Work Text:
Don't you hear my call
Though you're many years away
Don't you hear me calling you
It was one of those days.
Owen could tell as soon as he arrived home. He was not even in yet, but he could already smell the strong scent of detergent mixed with the citrus fragrance of Joan’s favorite cleaning product. While her getting in a cleaning spree was habitual, it usually meant one of two things: either she had felt the need to tidy up, or she was stress cleaning, and since they had taken care of the entire place yesterday, he knew it was more likely the second.
While he opened the door,Owen tried to think back on the day. It had been quite normal from his point of view: some meetings, a new inpatient, group discussions, in short, nothing out of the ordinary (well as much as the AM business could be considered ordinary of course), and the last time he had seen Joan at work she had seemed fine. So whatever had triggered her must have happened after. But he wouldn’t find out what it was just standing there so he got in motion.
Taking great care of taking his shoes off, Owen took a look around. The entryway bore the signs of Joan’s cleaning frenesy. The shoes were organized by color and perfectly lined up on the rack, which was unusually shiny and the coats seemed to be hanging by sizes. His brows furrowed. This was bigger than some light stress cleaning. After years of knowing Joan, and being on the receiving end of her neat-freak episodes more than once, he could easily read her mood based on her cleaning habits, and this was not a “I’m-stressed-about-a-patient” or “I-had-a-fight-with-Sam” cloud. Whatever happened must have shook her badly, and Owen didn’t like any of the options his brain provided. Especially since he hadn’t witnessed such a storm in a long time.
Advancing carefully, he entered the living room, which, without surprise, had known the same fate as the entryway. The floor was shining, the windows were spotless, and a quick look informed him that their books were now organized alphabetically and not by theme anymore. The plaid they had abandoned on the couch last night was now folded in a perfect square and neatly put away in a basket, that he could have sworn wasn’t here this morning. Owen was still inspecting the room, hoping to find some clues about what caused all of this, when he heard a muffled scream, followed by Joan cursing coming from the kitchen.
His blood ran cold, and with fear blooming in his chest, he rushed in her direction. The first thing he saw upon entering the kitchen was the blood scattered on the counter and the white chopping board. It was not a lot of blood but it was enough to make him squeamish and to make his heart beat faster, as his eyes rose up, to find Joan, clutching her injured right hand to her chest. If she had noticed his loud entrance, she didn’t say a word and stood still, watching her hand absently, like she was unable to move or to understand that she was the one bleeding.
“Joan ?” he tried after a few seconds.
When she didn’t react he slowly took a step in her direction. As much as he wanted to help and to make sure she was okay quickly, he knew that rushing her wasn't the best course of action right now.
"Let me help you,'' he said, reaching gently for her hand.
He had barely grazed her arm when she broke out of the trance she had fallen into and started to move again. But instead of giving in, like Owen had hoped, Joan withdrew her injured hand, turned away from him and pressed a towel against the wound. After wrapping it haphazardly around her hand, she grabbed a sponge and quickly cleaned the mess. Making a point of not meeting his eyes, she then took the knife back and resumed cutting carrots, as if nothing happened, all the while Owen watched worriedly, unsure of how to react. He was about to try getting her attention once again when she finally spoke, acknowledging his presence for the first time since his arrival.
“I didn’t hear you come in. How was your day ?”
Her voice was perfectly neutral and controlled, making it seemed like it was any other night, like everything was fine, and he was really just coming home to her making the meal and nothing else. Like there wasn’t blood dampening the checkered fabric around her hand and she hadn’t just anxiously clean the entire place. Owen knew this tone, it was the one Joan used when something destabilized her, when she needed to hide her emotions, to get a grip on them. It was the one she had used almost in almost every conversation they had post break-up, and she had become quite good at seeming unfazed. Yet, behind the act he could see the tension in her jaw, the faint redness in her eyes, and the slight tremor in her hand as she methodically cut the poor vegetable, all more proof, if needed, that things were the opposite of fine. His heart sank a little and he took another step towards her, while adding softly :
"Joan, you're bleeding,”
Not even sparing a glance she made a swift motion with her injured hand before pointing at the bowl next to her, half full of various pieces of vegetables. “Oh yeah that’s nothing. I cannot decide between frying them or making a salad ?”
“We have to clean the cut, and bandage it properly", He insisted, coming closer, despite her clear efforts to ignore him.
“Do we still have onions ?”
Owen had hoped that bringing her attention to her wound would be enough to snap Joan out of it, but as it became clear that it wouldn’t, he moved on to the next level and grabbed her arm gently, interrupting her action and forcing her to deal with him.
"Owen, stop that, I'm busy !" She protested immediately, trying to escape his gentle but firm grip.
"Joan."
"Oh for God’s sake, let me go ! I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself !"
"JOAN !"
She was so surprised by his sudden outburst, that she stopped wiggling. One hand still on her arm, Owen took advantage of this respite to gently put the other one on her shoulder and made her pivot so she would face him.
"I need you to drop the knife, and to show me your hand. Please, love." He all but whispered.
As their eyes finally met, Joan stood, closed and proud for a minute. Then, without notice, the mask started to crumble, the stone face leaving place to a tired, helpless one. Under his hands her body went all limp, and hadn’t he been there to hold her, she probably would have fallen to the floor.
“Owen…”
Her voice broke, and as glad as Owen was that she was finally reacting, he would have done anything to erase that look from her face, to wipe out the incoming tears and draw the smile that he loved so much back on. At this moment he wanted nothing more than to let her curl up against him and hold her until he could make everything alright again, but, right now, he needed to put his own feelings aside.
Still holding Joan, he slid his right arm over her shoulder for support and gave her a reassuring smile.
“I know love, it’s alright. First we need to take care of this; and then maybe you can tell me what happened ; or not, it’s okay.”
Her tired nod was almost imperceptible, but it was enough for Owen. Carefully, he walked her by the sink, where with utmost precaution, he untied the ruined towel and put her hand under the water gently. Once he deemed it clean enough, he walked her back to the couch, and made her sit. During the whole process, she didn’t say a word, letting him guide her like a worn-out puppet but he tried not to worry about that just yet. One thing at the time. On the bright side, now that he could clearly see the cut, it didn’t seem too bad. Joan had gotten her finger good, but the injury wasn’t too deep, and, to his relief, wouldn’t need suture (and he was an expert on the subject having had his fair share). He made a run to the bathroom to grab the first aid kit -only to discover that Joan had changed his location, thankfully not too far from the original- and a quick disinfection and bandaging later, it was over.
“All done” he said, hoping to get her attention back.
Her face had settled a bit while he was tending to her, and she didn’t seem as lost as before, just immensely tired.When she looked up from her hand, the look in her eyes was so uncharacteristically empty that Owen's heart ached. It was like someone had turned the switch off.
“I’m sorry” she finally sighed, surprising him.
“There is nothing to be sorry about, darling.”
“I made a mess, and I probably ruined perfectly good vegetables.”
“It’s alright I’ll make soup.” he answered knowing that it was not what she was really upset about.
Arms anchored in her knees, Joan put her head on her hands and exhaled slowly before pursuing.
“I’m a grown woman and a therapist, I should be able to hold a conversation with my parents without losing it.”
Ah, so it was her parents. He should have guessed.
It would not have been the first time that they’d had that effect on their daughter. In fact, Owen had witnessed first-hand, multiple times, how a conversation with the Bryants could stress Joan out. The first time it had happened, they had only been dating for a few weeks, and they were supposed to go on a dinner date. When she had opened the door her eyes were red and puffy and she had asked if they could reschedule. After some coaxing he had managed to convince her to let him cook for her, and he had listened to her patiently as she retold the conversation. Then it had become something of a recurring occurrence. Most of the time she wanted to be alone, but on occasions, she would let him in, and he made a point to always be there when that happened. Sometimes she was more pissed than sad, or more resigned than enraged, but such a call always took its toll on her.
Because one thing about your parents is that they can pick you apart and leave you high and dry like no one else, and Owen had learnt that by watching it happen to Joan. If he had picked up anything from it, it was : one, to be even more grateful for the relationship he had with his own parents and two, to let her lead the conversation. Which meant not asking the questions that burned his lips and waiting for her to share or not.
This was what Joan was actually contemplating as she played hesitantly with the hem of her band-aid.
“It wasn’t even about Mark tonight” she finally jumped in.
Her brother had been the subject of all their latest disputes, and, overall, the biggest strain on their relationship. Ever since he had escaped Tier-5, she had tried to convince their parents to call him, or even just to acknowledge his existence, in vain, and even so each time their refusal broke her a little, she still tried.
“Well, yes a little, but it was everything really. Every little choice I made in my life is apparently a direct attack on them or a proof that I don’t know what’s good for me.”
After everything, Owen knew that a part of her still hoped to get her parents' approval one day, which made every jab to her career sharper. As she was talking Joan was starting to get more animated, her annoyance and frustration now piercing clearly through her tone.
“They won’t even call their son or acknowledge that he is alive, but somehow I am the bad daughter, because I choose him over them. And I didn’t, not really, they’re the one who decided to go away ! They made me choose ! And that’s so unfair.”
“It is.” Owen felt compelled to add even though she seemed to be talking more to herself than to him.
“And when I try to talk to them about the AM , they just… They don’t understand why I would spend my time helping Atypicals, or being around them voluntarily.”
Once again, her anger had faded into deception, so he scooted a little closer and tenderly put his hand on her cheek. She closed her eyes for a second, basking in the comfort of his touch and he waited for her to open them again before speaking.
“Them being unable to see the accomplished woman, and the amazing sister you are, doesn’t make those things untrue.”
“I know that, but it's hard to remember it sometimes.”
“That’s why I’m here darling.”
In fact, he intended on telling Joan, and the rest of the world, how amazing she was for the rest of their life. – Although, to be fair, he had already started, and according to their friends it was either absolutely nauseating ( Mark’s word), or insanely cute. –
“Is there anything I can do ?” he asked, when it became clear she was done.
Joan paused to look at him. Sometimes it was easy to take Owen for granted, but in those moments she measured her chance that they had been able to find their way back to each other. She leaned in and immediately his arms rose to embrace her in a much-needed hug.
“ You’re already doing it. And it’s alright, I just need some time to process.”
It was clearly not alright and it never completely would be, but at least she seemed way calmer and centered than before. They stayed like that for a moment, the sudden silence a nice contrast with everything that had happened since Owen arrived what felt like a day ago.
“Should we go see if those vegetables are salvageables ?” He finally asked.
“Couldn't we stay like that a little more ?”
She buried her head on his shoulder, and usually Owen would have been unable to refuse, but it was getting late and neither of them had eaten yet, so instead he straightened up.
“After you get a real meal, yes.”
Joan rolled her eyes as he got up, but she followed him to the kitchen anyway knowing full well that he wouldn’t budge. Owen was weirdly strict with food and missing meals, especially since her eating habits tend to be a little more… hectic.
After inspecting the bowl she had left on the counter, and deciding that it was in fact salvageable, he got to work opening a cabinet only to find out that its content was very different from what it was the same morning.
“Ah.”
“The condiments are on the second door to the left now,” Joan explained “And the pans are under the sink. It’s way more practical.”
“ Of course. Anything else I should know ?”
As she worked him through the new organization, he fixed them a quick dinner and they went to bed shortly after that, exhausted by the turn the evening had taken. As Joan laid out to sleep, she realized that while she was still upset, she was also weirdly at peace. And it felt okay.