Work Text:
What if I forgave myself even though I'd done something I shouldn't have? What if I was a liar and a cheat and there was no excuse for what I'd done other than because it was what I wanted and needed to do? What if I was sorry, but if I could go back in time I wouldn't do anything differently than I had done? …. What if yes was the right answer instead of no? What if what made me do all those things everyone thought I shouldn't have done was what also had got me here? What if I was never redeemed? What if I already was?
- Cheryl Strayed
Fatin buys a car with the settlement money.
It’s used, because she’s trying to budget—which, gross, but her parents have made it clear that she’s on her own, officially, now that she’s back.
Or, not back, exactly, because Fatin has no intention of returning to California. After the investigation finally settles down, she takes her new-old car and drives, working her way toward the middle of the country.
She’d honestly be fine to never set eyes on the ocean again.
She’s supposed to be at Juilliard, but then again, she’s also supposed to not be the victim of some fucked up social experiment that was probably the result of a bored white lady having watched too many episodes of Lost, so Fatin isn’t terribly concerned with what’s “supposed” to happen.
Instead she keeps driving. She’s trying to find her new place, she reasons, after having spent a lifetime stuck in one place or another against her will. And no, she’s no saint during her travels, but Christ, she lived through hell, she’s fucking earned all of the anonymous sex she’s having.
She keeps up with the others, but it’s hard. If she’s out somewhere and her phone dings with a message from Dot, how is she expected to explain who’s trying to contact her? Friend seems entirely inadequate. What they are to one another—all of them—feels too big to be contained by a word in the English language. Looking at it directly is overwhelming.
Whenever she starts seeing Leah’s face around corners, Fatin knows it’s time to go.
--
Fatin: hey so I realized that today marks a year since the shark attack
Fatin: and I wanted to reach out to say…happy one-hand-iversary. Not happy, but just
Fatin: I wanted to acknowledge it
Fatin: one-hand-iversary was probably not an ok thing to say
Rachel: no
Rachel: but not because it’s offensive, because it’s terrible
Fatin: fair
Fatin: so how do you feel today?
Rachel: weird. But that’s every day
Fatin: hard same
Rachel: I’m going to admit something to you that you can’t tell to anyone
Fatin: ooooh yes tell me!!
Rachel: I’m serious, I’ll kill you if you tell the others
Fatin: careful rach, your threats get me kinda hot
Fatin: but I swear, yr secret’s safe with me
Rachel: ok. I’ve been watching grey’s anatomy
Fatin: that’s your deep dark secret? was expecting some juicy shit
Rachel: there’s an amputation storyline
Rachel: after a plane crash
Rachel: and the stupid thing made me fucking cry
Fatin: babe grey’s is lethal like that
Fatin: you think yr immune but that sappy shit will get ya
Rachel: it’s gross
Fatin: feeling’s usually are
Rachel: yeah
Rachel: thanks for reaching out today, mom
Fatin: Mom???
Rachel: well, yeah. Dot's our dad and you're our mom
Fatin: oh god
Fatin: and shoni are our incestuous children?
Rachel: I cannot express to you how much I hate that you use a ship name to describe our actual friends
Fatin: you should read my fanfic about them
Fatin: it’s steamy af
Rachel: there’s something seriously wrong with you
Fatin: just figuring that out now?
--
Eventually Fatin decides to settle down for a bit.
Her ass is honestly sore from the constant driving, and she’s having these awful breakouts from all the trash road feed, and she’s starting to miss having four walls of her own.
She rents a little house in Albuquerque that’s owned by this old lady who pretty much lets Fatin do whatever she wants. It isn’t perfect, but it feels like home. Or, what she imagines home is supposed to feel like.
Fatin decides to have a housewarming party, and she realizes that the only people she wants there are the other girls. Of course not everyone can come; Leah’s in Europe for some writing thing, and Rachel and Nora are in school, and Martha’s taking this restorative dance class that she can’t get out of for the weekend.
But Shelby and Toni and Dot all come. Shelby’s hair is longer again, just brushing her shoulders, and she and Toni are all over each other like they were back on the island for that short time. Fatin can’t even pretend to find it disgusting, because she can tell how happy they are.
The four of them get drunk and paint one of Fatin’s new bedroom walls hot pink, a process which takes twice as long as it should because they keep taking breaks to laugh and get snacks.
“God, it’s still weird to just have all this food right in front of us,” Dot remarks after Fatin’s refilled the chip bowl for the third time. “Not have to ration it.”
“Let me guess,” Toni says, her head in Shelby’s lap, “your freezer is full doomsday-prepper. Just packed to the gills with meat and shit.”
“Hey, when society breaks down and people are selling their kidneys for food—”
“Good Lord, Dot,” Shelby mutters.
“I’m gonna be ready,” Dot finishes, undeterred.
“That’s our Dorothy,” Fatin says fondly, recognizing in this moment just how much she’s missed them. “Will we get to hide out with you?”
Dot pretends to consider. “Depends. What do you have stockpiled?”
Fatin grins. “My winning personality?”
“Hard pass.”
Fatin shoves her shoulder, nearly sending Dot into the freshly painted wall, and Dot scowls at her. “You’re a bitch.”
“Guilty,” Fatin replies.
“We survived before,” Shelby points out, fingers softly stroking over Toni’s forehead. “I think we can do it again.”
Fatin glances around the room, which is mostly empty of furniture and in desperate need of organization, but is still hers.
Just like the girls in this room. They all belong to each other, in a way. That’s what happens when you save someone’s life over and over again. They’ll always have a piece of you.
“Yeah,” she agrees. “I think we can, too.”
--
In therapy, Fatin spends a long time unpacking her relationship with the cello.
“I think,” she realizes one day, “that I hung all of my self-worth on being the best at that.”
“I wonder how that related to your parents,” her therapist muses. “And the idea that their love was conditional on you being who they wanted you to be.”
Fatin let out an involuntary snort. “You’re fucking earning that $175 today, Chelsea.”
On the island, Fatin begins to recognize, it didn’t matter whether she was good at something. Well, of course it did, in the sense that they each had skills that they were bringing to the table in order to make it through the days.
But Fatin’s worthiness to survive, to belong, to be cared for wasn’t based on whether she was the best at a certain task; it was based on the fact that she was human.
“Honestly, it was the first time I ever felt that way,” Fatin tells Chelsea at their next session. “How crazy is it that I experienced that while stuck on a goddamn island, but not from my actual parents?”
Chelsea shrugs. “No crazier than anything else we’ve talked about.”
“I’m your most interesting client, aren’t I?”
“Oh without a doubt. I’m gonna make a fortune off the book I write about you.”
“Long as you give me 50% of the profits, we’re cool.”
--
Fatin ends up getting a job as a stage manager at a small theater company, a job that she would have mocked herself endlessly for several years ago, but she kind of loves it. She gets to be organized and boss people around, but she also gets to be a part of something, an important piece of making a project work, like the island but with way lower stakes.
She gets a second job teaching yoga a couple of times a week; it’s been a huge part of her own “healing journey,” or whatever, and, even though it makes her feel like the biggest sap in the world, she kind of likes the idea of getting to help other people that way.
Gross.
Fatin and Shelby start talking more regularly, both recognizing that they have a fair amount of parent shit to work through.
“Do you ever miss them?” Shelby asks one afternoon.
Fatin was applying a top coat to her toenails, but at that question she pauses for a second. She’s out on her deck, her absolute favorite place in her house, the spot where she feels like she can breathe the most fully.
“I miss my brothers,” she admits. “I guess—I miss who I thought my family was?”
“That sounds familiar,” Shelby muses. Fatin knows that Shelby’s only seen her parents once since returning, and that that interaction ended with her essentially getting disowned.
“Having something different made me realize that it didn’t have to be that way, y’know?” Shelby continues.
Fatin leans on her knee, listens to the sounds of the birds in the trees.
“Yeah, I do.”
Shelby is quiet for a moment before adding, “Y’know, I think Leah’s coming back from Europe soon.”
If Shelby hears the involuntary hitch in Fatin’s breath, she’s good enough not to mention it.
“Oh yeah?” Fatin replies, as though she doesn’t spend hours each week scrolling through Leah’s insta, trying to decipher the meaning behind her pretentious captions on black and white photos of seemingly random objects.
“Life’s too short, Fatin.”
“Um, thanks for the bumper sticker wisdom?”
“I’m serious. I got a second chance with Toni, and I don’t take that for granted. If you want someone…”
Shelby doesn’t have to finish the sentence. Fatin knows how it ends, knows what Shelby is saying without actually saying it.
They all got skilled at that, on the island; reading between each other’s lines. Those last few days were a blur—so many days were a blur—but Fatin knows she came close to tipping her hand with Shelby. Shelby had been talking about Toni when she spoke about love, of course, but Fatin couldn’t see anyone’s face except Leah’s.
For a while Fatin had assumed that Leah’s fixation on things they couldn’t strictly see was just a manifestation of her need to escape their direct circumstances. Certainly, it was in some ways easier to assume that they were the victims of some vast conspiracy than the victims of some spectacularly shitty luck.
But then when Fatin started to see it, started to understand that whatever Leah believed in wasn’t just a figment of her imagination, something clicked into place.
Leah was right.
Which meant that any time Fatin had tried to shut her down, Fatin was wrong. And that should have made Fatin angry or resentful or confused, but instead she felt…appreciative? Reverent? Leah Rilke had once again blown Fatin the fuck away, and Fatin was kind of obsessed with it. Kind of obsessed with her.
But the particulars of actually getting the hell out of that place definitely took precedence, and then when they were finally free, Leah was the first to separate herself. Not exactly a surprise, so Fatin tried not to dwell on it, even though it hurt. And honestly still does.
“Is this just another version of trauma bonding?” Fatin asks her therapist at their next session. “Like, did my brain decide that we were gonna die, so it was like, ‘welp, here’s your only option for romance’?”
Chelsea—who has also gotten very good at reading between Fatin’s lines—frowns at her. “Is that what you actually believe?”
“No,” Fatin says immediately. “So much fucked up stuff has happened, though. She disappeared, and I get why.”
“I think you need to talk to her,” Chelsea advises. “But Fatin, let me say this: love is messy, and hard, but you owe it to yourself to run toward it, not away from it.”
Fatin turns that over in her mind for days as she stares at Leah’s contact in her phone. Fatin has never in her life been shy about making the first move, but with Leah it’s different.
We’ve been in each other’s lives for years, Fatin wants to type, but doesn’t, and I think I finally understand why.
--
Martha has a final performance for the dance therapy program that she’s been a part of for the last several months, and though she insists that they don’t all need to show up, Toni privately shares with them that this is really important to Martha.
So Shelby organizes booking them tickets to Minnesota, and Fatin gets them all hotel rooms—ignoring Dot’s protestations that they can just save money and sleep on the floor of the two-bedroom apartment that Shelby, Toni and Martha share.
“We’re never sleeping on the ground again, Dorothy,” Fatin announces. “Not if I can help it.”
They all meet up at the airport in Minnesota, Shelby having expertly arranged their flights to arrive at approximately the same time. Fatin doesn’t think she’ll ever be a fan of flying again, but once she sees Dot her anxiety is all but forgotten.
Fatin basically tackle-hugs Dot, releasing her once Rachel and Nora arrive. It’s still a little weird with Nora, but Rachel seems to have forgiven her, and seeing them together again makes Fatin oddly emotional.
She’s admiring the truly rad sling that Martha apparently crocheted for Rachel when a familiar voice from behind her murmurs, “Hi, guys.”
Fatin’s body is turning before her mind has time to react, her arms outstretching to pull Leah into them.
“Fatin,” Leah sighs into her hair, holding Fatin right back, and that’s when Fatin starts to cry.
She tries to cover it as she pulls back and steps to the side, letting the other girls get their next round of hugs in.
Leah looks good, Fatin notes. Like, hot, yes—Fatin and her vibrators have already established that she’s attracted to Leah—but also healthy. Leah’s hair is up and her eyes look clear. Her smile doesn’t seem quite so fragile, and the sight makes Fatin’s tears impossible to hide.
“You’re a big softie, y’know that?” Rachel murmurs from beside her
“Don’t forget I still have Grey’s collateral on you,” Fatin mutters back, trying in vain to keep her mascara from smudging all over her face.
Rachel raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
They all convene back at Shelby, Toni and Martha’s apartment, and Fatin is surprised by how easy it feels to fall back into a rhythm with one another. It’s like the best days on the island: laughing and giving each other shit, the eight of them feeling like the only people on earth.
At one point Martha references her therapist, and that seems to break the seal, each of them chiming in with anecdotes about their experiences with various counselors like they’re comparing favorite restaurants.
“I got a diagnosis,” Leah reveals quietly. “And I got on meds. It’s really helped. I think I—I probably made things harder for all of us than I needed to. I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t you dare apologize,” Fatin snaps, the words coming out low and urgent. “Leah, you were the strongest of all of us.”
“I mean, Rachel did lose a hand—” Nora interjects, shrugging when Fatin glares at her. “Just saying.”
“You were dealing with serious shit,” Fatin directs to Leah, “plus you were right. You stuck to your convictions even when we were all contradicting you. That’s amazing. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
Somewhere during her mini monologue Fatin locked eyes with Leah, and now she finds herself unable to look away as Leah’s eyes bore right back into hers, her gaze as intense as ever. They just stare at each other for several long seconds before Toni clears her throat.
“Should we, uh, give you guys a moment?”
Leah glances away first, her cheeks pinking.
“Maybe we should listen to some music,” Rachel suggests, and the next thing Fatin knows Shelby has turned on “Home.”
Leah lets out a laugh at the opening cords, and Fatin is transfixed by the sound of it, the way it seems to burst from Leah’s chest.
Shelby extends a hand to Toni, and then Martha drags Dot to her feet. Fatin stands up next, jumping into the center of the room and ending up right in front of Leah on the other side of the couch.
“Dance with me?” Fatin asks.
Leah seems to hesitate for a second before nodding and taking Fatin’s hand. She clumsily attempts to spin Fatin, nearly tipping them both over in the process, and Fatin laughs breathlessly.
“You have absolutely no sense of rhythm. It’s tragic,” Fatin accuses, but she hears the affection in her own voice.
Leah bites her lip. “You could show me.”
“You flirt,” Fatin replies, whatever vague shyness that she was feeling toward Leah seeming to evaporate as she puts her hands on Leah’s hips and gently sways her back and forth.
It’s not exactly sexy, because this song is some faux-hipster shit and this also just isn’t really the place or time, crammed into this tiny living room surrounded by their friends, but it feels intimate. Leah’s hands come to Fatin’s shoulders, drawing them closer. She smells a hell of a lot better than she ever did on the island, but there’s also something familiar in her scent, a warm woodsiness that Fatin didn’t realize how much she missed.
“This is a hot take,” Fatin says, loud enough for only Leah to hear, “but I think I prefer you and Rachel’s version.”
"It was a lot more original,” Leah agrees with a grin. “Found object music is highly underrated.”
Fatin grins back. These few minutes with Leah have made Fatin eager for more of her, for time with just the two of them.
“Wanna get some air?” she suggests.
Leah nods, and they maneuver out of their group of dancing friends, ignoring Toni’s exclamation of, “Don’t you dare fuck in our bed!” followed by Shelby’s immediate shushing of her.
There’s a tiny terrace off the kitchen which Fatin leads them to, surprised by the quiet when she slides the glass door shut.
Leah takes a deep breath, her hands on the railing, and Fatin studies her for a few long seconds before blurting out, “Why’d you leave?”
It wasn’t what she was expecting to ask, though Leah doesn’t seem in any way startled by the question.
“I needed to get away,” Leah replies simply.
“From us?”
“I had to know that I could survive on my own. On the island I—I wouldn’t have. Without you guys.”
“None of us would have,” Fatin points out.
Leah turns to look at her, face painted with vulnerability. “You all had to keep saving me.”
“And we’d all do it again. You didn’t have to go.”
Fatin hears the trace of hurt in her voice, and Leah must hear it too, because she covers Fatin’s hand with her own.
Fatin knows that she isn’t being fair, that they’ve all had to grieve and heal and get space in the aftermath of everything that happened. She makes no apologies for the choices she’s made on the road to finding some semblance of stability, and she doesn’t actually want an apology from Leah.
What she wants, she realizes, is some assurance that the distance won't become permanent, that Leah can find a way to let her in again, let Fatin be a part of her life, once more.
“I missed you,” Fatin says softly.
Leah runs her thumb across Fatin’s knuckles. “I missed you, too. I wanted to get better before I came back. You know how fucked up I was, Fatin.”
Fatin thinks of how close she almost came to losing Leah, her stomach swooping at the memory.
“I know,” she acknowledges. “But I don’t need you perfect, y’know? I just need…you.”
“You need me?”
Leah’s voice is a little lighter, surprise mixing with amusement.
Fatin huffs out a sigh. “Shut the fuck up.”
“I’ve never been great at that.”
“Understatement of the goddamn century.”
Fatin can feel something loosening in her chest, pain and confusion giving way to warmth, to a sense that what’s been just out of reach for so long might finally be within her grasp.
The air around them is cool, but Fatin hardly notices, too focused on the way Leah’s hair is fluttering in the wind, on the rich blue of her eyes.
(So much prettier than the ocean. Fatin’s spent enough time studying both to make the call.)
“I wrote about you,” Leah says. “A lot, actually.” She nudges Fatin’s shoulder. “I think I’ve officially written more about you than Jeff.”
“Hell fucking yeah.”
“Knew you’d be glad to hear that.”
Fatin swallows, a little afraid of the answer to her next question. “So what’d you write about me? Anything I can jerk off to?”
The joke is a deflection and they both know it.
“How it seems like we’re always finding each other,” Leah replies, her words shaking slightly. “And how I’m figuring out what that means.”
Fatin’s voice is barely above a whisper as she asks, “What does it mean?”
“You’re not really gonna make me go all the way out on this ledge by myself, are you?”
Fatin closes her eyes in the second before she kisses Leah. Fatin knocks into her a little roughly, so impatient for this moment, but Leah catches her with a gasp, arms wrapping around Fatin’s waist as Fatin urgently presses their mouths together.
I’ve been waiting my whole life for this, Fatin thinks, the biggest fucking cliché in the universe, but it couldn’t feel more true; Leah is steady in her arms and Fatin finally gets it—why they’re here today, why they’ve been put through so much, why neither of them need to run away anymore.
“I love you,” she mumbles against Leah’s lips, unable to hold the words back any longer, and when Leah echoes the sentiment Fatin feels like flying.
She doesn’t know what will happen next, how exactly they can fit into each other’s worlds, where exactly they’re meant to be. But right now that doesn’t matter. Tomorrow they will hold hands and watch Martha dance and figure it all out together.
Tonight, though, Fatin holds Leah tight, kissing her and kissing her while the sounds of their friends filter out into the night sky.
All of them finally safe, finally free.