and gave Octavia’s shoulder a quick squeeze before dropping her hand. “This is where I come when I’m feeling upset. If I’m angry or sad or scared, being around the horses always helps me.”
Octavia couldn’t help feeling doubtful. “I don’t know, Carole,” she said. “I’ve never… anything, really, with horses. I don’t know the first thing-”
“You don’t have to,” Carole said. “Everyone starts somewhere. I’m not going to, like, take you jumping or anything. We’re just saying hi. You know how to do that, I’m sure.” She threw Octavia a teasing smile, and Octavia tried to return it, but it felt weak.
She followed Carole into the stables, walking down rows of stalls. Some of the horses were tucked away and dozing, but others poked their heads out as they heard Carole’s footsteps. Octavia scanned the names hanging under each door -- Cowboy, Sunny, Domino, Aria.
Carole led the way confidently, stopping in front of a stall that contained a horse covered in brown and white patches. The sign on the door declared this to be Patch.
“Hello, boy,” Carole said, leaning against the door. “How are you?”
Patch’s ears perked up at the sound of her voice, and he quickly walked over to the door, whickering happily. Carole laughed as he shoved his head under her hand, demanding scritches.
“Oh, all right then, you rascal,” she said, rubbing his nose. She reached into a pocket with her other hand, pulling out a piece of carrot. Patch stretched his neck out for it, but Carole kept it out of his reach, holding it out to Octavia instead. “Do you want to?” she said. “He’s a sweetheart, very food-motivated. He’ll love you forever if you feed him.”
Octavia shifted nervously. “Well, I… if you’re sure?”
It came out as more of a question than Octavia meant it to, but Carole didn’t seem to notice as dhe pressed the carrot into Octavia’s palm. “Hold your hand like this,” she said, spreading Octavia’s fingers out flat. “It makes it easier for him to grab the food without accidentally catching your fingers. Hold it out to him.”
Octavia’s heart was pounding, but she obeyed. Patch regarded her for a moment, then lowered his head to snuffle the treat in her hand, crunching it happily.
“You can pet him,” Carole said, nudging Octavia with her hip. “He’s the friendliest horse in here.”
Octavia obediently reached out, running her fingers along Patch’s nose. He pressed his head back against her hand, leaning into the touch. Octavia smiled in spite of herself. “Oh, hello there,” she said softly. “You like that, huh?”
Patch whickered softly, as though he was trying to answer back, and Octavia laughed.
“Fair enough,” she said.
“It sounds like you two are becoming fast friends already,” Carole said, smiling. “Do you want to hang out here while I get a few things done? Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
Octavia looked at Carole, then back to Patch, who looked like he’d achieved pure equine bliss as she rubbed his nose. “Yeah, I think we can manage that.”
It was nice, she had to admit. It was hard to feel upset while petting a horse, especially one as happy as Patch was. She murmured nonsense to him, and he whickered as though he understood.
“It must be easier, being a horse,” she said eventually. “You go where you’re told, and at the end of the day you get your hay and a carrot. Or whatever they feed you. But you don’t even have to worry about that. You don’t have to figure anything out.”
Patch snorted, tossing his head and knocking Octavia’s hand aside.
Octavia sighed. “I know, I know, feeling sorry for myself won’t help anything,” she said. “But I just… I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know who to be. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know anything. And it scares me.”
Patch stared at her with his big, unblinking eyes, steady and sure. Octavia swallowed around the lump in her throat.
“I thought I had everything planned out,” she whispered. “It seemed so simple, to just follow in my brother’s footsteps. It made him happy. It made him successful. I thought it would be the same for me. But instead…” She shrugged. “I couldn’t do it. I failed out of university. Everyone in my dorm thought I was weird. Hell, just taking the bus by myself scared me. I'd never really been out in the world like that, never been on my own before, and I couldn’t do anything right. And so what did I do? I ran away. Just… got on the first train out of there. Didn’t care where it was going.”
She wiped at her eyes, refusing to acknowledge the source of the wetness. “I ran away like a fucking coward. Probably scared the shit out of my mother. I told her I’m safe, but I’ve never been this far from home. God, she must be so disappointed in me.” She wiped her eyes again. “I still can’t do anything right.”
“I think you’re not giving yourself enough credit.”
Octavia whirled around, glaring daggers at the shadowy figure standing a few stalls away. “I don’t appreciate eavesdroppers, Carole.”
“I know,” Carole said softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I was going to leave, but… I heard what you were saying. And you’re wrong.”
Octavia rolled her eyes, trying to cover up the hoarseness of her voice with a layer of bravado. “What do you know?” she said. “You haven’t lived my life.”
“I haven’t,” Carole agreed. “But I know you pretty well. Not everything, but enough.” She stepped closer. “I don’t think you’re a failure,” Carole said. “You failed at one thing, but there’s so much more out there. I don’t think you’re a coward; I think striking out on your own is brave, not cowardly. I think finding yourself is terrifying, but you’re doing it anyways.” She shook her head. “You don’t have to know where you’re going. You just have to keep going.”
Octavia threw her hands in the air. “How?” she demanded. “You make it sound so easy, but you’ve known what you wanted to do with your life since you were in pigtails.”
“I don’t know,” Carole said. “It’s your dream. It’s your life. I can’t tell you what it should look like.”
Octavia snorted, glaring at Patch’s name on the door. “Cool. That clarifies things. Thanks for the help.”
Carole was quiet for a long moment before she spoke again. “I can’t tell you what your dream should look like,” she said. “And I’m definitely biased, since I don’t know why there’s anyone whose dream doesn’t involve horses. But… when I saw you in the forest today with that stick-sword… I could see you on horseback. I could see you sitting tall and confident, I could see you riding fearlessly into battle with your sword held high… it was like one of those Medieval Times shows, or a Renaissance Faire.”
Octavia frowned, but said nothing. She tried to picture it in her own mind -- the weapons, the animals, the crowds. It felt… exhilarating. But scary.
“I don’t know how to ride,” Octavia said. “I wouldn’t want to hurt someone by mistake. Or hurt one of the horses.”
“Riding isn’t that hard,” Carole said, smiling. “I mean, it takes some practice, and something as complex as fighting would take some more work. You’d have to be careful. But I’d bet swordplay skills are rarer than riding skills.” She shrugged. “Or there are probably places you can showcase your swordplay without the horses. It’s still probably in demand. I just always try to connect everything to horses.”
Octavia nodded slowly. “I can picture it,” she said softly. “It sounds... it sounds like me. It sounds like something I could be good at. It sounds like something I could love.”
Carole’s smile grew brighter. “I think so too,” she said. “And I’ll tell you what -- I’ll give you personal riding lessons, if you give me sword lessons.”
Octavia looked up, surprised. “You want swordplay lessons?” she asked. “From me?”
“Well, yeah, if you’re up for it.” Her face grew more serious. “You don’t have to, if you’re not comfortable with it, I just thought-”
“No, no, that’s fine,” Octavia said. “I mean -- I’ve never taught before, but I can try. But -- I’d just never have pegged you for the type.”
“First of all, I like learning anything to do with horses,” Carole said. “And second of all, the way you wielded that sword was without a doubt the coolest non-horse thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I want to be able to do that.”
Octavia laughed. “Okay,” she said. “We might have to get you some smaller practice blades; I think mine would be too big for you. But after that-”
“Wait.” Carole’s eyes were wide. “Do you have a sword? Like, a real one? In our apartment?”
Octavia couldn’t decide if Carole was horrified or excited by the idea. “Um. Yes?” she said. “Not -- I mean, the practice blades aren’t sharpened so I don’t know if they count. I only have one sharpened blade. And they’re all locked up safely; I wouldn’t-”
“Can I see it?”
“Uh.” Octavia blinked. “Sure?”
Carole patted Patch on the head, then breezed past Octavia, heading for the truck. “I have the coolest roommate ever,” Octavia heard her announce to the assembled horses.
Octavia just smiled, shook her head, and followed Carole out.