Work Text:
Grace can’t find her watch.
Out of all the things to get lost right before she has to go to work, it’s her godforsaken watch.
Knee bumping into her makeup table, Grace bites down hard on her lip so she doesn’t curse every deity known to man.
On the bed, her phone lights up with an incoming call from the landline number of Emily’s specialized care facility.
“It was amazing, Grace. The librarian read us books in these hilarious voices, and afterwards we got to eat these delicious creme brulee tarts for dessert.”
Hopping on one foot, Grace grits out. “Isn't that too much sweetness for you?”
“It's okay. We ate very healthily for breakfast the next morning. I’ll be honest, I don't think I like kale very much.”
Grace had wanted to take Emily home to her apartment in Columbus as soon as she was cleared, but the BSAA doctor in charge (“Rouge BSAA,” Leon had said, shrugging when Grace looked at him in confusion. “It's a long story.”) had taken a look at her file and promptly deemed her unsuitable to adopt at the moment.
Once the haze of devastation has cleared, Grace has understood.
She’s a single woman living by herself in an apartment building just a block away from her office, where she works as an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. She has no experience taking care of any living thing that isn’t a pot of plant, she has no other family and she is, most importantly, suffering from her own trauma.
“You love her, I get it,” Emily’s doctor, Jamie, said with the kindest eyes. “But you need to get your life together first.”
“When you said you meant no offense, I didn’t think you meant this much.”
His jet black hair swaying with the movement of him shaking his head, Jamie leaned forward on his desk. Grace, sitting on the other side, was a bit shy from the attention.
“The ability to love a child doesn’t come with the proficient knowledge on how to do it,” he said, like a true expert of pediatrics. “Emily will be taken care of here, and we can set it up for you to visit her every weekend. Consider this like a CPS trial, but without the actual risk of us ripping her away from you.”
Grace thought they should still keep the possibility in mind, but she didn’t give it a voice. She’s scared and paranoid, that’s all.
“What will you do in the meantime?”
“We’ll monitor her health, give her the age-appropriate education she needs, and you will have every input on her care as any other legal guardian would.” Jamie smiled, shooting stars in his eyes. “Emily is in good hands, we promise.”
That was three weeks ago. Three weeks since the worst and best day of Grace’s life, and now she is going to be late for work.
“Emily, hey, I gotta jet. But I’ll call you on Friday, okay?”
“Okay!” Emily chirps, thankfully not sounding as sad as she did the first few times they did this. “You're still coming on Saturday, right?”
Shouldering her messenger bag, Grace finally finds her watch in the egg carton in her fridge for some reason, and makes a beeline for the door.
“Yes! We’ll go to the museum like I promised!”
“Yay! Bye Grace!” A pause, then, “Have a good day at work!”
Heart bursting with fondness, Grace ends the call with a “You too.” before she hangs up.
On her first day back at the FBI Midwest Field Office, Grace is the talk of the town.
They don’t even give her the courtesy of finding that out at her own discretion, ambushed by whispers and poorly-disguised ogling as soon as she walked through the door.
Grace makes a beeline for her floor, heaving a sigh of relief upon the elevator closing.
She averts her eyes from the door and the roof, not wanting to see metal on sparks and a giant, wrinkly eye a shade that looks exactly like hers, with a screech of desperate loneliness and longing for some company.
It’d be her luck to have an existential crisis in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.
“Having a case of the Mondays?”
Grace startles, having not realized she wasn’t alone. Heat explodes across her cheeks, tainting even her ears in peach.
“I’m so sorry,” she stutters, never wanting to dig a hole where she stood more than she does now. “I didn’t, I didn’t see you.”
Whoever it is she expects to see, Maeve Morgan is certainly not it.
Soft brunette hair flowing just past her shoulders and penetrative blue eyes staring into Grace’s soul, Maeve lets out a chuckle that sends electricity down Grace’s spine.
Suddenly the enclosed space goes from mildly suffocating to utterly unbearable.
“You looked like you were being chased by the mob.”
Something uncharacteristically incredulous slips from her mouth.
“No shit.”
Grace zips her mouth shut as soon as she says it, surprised at the genuine bitterness lacing every word. If Maeve notices, she is kind enough not to mention it.
The words catch up to Grace then, furrowing her eyebrows.
“It’s Wednesday.”
“Huh.” Maeve shrugs. “Sure feels like a Monday though. Or maybe the barista cheated me off an espresso shot.”
Something about this exchange feels surreal, almost childish.
Maeve wears a smile that speaks of no worries, only mild inconvenience for the caffein-related act of treachery. Her dark eyebrows don't even scowl, raised in an annoyed arch.
Dressed in jeans, a dark button-up and Converse, Maeve is the personification of casual. The complete dichotomy of Grace, who always shows up in her best suit with her blazer ironed to perfection.
Grace was never blind to the differences between them, and once upon time, they were what intrigued her and drew her to this magnetic puzzle of a person in front of her.
But back then, Grace would also say that she had no time for this.
The same applies now.
“Sorry. I’m running late.” As the elevator door slides open, Grace glances at her watch and automatically takes a step forward. “I’ll, uh, see you around, Maeve.”
Maeve, with that same smile that never means what Grace thought it did, waves.
“Good day, Grace.”
The door closes shut, and Grace exhales.
It's already a long day, and hers hasn't even started.
Grace lowers her grumbling to an acceptable degree as she strolls down the familiar hallways of her floor, the home of the FBI Midwest Field Office’s Intelligence Branch.
Because of her credited works and outstanding achievements over the years, Grace reports directly to the Director, Nathan Dempsy.
The rest of the floor does similar intelligence work, corroborating with agencies across the country and providing them crucial case-by-case data.
Thankfully Grace doesn't get bombarded by anyone, them having been around her for far too long not to recognize the growing signs of her discomfort.
They're still whispering though, but for once she can't blame them.
Grace never did allow anyone to get close to her after the death of her mother. But she can recognize kindness when it's peering over walls to wish her well and giving her a small pat on the shoulder to say they're glad to have her back.
For the first time in a very long time, Grace has the smallest inkling of wanting more.
Bidding them each a good day at work, Grace locates her cubicle.
Nestled in the deepest end and is the sole reason how she can get away with pulling off so much overtime without getting kicked out by security, Grace arrives at her desk, her second home at this point, and finds flowers.
Adrenaline spiked, Grace feels awful gooseflesh exploding on the back of her head.
What if something happened?
What if Gideon and Zeno are back?
What if The Connections are out to get her again?
What if Leon is dead?
Concealing her trembling hand in her pockets, Grace asks her neighbors if they know who dropped off the flowers.
Her anxiety must be obvious anyway, as one of them raises both hands in a universal gesture to calm down.
“It's okay. Security checked several times and they found nothing. Only a letter addressed to you.”
That makes sense. The FBI wouldn't just accept any package without sufficient clearance checks. She's just being silly again.
Grace sends her colleague a grateful nod before she turns back around.
But the body can't tell the difference between real and fake trauma, so she's left trembling still.
“Grace, look at me.”
Eyes closing shut, Grace lets the sound of her mother’s voice wash over her.
“Grab my hands.”
She goes for the next best thing, her own heart. Palm meets skin through the fabric, a poor imitation of her mother’s loving touch but a reminder she’ll always live forever inside Grace all the same.
“In and out. Breathe in, breathe out.”
Grace flares her nostrils and inhales. When her lungs start to burn, she lets it out.
8 years worth of tension and guilt, maybe one day she’ll truly be rid of them.
Until then, Grace will carry them so she doesn’t forget. Never forget.
Distantly hearing Jamie’s voice saying she isn't yet fit to be a mother in her head, Grace picks up the flower arrangement.
It’s a small, harmless-looking thing in all fairness. She’s seen flower bouquets more impressive than this in dinner banquets and cheesy romcoms with no purpose except to perpetuate heteronormative stereotypes.
Alas, it doesn’t ease her anxiety one bit.
“Who even gives real flowers anymore nowadays?” Grace grumbles, peering inside for the letter her colleague said was in it.
Sure enough, there it is. Made out of regular cardboard and smaller than the size of her own hand.
Grace grabs it with her index and middle finger, before slowly extracting it from the bouquet. Upon opening it and reading what’s inside, Grace lets out a sigh of relief so strong, it rattles all the bones in her rib cage.
Greeting her is a flower, poorly-drawn and shaded worse than an elementary school project. That’s not what endears her however, it’s the scribbled words underneath.
Hey, how’s it growing?
For your first day back.
All the best, Leon.
“He even left a phone number.” Grace laughs in disbelief, immediately saving it in her contacts. “I’ll call him later.”
Sadly, the rest of her day drags.
Grace isn't surprised, having been gone for a while, forced to take some time off by Director Dempsy himself, so her inbox is practically imploding by the seams.
She enjoys the monotony, however, finding the repetitive tasks of replying and forwarding emails much easier than, say, fighting off a mutated clone of herself that’s without an eye and is almost five feet tall.
Or is she the clone?
At this point, who even knows anymore.
Hours go by, Grace transitioning back into her role as a data analyst with minimum difficulties, and finally a distraction arrives in the form of Director Dempsy himself.
“Grace Ashcroft.”
“Yes?” She spins around in her chair, a total deja vu.
“My office. Now.”
Making sure to hit save on her report, Grace crouches down to tuck her ankles back in her shoes before she stands.
Joints popping way too loudly in the dead silence, Grace grimaces her way to Director Dempsy’s office, all the while valiantly ignoring how so many eyes fall on her.
Typical.
You almost died a few times and suddenly you’re all sorts of hotshot. This is not what she signed up for.
The door is ajar so Grace lets herself in, a flash of a scarred man with goggles in her mind making her pause for a half beat.
She’s hoping it goes unnoticed, embarrassed to be so vulnerable in front of her boss out of all people, but of course the Director of the FBI has the observation skill that rivals a paranoid Mexican dad.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.” She ducks to hide her grimace, willing for Dempsy to just get this over with. “You asked for me, sir?”
Sad as it is to say, Dempsy is the closest thing to a parental figure Grace has.
As a survivor of the Raccoon City incident and a known journalist living and working in said city up until 1998, Alyssa makes it hard to find someone who works in any official capacity with the government or anyone adjacent that doesn't recognize the surname Ashcroft.
Grace is pretty sure she flagged his system the moment she sat down for her first interview, but it wasn't until two months after she started working that Dempsy sought her out.
He didn't mention her mom, but Grace knew he had high expectations for her because of it. Instead of being offended, Grace was flattered by the comparison and used it as motivation to get to where she is now.
And it pays off.
Grace has a wall of awards hung in her home library because of her hard work and dedication. Dempsy, in return, has nothing but praises for her when the situation calls for it, and it shows in the way he let her investigate the Wrenwood Hotel incident all by herself.
So to have him look at her now, not like she's someone capable, but with eyes full of sympathy and pity, feels like a punch to the gut.
“I wanted to check in. See how you’re doing.”
Fuck. He even sounds pitiful.
“If this is about the report you asked for before…” Grace clears her throat with a vicious cough. “Um, it’ll be ready soon. Sir.”
Dempsy looks unimpressed, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed over his chest. Grace tries really hard not to feel chastised. She hadn’t even done anything wrong.
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
“I’m not sure what sort of answer you’re expecting,” Grace says, hugging her notebook close to her chest. When she grabbed it, she had no clue. “If that is all, I have a lot of work to catch up on.”
Heel turned, Grace only gets as far as one step before she hears Dempsy her name. Knowing very well she can’t just walk out, Grace grits her teeth and stays put.
“I just wanted to apologize.”
The overwhelming and audible guilt in his voice truly takes her aback, making her turn around.
“What?”
“Look,” Dempsy asks of her, but he can hardly make eye contact either. “When I sent you on this mission, I thought you were the best choice.”
That’s because she was.
Still is.
Has everything she worked so hard for crumbled within a single night?
“Sir, I did what you asked.” Grace wills the tears back, clutching her notebook like a lifeline. “The report will be on your desk—”
“I’m not talking about some insignificant reports, Grace. I’m talking about the fact that I sent you to your own mother’s crime scene without a partner or even a weapon.”
Truth be told, that nugget of detail had been nagging at Grace for a while.
Not because it isn’t typical of the FBI or the American government to be so negligent about employees’ safety and whatnot, but more or less because of everything that transpired in the ARK that put said events into perspective.
Namely that Zeno and Victor Gideon both were working under the assumption that Grace was special (spoiler alert: she’s not) and they have more connections to powerful people than she has leg hairs.
It’s a long way of saying Grace doesn’t know who to trust anymore.
“I’m fine,” Grace says, after a long and awkward period of silence. “I’m home and I have a kiddo I’m looking after.”
“Emily.” Dempsy nods. He was the one who helped Grace arrange all the appropriate paperwork to prove Emily legally exists. “How is she?”
Grace hesitates, but she figures she owes him. “She’s being taken care of by people I trust. I, uh, come see her every weekend or so.”
Dempsy huffs. “I was wondering if you were using your days off. Good to know you’re finally taking it easy.”
That gets a fond chuckle out of her. “I don’t work that much.”
“All evidence indicates otherwise,” Dempsy tosses back, and for just a moment, everything feels light again. “How did you meet Emily anyway?”
Heckles slowly rising, Grace hides her apprehension behind a nonchalant facade.
Did she remember to clip her gun on her waistband?
“She was a person of interest in the case and when I saw that she had no family, I stepped in.”
Just like what my mom used to do for me, but did you already know that?
If Dempsy picks up on her odd mood shift, he makes a point to not mention it. Instead, he walks around his desk until he finds his drawer, which he opens and from inside pulls out a thin business card.
Dempsy extends his hand in her direction. Grace takes an extra second, another awkward second, to pick up on what he wants her to do.
“Oh,” she exclaims, hurrying to accept it. “What is it?”
“A phone number for a highly recommended therapist. In case you stop feeling “fine” as you so adequately put it.”
The idea of talking to someone isn't as frightening as it once was, if only for the sake of Grace getting better for Emily.
Grace tucks the business card and the nugget of thought away for further consideration, looking at Dempsy with heavy eyes.
“Do you really think things could've been different if I had a partner with me?”
Evidently he’s surprised, blinking several times before he gives her an answer, “It couldn't have hurt.”
Grace shakes her head. “That's where you're wrong. They would've been dead too.”
Just like her.
Just like him.
Just like everyone she cared about because she wasn't good enough.
When she exits his office, Grace doesn't look back.
There's still a lot of work to do.
—
Comes Saturday, Grace feels like a whole world has been lifted off her shoulders.
It's mainly attributed to the sight of Emily, who is happily drawing away in her little sketchbook, oblivious to Grace standing outside the door nearly vibrating herself through the floor in her excitement to see her.
Grace calms down when she catches the eye of Emily’s arts teacher, who gives a jolly wave and mouths just five more minutes.
Shooting back a clumsy thumbs up, Grace feels a presence sliding next to her before she hears him.
“Emily is doing really well,” she says as a conversation starter.
“I’m glad you think that.” Jamie bumps her shoulder, his penchant for casual touch still the same after all these years. “And you?”
“I’m managing,” Grace replies, and finds she’s being quite honest for once. “I realize I should’ve asked the first time I sat in your office, but how exactly are you deeming me appropriate for motherhood?”
Jamie grimaces. “You don’t have to make it sound like I’m taking away your constitutional rights.”
“Well,” Grace trails off, teasing.
“Fuck you,” Jamie scoffs, but he’s smiling too. “And don’t worry. I’ll contact a third-party social worker to take a look at your file soon. I promise, no conflict of interest with either of you. One way or another, you’re bringing her home.”
Grace hadn’t noticed when they first reunited in his office, but Jamie still has the same dimple from their childhood. It used to accompany her in the short few months she spent in Wiskayok, New Jersey, before Alyssa got them to move to the midwest, and Grace didn’t realize how much she’d come to miss it.
The casual, carefree camaraderie that only comes from making friends on the playground or, in their case, the rooftop.
“Thanks,” Grace mumbles, eyes boring lasers into the back of Emily’s tiny head. “For, you know, all of this.”
“I didn’t do it just because of you,” Jamie chuckles, but sobers up as soon as he sees her unresponsive. “You’re doing a beautiful thing, Grace. I just want to support you however I can.”
Grace sniffles, scolding herself for the sting behind her eyelids. If Jamie notices, he pretends he doesn’t.
“She’s… really doing okay?”
Truth of the matter is that, despite her overwhelming desire to take Emily under her wing, Grace also feels incredibly inadequate.
Not only is Emily a child, a whole child with a brain and a body that needs equal amounts of nurturing, she is an experiment.
Was.
Regardless of present or past tense, Emily has scars. Wounds that Grace is wholly unequipped to deal with.
She won’t admit it without at least half a bottle of vodka down her throat, but Grace was relieved when Jamie said she couldn’t just take Emily home right away.
Who knows what could’ve happened if she did?
It’d be ironic if Grace somehow managed to get Emily killed when years being imprisoned by The Connections or Umbrella or whoever the fuck is truly behind all of this couldn’t.
“She’s managing,” Jamie parrots, but the irony is lost on Grace. Who wants a daughter so badly, but doesn’t even know how to be a good one. “That little girl, she loves you so much.”
“You said the ability to love a child doesn’t come with the proficient knowledge on how to do it.”
“I did.” Jamie nods. “But I also promised you that Emily is in good hands. With you, she will be.”
Grace exhales, shaky and scared. “I think I need to take some more parenting classes.”
“I’ll give you some fliers.” A hand squeezes her shoulder, Grace’s hand almost reaches for the handgun she now constantly wears on her belt. “Don’t stress. Being a good parent means you’re always going to feel out of depth.”
“That’s… not helping, Jamie.”
“Trust me.” Jamie shakes her. “Trust her, for that matter. She’ll let you know. Emily is very opinionated for her age.”
That gets a laugh out of Grace, fondness and nostalgia pooling in her belly.
“Does she debate you on superhero comic books too?”
“She would if she could read them.” Jamie fakes a wince when Grace slaps him on the arm. “Actually, that reminds me. I wanted to ask your opinion about cataract surgery.”
Grace immediately sobers. “Is that possible?”
“Sure is.” Jamie hands her a flier, which means he has been trying to bring this up to her all along. She skims through the words as fast as she can. “We haven’t talked about it with Emily, but I figure you could.”
Briefly, Emily had told Grace that she had seen clouds for as long as she could remember, which means she probably had cataracts since birth.
If the surgery goes well, Emily is going to have to get used to practically a whole new world.
The mountains on Grace’s shoulders gain an extra pound.
“We’ll, uh, talk.” Grace coughs. “I’ll ask Emily what she wants.”
“Okay,” Jamie accepts easily. “You have my number. Just let me know. In the meantime, I think your five minutes are up.”
Sure enough, when she looks back, Grace finds Emily hugging her backpack to her chest, sitting at what must be the waiting area.
Jamie quietly opens the door and beckons her inside, Grace following with a downright goofy smile. They’ve done this a few times now, but the novelty never seems to run out.
The prospect of spending the day together. Just the two of them.
And to think, if she could be better, become the person everyone wants her to be, then this can be their new reality.
“Emily, Grace is here to see you.”
Grace chokes on her greeting a little when Emily lights up like a bulb.
“Grace?”
Gosh, there is something to be said about having someone so happy to see you that really drives away the self-deprecating thoughts.
“I’m here,” Grace announces herself, already opening her arms for Emily to run into. “Come give me a hug.”
Like a rocket filled with love, Emily throws herself into her embrace. Grace doesn't stumble anymore, catching the little bundle of joy and spinning her in a gigglish circle.
She's aware they're being watched, but none of it matters now.
“Are you ready to go to the aquarium with me?”
Not when Emily nods and easily takes Grace’s hand like she would follow her till the end of the world.
Grace promises she’ll only ever take her to where the sun rises, starting with the museum.
It's a nice day, made even nicer when they're having so much fun.
As a kid, Grace never felt inclined to explore the world around her, always favoring the four walls of her bedroom, blank of decorations because she thought it was pointless and due to be taken down the next time they had to move anyway.
Emily, thankfully, is much more hyperactive and curious.
Grace chalks most of it due to her past being raised in what is essentially a lab, but either way it's infectious and gets even her, an accomplished scientist in all her rights, to geek out over interactive chemistry and physics sets.
After a few hours, Emily tires.
Grace naturally leads her towards the waiting area, where they find a good spot near the blasting air conditioner and have lunch.
It's when Grace has a mouthful of egg sandwich that Emily brings up the book.
“Oh,” she exclaims, swallowing. “I didn't realize you still have it.”
The black book Grace remembers finding with Emily when they first met, thick and gold-rimmed, now sits at the bottom of her backpack.
“The agent that found me said I went back to my cell. I don't remember anything, but they said they found my book just a few feet away from me.”
Trying to shove down all the thoughts of Emily’s subconscious choosing to die in the only place she’s called home, Grace musters her best smile and her happiest voice.
“You wanna read it for me?”
“But I’m sleepy,” Emily pouts, accepting Grace wiping her cheek with a napkin after a quick warning. “You really can't read it?”
“I’m sorry,” Grace says in lieu of an answer. Her heart twists inside her chest.
Jamie’s offer for surgery flashes through her mind, and Grace is tempted to bring up the topic right then and there.
But Emily looks so excited right now, it hardly seems fair to drop a bomb on her. Grace decides to do some research on her own before she lets Emily in on the know.
Just in case, she is going to learn braille and do extensive research on how to improve the accessibility where she lives.
Maybe moving wouldn't be a bad idea after all. Her apartment building doesn't even have ramps and the emergency exits are antiquated as shit.
“It's okay.” Emily smiles, no falseness in sight. “I can read a couple sentences, but if I fall asleep—”
“I’ll be right here,” Grace promises, mind wandering to possible solutions to her problem.
Which is how, the very next Monday, Grace finds herself at work once more, but heading for the floor of the FBI’s Laboratory Division instead of her own.
Past experience means she knows exactly where to go, but it doesn't make walking through the floor and feeling dozens of eyes on her any more comfortable.
Thankfully, Maeve is exactly where Grace expects her to be, in the center cubicle decorated with a Batman insignia, whose brunette hair is a tangled mess from having fingers run through it and body tipping the chair so far back it's a miracle no one has broken a tailbone.
Maeve looks up as soon as she hears footsteps, blue eyes popping wide open when Grace comes into full view.
“Well, this is a surprise.”
God, she regrets this already.
“I apologize for interrupting your workday.” Grace glances around, wary of the curious eyes and ears of Maeve’s co-workers. Not because she can’t bring herself to make eye contact. “Can we talk?”
Maeve hums, looking Grace up and down like she’s trying to search for something. It only makes Grace squirm, the fabric of her well-tailored blazer and dress pants suddenly making it hard to breathe.
Maeve is good at that. It’s no wonder she used to be a detective before joining the FBI.
“Okay.” Finally, Maeve stands up. “Let’s go to one of the break rooms.”
Grace tries to hide her relief, but judging from the low chuckle Maeve makes as she passes, she fails miserably.
Only familiar with this section of the floor, Grace lets Maeve lead her towards where they need to go, sparsely admiring the facilities of what is also the FBI’s foundational base.
The Intelligence Branch surmises and distributes information to appropriate channels, but it’s the Laboratory Division, who collects forensic evidence and whatnot, that gathers said information in the first place.
Regrettably, Grace never had the opportunity to ask after Maeve’s work as a forensic operation specialist before things between them went South. If things go well today, she might get a second chance.
She just needs to not fuck this up first. For Emily.
Maybe even for herself.
“Sit,” Maeve orders once they’re inside a small, supposedly soundproof break room. Grace does as she is told, fidgeting nervously with the book she cradles to her chest like a baby. “Want coffee?”
Grace nods. “Black with—”
“One spoon of sugar, I remember.”
Maeve’s smile tells Grace she means it to be charming, but it only serves to make Grace more nervous. Maybe both can be true.
“Here you go.”
“Thank you.” Grace smiles and accepts the offer, immediately looking away from Maeve Morgan’s unsettlingly all-knowing blue eyes after. “Again, I’m sorry to be a bother.”
“You’re fine.” Maeve sits down not on the other side of the desk but two seats away from Grace, her body language relaxed and almost eager. “What is it you wanted to talk about?”
It hits her then, how Maeve is already misunderstanding the situation.
It’s obvious in hindsight, the way Maeve has the smoulder eyes on and checking Grace out like she’s someone to be desired and not, you know, just a colleague.
Admittedly, a colleague she’s bedded once or twice and has somewhat of a situationship afterwards. But still.
Grace clears her throat, determined to push through her awkwardness to clear things up and get this over with.
“You know how to read braille, right?”
Maeve blinks, the first true sign of surprise showing on her face. “Yeah?”
Sliding the book over, Grace asks, “Do you think you can translate this for me?” Then, “I’ll pay you, if that’s necessary.”
“You don’t have to…” Maeve gives up on her words, taking the book and flipping it open. The pads of her index and middle fingers caress the page like it’s silk, dark eyebrows furrowing harder at every stroke. “A children’s book? Why would you need this translated?”
Granted, Grace is prepared to be asked. She just doesn’t know for sure how much she can say.
Alas, she owes Maeve a favor. “I’m in the process of adopting a little girl who is blind. This is her favorite book, I thought it’d be a nice surprise for her.”
Maeve listens with all of her usual intensity, absentmindedly swooping her hair back when they fall into her face. Her hands are still moving, simultaneously reading and giving Grace all her attention.
Grace digs her nails into her own flesh, suddenly squirmish.
“You’re adopting?”
Maeve’s incredulous tone is like nails on a chalkboard. “Yeah?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Maeve trails off, laughing. Grace’s face darkens. “When did this happen?”
“Recently.” Grace snags her bottom lip with her teeth, holding her tongue. “Why?”
Maeve shrugs, mirth evident. “I’m just surprised, that's all. You never gave off the impression that you're willing to make such a huge commitment.”
You love her, I get it, but you need to get your life together first.
I thought you were the best choice.
You really can’t read it?
Every feeling of inadequacy, grief, and helpless anger she’s experienced in the last 4 weeks, hell in the last 8 years, surges upwards like an erupting volcano, lava and venom spilling out of her without restrain.
“Maybe now I’m finding something worth committing to.”
Victory tastes like ashes when Maeve looks like Grace just slapped her in the face.
Her own words loop back to her like a death march, filling Grace’s insides with pure, unadulterated guilt. It doesn’t help that Maeve looks absolutely shattered, blue eyes staring at Grace with so much hurt.
Grace tries, god she tries, “I– I’m s-sorry. I didn’t… that wasn’t…” but once again, the universe has other plans for her.
Inside her pocket, Grace’s phone rings loudly. She sets it so only the people from Emily’s specialized care facility can bypass her Do Not Disturb filter, panic arising as soon as the thought of Emily in any harm’s way crosses her mind.
“Excuse me,” she tells Maeve as she stands up, who sits frozen.
At least she knows she won’t be going anywhere.
Grace nods and turns around, swiping to accept the incoming call from, as she expected, Jamie’s personal number.
“Jamie, hey. What’s up?”
“Hey,” Jamie answers, voice low and urgent, not at all helping Grace’s growing anxiety. “Sorry to call you in the middle of a workday. I just got to run by you something real quick.”
“Go on,” she prompts.
“About the cataract surgery,” he pauses. “Emily found out.”
Shit. She wanted to talk about this with Emily when she’s ready. “And?”
“And she’s asking questions.” Jamie takes a deep breath, before getting all out in one go. “I was hoping you would give me permission to tell her? Just the logistics, of course. Everything else, I’ll leave it for when you visit this weekend. You’re her mother, after all.”
Jamie didn’t need to add that last bit, but the bribery works.
Grace lets out a laugh so soft and affectionate it surprises her. “Okay, sure. You can tell her.”
“Excellent!” Jamie cheers, widening Grace’s smile. She can almost see it, the way he used to jump up and down in excitement like a bunny before slapping her repeatedly on the shoulder. “Okay, I gotta go do some actual work. Emily, hey, you wanna say anything to Grace?”
A pause, before Grace has to open her ears to catch the tiniest whisper.
“I love you.”
If it’s possible for her to combust right then and there, she will.
“I love you too.”
Hanging up with the goofiest grin on her face, Grace turns back around and freezes.
Right. The mess of her own creation.
“Maeve,” she begins, desperately cycling through the thesaurus in her head. “I really didn’t—”
But it seems Maeve has finally lost her patience. “I’ll email you back the translation. Should be done within today.”
Her face, always so expressive, smug, unbearably beautiful and inviting, is completely closed off now.
A frightening contrast compared to the open devastation she wore just minutes ago.
Maeve adamantly refuses eye contact as she stands up, closing the book with a soft thud and head hanging low so Grace can’t even catch a glimpse beyond her thin-lipped mouth.
Her stiff body language says more than enough.
Grace, seeing the situation spiraling in the opposite way she intended, stutters and stammers for something to say. To fix what she broke and give her back the friend she hadn’t wanted to admit she had missed.
Of course, nothing comes to mind or mouth. Grace’s always been terrible under pressure.
She still comes up empty even after they exit the break room, with rooms for two Jesuses in between them, and head for the elevator.
Because the truth is, Grace wasn't lying.
Back then, when they were still something, when they were trying, Grace’s heart was an impenetrable fortress.
It took a grieving period that lasted 8 years, a particularly exhausting field assignment, a lovely little girl who is now her whole world, and a good friend, to get Grace to confront it all.
As a matter of fact, she is still learning how to deal with it all, and it is taking so much out of her. Borderline the most painful thing she has ever done.
But Maeve doesn't know that. Only that Grace thought she was never worth fighting for.
Out of everything Grace had done, this feels the most cruel.
When waved by Maeve, Grace sullenly walks inside the elevator, turning and finding blue eyes looking less cold but just as sad.
“Goodbye, Grace,” Maeve speaks softly, like she understands. Grace can’t tell if that’s better or worse.
Hours later, Grace receives an internal email with Village of Shadows Translation as the subject line. Less than five minutes later, a co-worker hands her back the book, saying it was dropped off by her old friend in the Laboratory Division.
They don't know. No one knows.
But it hurts just the same.
Grace puts the book in her bag, saves the PDF in her cloud, and shuts off her computer.
She says goodbye to her colleagues, clocks out, and rides the elevator to the basement.
Her car is still there, so she gets inside and turns the key. As she drives, her phone lights up with a call from Emily.
Grace smiles, wipes the lone tear off her cheek, and swipes to accept. The business card given to her by her boss burns through the pocket of her jacket.
That's for later. Now she rests.
Grace had done enough for one day.