Work Text:
My pride fell with my fortunes.
Rosalind, As You Like It, Act I, Scene II
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Roger is in the bed when she comes back. The smell of alcohol is soft, almost coy with familiarity as she stops and rests against the frame of the door.
"You're not supposed to be here," she says with some amusement. Her eyes wander to the bed. Roger shifts and pulls his suit jacket back over his legs. He's colored in wrinkles, the tie around his neck cocked open. His sleeves are rolled. The blankets are a mess by his feet.
"I need a minute, sweetheart," he says. His voice is hoarse. She pulls at her coat, remembering the scarf that she's come back for. It rests in a heap on one of the desks outside, forgotten after a long day of more transition movement.
Change is good, she tells herself. Change is always good.
"Roger," she sighs finally.
Shifting from the door, she moves into the room. She settles on the side of the bed, sitting straight and rubbing her hands against her knees. Her weight barely sinks in.
He makes a sound. His fingers brush against her back. She scoffs and turns her head, looking down at him. He flashes a lop-sided grin at her, stretching his arms back and forcing her to turn as he rubs a hand against her back.
"You're here late."
"Of course," she says.
She gently pulls his hand away, putting it down on the bed. She pats it, her mouth twisting into somewhat of a smile. He groans.
"First one in, last one out – Joanie, you've always been some kind of star. Too much of a star for me, you know."
There are a few clients organized, and Joan can only assume that it has something to do with Jane and his young marriage. There are pieces of Roger that she still manages to read effortlessly because some aspects of their relationship continue to be by memory. Sometimes there because she misses this.
"You should go home."
"I should."
She laughs softly as his nose wrinkles. He drops an arm over his eyes and he sighs, mumbling something back. The sound of his voice slurs and she shakes her head, looking around the room.
Everything is clean, pressed and in order, untouched save for a few piles of paper that live on the desk. As she likes it, she thinks. "You're such a child," she murmurs.
"I just need a minute, I'm telling you."
She says nothing. She sits and listens to him, continuing to study the room and trying to force herself to stand and leave. His well-being is his own interest; it's the promise she made once she left and her marriage moved into the forefront of her sense of responsibility.
There is something to being with him like this, the low lights of the room and the heavy promise of what they used to be. It's an old habit, an odd habit, all these thoughts never being far from her mind. She used to think that she'd never be this kind of woman, sort of or close too; she was never supposed to be the one who thinks of the things that could have been.
But their phone calls come to mind, the sharp promises of nostalgia and favor, and the mix what they might have been. She thinks of him fondly, or tries to, in hopes of remaining within some sense of herself.
"How's the Greg?"
His voice is low, condescending even, and she jumps, surprised. She turns back down to look at him. She flushes. He's moved his arm and his eyes are heavy, darker under the lack of light in the room. Out of habit, she moves her hand forward and brushes her fingers against his forehead. He's hot, flushed.
"Greg," she echoes and suddenly feels self-conscious. He frowns and her thumb runs over the creases in his skin.
She shrugs. He reaches for her hand.
"No man is an island, after all."
She shakes her head. "You don't know what you're talking about," she murmurs, watching as his fingers wrap around her wrist.
"In theory, it might be nice."
He tugs at her wrist. She frowns but lets him pull her hand to his mouth. He presses a kiss against her palm, moving his mouth against her wrist. The sensation of his mouth is hot and wet.
"I mean, look at me. Talking to Jane is like … well, talking to Jane. I would talk to Mona but we're working on not hating each other – so far so good still, you know, but I don't want to kid myself. And I would talk to you, but you're Joanie and talking to Joanie makes me – makes me something, I guess."
He slurs through his words again and she's caught, watching him. Her fingers curl under the pressure of his hand and he flashes a half-smile, both sad and unrelenting. She remembers the hospital, of course.
It's been so long, she thinks. It used to make her angry too, the way that their relationship slipped – still slips, even – where honesty is nearly accidentally and he expects something in return from her. This is why there were phone calls.
"How much did you drink, Roger?"
She forces herself to pull her hand away. She studies him as he turns his head, groaning into the pillow.
She waits for something. She waits for a laugh. She imagines him too, downstairs and in the hotel bar, nursing his few drinks. Maybe that's why he came upstairs, under the dangers of someone else catching his eye.
Things are good, she's heard him say. It seemed important. It's supposed to be important. Somehow things still seem the same.
"I was talking to Jane earlier," he breathes, rubbing his eyes. "Talking to Jane makes me drink sometimes. She's a great gal, Jane."
"That's why you married her," she says gently. The smile on her mouth is cool, easy, and she shakes her head.
"Exactly why."
He shifts in the bed and then forces himself to sit up. She watches as he wavers and reaches for him, framing his arms with her hands. She steadies him and helps him to sit against the headboard.
Slowly, she starts to relax. Brushing her fingers against her forehead, she rubs her skin. She can feel the pressure of a headache growing and finally reminds herself that there is Greg and his late night with his friends. She can expect him on their couch when she returns home, in the very state that Roger sits him but asleep. He never waits, ready to be an army man.
But watching Roger, she waits to miss him. She waits to feel something beyond the old, odd sense of affection. She waits to feel angry too. Maybe this is it, odds and ends.
"Shouldn't you head home?"
He leans forward, brushing a hand over her knee. She covers it with her own and he smiles, chuckling softly.
She can only smile in turn.
"I should."
"Okay," he sighs and shifts back. "I'm sorry I broke your rule. Your rules keep me honest," he says.
His hand slides out from under hers and he turns it, sliding his fingers back against her palm. She watches him smile too, as if he were waiting for her to respond in kind.
But she stays quiet.
She stands then and turns, only to make sure that he's resting. His eyes close and he lets out a heavy sigh, as if she were never here in the first place. She doesn't wonder about Jane, Mona, or anything of the things that she often expects from him. Maybe it's because she's stopped allowing herself to know him or embraced the idea of not knowing. It's her version of being fine.
Still something inside of her twists though and she's almost compelled to stay. She stands over him and watches as he shifts uncomfortably, pulling his jacket back over himself. His shoulders are slumped into the bed and worry lines return to crease in his forehead. He's older. There's something sad and familiar, and she feels older even, but it's not her place to stay anymore.
Her lips press against his forehead before she leaves. "Just this once," she says.