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Cregan finds himself cursing Jace for not leaving him enough to do.
The funeral is planned in excruciating detail, two full pages in Jace’s usual crisp twelve-point Times New Roman. The church of his choosing, the order number of a plot already purchased, a headstone already designed, down to the hymnals, the scriptures, a list of people he would prefer not speak. All the meticulous details, because it was Jace. Jace who was so aware of death and its constant looming presence and was determined to not let it catch him by surprise. Yet, it still did, even with all the work laid out and ironed smooth into wrinkle-free perfection.
Cregan can’t help but hate the perfection. He needs to do something, to provide in that way, and he does, he really does, but it's not enough. Being still means having time to think. Having time to think is something he can’t afford right now. With Arra, he’d been too sleep deprived and concussed to do much but care for his son. It’d been Jace who dealt with the insurance, who spoke with the funeral director, who wrote the most loving obituary for the most brilliant of women. He’d taken Cregan’s world on his shoulders and held it without a word despite being in the depths of having a newborn himself.
Cregan has tried to live up to that, because how could he not? How could he do anything less than endure aching shoulders from nights on Baela’s couch? Than calling the school and the funeral home and Amy from the church who needs to know about food allergies and how many people will be attending the funeral-
And yet, it’s still not enough for him. To pay back a lifetime of care. Of friendship, brotherhood, family. Could it ever be enough?
Is there enough time left for even a fraction of enough?
. . .
May 23, 2019
“Hey stranger.”
On any other day, it’d sound flirty coming out of Aly’s mouth, sly smile in tow, hip cocked. Today it’s a gentler greeting, accompanied by the plastic rustle of a bag in her hand.
He’s at home for the first time since Jace died the morning before, finally in fresh clothes, his hair wet from the shower where Rickon is now. There’s a rattling in his bones that her presence soothes, a need to not be by himself. Being by himself sounds like a trap, like letting the silence linger too long will pop the lock on everything he can’t fully let himself feel quite yet.
“Take a drive with me? Give us a chance to talk?”
Keys jangle in the bag as she shifts from foot to foot. There’s an outline of a phone against the white plastic, a wallet, bigger than Aly normally carries. It leaves him uneasy, though he’s not exactly sure why, but despite it he calls up to Rickon that he’ll be back soon and follows her out to her car. It’s cluttered, gym bag in the back, heels and flats and sneakers scattered across the back floorboard, a hoodie he’s pretty sure is his hanging over one of the back headrests.
He can’t help but wonder the last time she went home. Actually went home, for more than a load of laundry and to take the trash out, more than sleeping off a drink before driving back to the station before dawn. She used to bring him coffee from her favorite place on her way to work, swinging out of her way to drop it off at whatever construction site he’d been working on that week, complete with a bitter black-coffee kiss through a car window when they were together.
And sometimes when they weren’t.
Creatures of habit, they were. Maybe that’s why it worked for them, on and off, casual, more friends than lovers, bound in convenience and attraction that fit their equally tricky schedules. There’s no meeting the family with them, she already knows them, she doesn’t need to win them over. It’s safe like that, he doesn’t have to pick them over her. It’s safe for her too, she doesn’t have to apologize to him for missing a date night, for staying too late at work, for putting herself and her work before him.
The engine rattles as she starts the car.
“Don’t,” Aly says before he can even take in a breath, “No domestic tasks, remember.”
“It’s just a car.”
“And I have a great mechanic who isn’t the guy I occasionally sleep with, so…” She trailed off, glancing over at him, “Yeah. How are you doing?”
Whatever happened to no heart-to-heart's and no domestic tasks? He wanted to ask her, since when do we get to pick and choose what part of the agreement we follow?
“I’m fine,” He says instead, because as long as he’s moving, working, tending, he doesn't have to think about being anything but fine.
She sighs.
“Listen, I’m not going to push you on this. I’m just saying I have beer in my fridge and an ear if you need it. And a bed, a very comfortable bed.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She looks like she wants to say more, but more never comes. Instead she turns up the stereo, lets a playlist he’s been forced to listen to over and over again for the last fifteen years fill up the car and drum at the speakers. Fills the silences between songs with the sound of liquid sloshing in her fountain drink, the stoplights with the lid popped open so she can pour ice into her mouth and bite down on it with a crunch loud enough that it makes him want to grit his own teeth. It’s a newer addition to her list of habits, a welcome distraction when she quit smoking, and even though it's been years she seems to have no desire to abandon it now.
When she takes the right turn, he knows where they're going. Part of him isn’t ready. Part of him will never be ready. A third, traitorous part of him needs this. Needs to see with his own eyes where Jace died. Needs to witness it fully even though he’s been on this dock a hundred and one times over the last fifteen years and could draw it in his sleep.
Jace’s car is still there, like nothing ever happened. Like it’s still waiting for him. Past it, the boat, still blocked off with yellow tape. The plastic bag crinkles in Aly’s hand as she offers it to Cregan.
“I figured I’d save you a trip down to the station. It was pretty open and shut, they had security cameras on the boat for insurance purposes and between that and his blood alcohol levels.” She let out a long breath, “Like I said, open and shut.”
Cregan takes the bag from her, heavy in his hand with Jace’s keys, his phone, his wallet, all sealed up in ziplock bags, “Thank you.”
He pauses after, hesitates, she catches it. Of course she does. Sometimes he forgets that on top of her job, she knows him better than she has any right to. She knows that there’s a part of him that needs to see to believe, to reassure himself, and once upon a time maybe she would have let him, but not anymore.
“Don’t go down that road, Cregan. You know better. I watched them myself, for you, I need you to let that be enough this time.”
She’d stuck her neck out for him all those years ago when Arra died, when he couldn't help but lie awake at night between feedings and diaper changes and convince himself that it was his fault. That if he’d been going just a bit slower, been paying just a bit more attention, it would have somehow saved her from the drunk driver slamming into them. Aly had let him see the footage, picked up by another car’s dash cam, and it’d almost been enough to convince him. Almost.
“Say it,” Aly says, almost harsh, almost an order, “Please.”
“It’s enough,” Cregan replies, almost truth, almost convinced, “Like you said, open and shut.”
. . .
Jace’s phone is heavy in Cregan's pocket as he unlocks the garage door and steps into the quiet house.
Rickon’s at home, Sara having driven up to stay with them for the weekend, and Cregan should be there too, he knows it, but he can’t help it. Can’t stop himself from being drawn here to duty, to the swill of misery and loneliness that’s eating him alive. Every hour gives him a thought to text Jace, to ask him something, to tell him something, and every hour brings the disapppointment that he can’t. If he goes home, if he sleeps in his own bed, its a kind of acceptance that he can’t afford. Not now, not till the funeral is done and the girls are taken care of.
The lights are off on the back patio, but he still sees her, still goes out to her without a word. Sits down next to Baela where she lies on the cool concrete, staring up at the night sky, but when she offers him the half-empty bottle he declines. Cregan can smell it on her, can see where it’s stained the collar of Jace’s shirt, the hem falling around her thighs.
“Don’t worry,” Baela says, humorlessly, “There’s not a body of water for miles.”
. . .
He has to carry her to bed, later. He pulls the blankets up over her, wipes her face clean of tears with a wet rag, and then goes back outside to finish the bottle alone.
. . .
May 25, 2019
The AC in the church goes out an hour before the service starts, as if they needed things to be worse.
The funeral programs are sweat-damp, an assortment of suit jackets hung over the back of pews, it’s too close to summer for this, Cregan thinks as he fights the urge to hit something. He can’t though, not when Jocelyn keeps wandering over to lean against his side in the foyer, sniffling, trying to hide her red eyes from the pitying looks as Rickon shifts uncomfortably next to them. She leaves when Joff arrives in his dress blues, sprinting into his arms and clinging to his neck before anyone else can get to him. Even Rhaenyra’s half-siblings and their mother trail in, Floris Baratheon still sporting a hefty diamond on her left hand despite the papers being filed.
Appearances, appearances, Jace’s voice rings out in his head, smug, on the edge of laughter. It sours quickly.
Viserys’ absence is noticeable. Gaping, ugly, uneven family lines. Joff’s here, Alicent is here, but where is Rhaenyra’s youngest son? It’s shameful. Baela’s eyes burn with it across the room, her hand in Daenaera’s, her other arm around Alyssa. She blames Viserys for it, she’d told him so, when the drink brought all her frustration to the surface. Told Cregan she’d never forgive him for missing this, for running when the rest of them didn’t have that option. Told Cregan she hated everyone, even herself.
Cregan can’t find it in himself to blame her for that, not when he hates himself too.
. . .
The funeral begins, the AC finally rattles to life, and it all goes to plan, but Cregan couldn’t tell you after what had been said. Couldn’t tell you what songs had been sung, what family stories had been told, what good traits were embellished, how saintlike Jace might have been portrayed as.
He could tell you how the set of Baela’s jaw was full of anger. He could tell you how Jocelyn had been the first to cry. How Rickon had been tense next to him in the pew, three rows behind her, sniffling during the readings. How Aly had slipped in before the first song, her hand squeezing Cregan’s knee before it retreated to her own lap.
He could tell you how it was perfect, how it was exactly what Jace would have wanted, and without a doubt, he could tell you it still wasn’t enough.