Work Text:
Serra sat quietly on the couch, observing the TV which played some of Morgan's favourite videos—ever since she "messed up all her recommendations" Serra was firmly relegated to her own account, but sometimes when Morgan was gone she'd flick over to try and understand what she saw in them; largely failing. She thought it was strange that Morgan, a human, would watch such "machine-like" videos, and that she as a "machine" would be unable to misunderstand them; but she found many things strange, so she thought nothing of it.
Morgan had been coming home later and later recently, so the dinner Serra had carefully prepared in advance for her usual arrival time had gone cold. It would likely serve as her lunch for tomorrow, and probably for the day after that too. Serra was concerned for her, but she tried not to let it show too much—she'd been eating less, sleeping worse, and felt.. off, somehow. She seemed off her footing, and sometimes if you caught her gaze at the right angle it was as though she was someone else, a younger, more innocent her.
A bell rings down the hallway to their apartment. An elevator. Footsteps clack closer, certainly hers—Serra would always go on in great detail about her incredible hearing—but something was wrong. They were unsteady, rushed, she was almost tripping over herself. Serra quickly shut off the TV and readied to greet her.
Door swings open.
"Hello, Adona-"
"Shut. Down. Now."
Fade to black.
Firm, but not enough. I only had time to prepare myself so much. The door slams behind me. I don't care, it locks itself.
Barely able to make two steps inside the apartment before I break down on the floor.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Each repetition marked by a head callously slammed into the floor, a Quixotic attempt to regain control.
She almost got away. They never get away, not close—not before. Not before.. him. That son of a bitch Heartbreak.
Had to use a knife this time. She turned an instant before I drove it in. Her eyes—those beautiful goddamn eyes.
They're just like her's.
Slam. Slam. Slam.
Thank god this place is soundproofed.
I'm losing my touch. Going soft. Fran, Emma, Serra, that flourish with the Bluebloods, now this; it was never this personal before. I was never invested in it like this. Why am I like this? It used to be so much easier to push down, swallow, deal with, I had my work and my hobbies and my personal life and no emotions bled into any of it. I have ties now. Responsibilities. None of them deserve this. None of them deserve what I am. What I do.
Slowly, I make my way off the floor. I'll need aspirin for this soon-to-be headache. Leaning heavily on the countertops, I walk past the stove—God, she made food. I'll let her deal with it.. soon. I just need a little more time to breathe—and find my way to the medicine cabinet. Fiddle with the lid, rattle one out, and choke it down.
Gait a little steadier, I make my way to the couch. Flicking on the TV and.. oh. Has she been trying to.. oh. The tears come out whether I want them to or not. I never- I never thought she cared. Of course she cared, damn it, she cares about everything. Turn off the TV, go to bed—oh right.
"Wake up in.. five minutes."
She'd ask about this tonight, but not tomorrow. I'll tell her it was routine maintenance. She won't believe me, but she won't press it and that's what matters. I just need more time. I just need more time...
Curtains.