Chapter Text
Hate was a strong word.
That was how the saying always went. It was such a serious term— the kind that her family loathed putting into practice, even if they were intimately familiar with it. It was a word that got you smacked with a shoe or a knuckle or a belt. A filthy word.
That being said, Schneider fucking hated London.
There was nothing— and she truly meant nothing— good about the place.
There were no shops, no restaurants that catered to her tastes, even the ivy growing on the sides of the smoky cafes managed to make her sinuses flare.
She hated it.
She didn’t have a better word and she didn’t want one— hate sufficed. Every moment spent there was a Dantesque level punishment. Every single second that she had to spend dodging trams and squinting through fog and making godawful CHSCK! CHSCK! CHSCK! noises at the back of her throat just to try to clear the pollutants from her system made the idea of retrieving the pistols in her dresser drawer and blowing her brains out sound all the more appealing.
She read somewhere that London had one of the lowest suicide rates in the country. She found that hard to believe. One month alone in the city was going to make her add to it.
Today wasn't any different than any day before it had been, which was to say, rainy and grey. Saffron Hill shuffled by her, dull brick occasionally cut by these intimidating apartments that spoke of a luxury she could not afford. They were certainly nothing to scoff at, but she did so anyway, imagining just for a moment the people who had once been crammed into these buildings, now surely some young bureaucrat's office space. It seemed oh-so-fitting.
She hadn’t thought it possible for somewhere to be more dull than Chicago, really she hadn’t, but it seemed that God loved to prove her wrong. If her hands weren’t already full, she’d have flipped Him off. Tight plastic cords rubbed at her wrists as she struggled to keep a hold on this week’s haul. She had already lost a runaway pear a few streets back, so out of necessity her pace had slowed to a crawl.
Coffee, oranges, a new pack of cigarettes with whatever was left over— the essentials, as she deemed them to be. Marian was going to kill her when she found out that she was ordering yet another take-out dinner, but it was either this or she forgot entirely so beggars really shouldn’t be choosers.
She swung a left, trying to remember the way to Farringdon Station. Her hands ached with the cold. Or the lack of circulation. She ignored them.
Life had become… different. Well, different was a lighter word for it, as light as she could spin it. She tried to fall into a routine, a simple thing of apartment, job hunting, back to the apartment again, but even that was different. She hadn’t really expected it to be; She didn't imagine she’d be settled in, but it didn’t usually take her this long to get her bearings.
Then again, packing up and moving back to Europe wasn’t a small feat. London had become this tertiary zone for her, this median of not quite close enough to Sicily, not quite far enough from Chicago.
It was for the best, she knew that, but it still left her off-kilter. She felt… stuck.
Like she couldn’t go back home— she didn’t know where home was.
The monotonous tones of the train announcements brought her mind back to her body, the whirring of movement buzzing beneath her boots. She blinked for a moment, just, unsure of when she had got on, but didn’t linger on it long enough to really give a damn. She was over the tracks and not on them— that alone was a little victory in and of itself.
She spared a glance to the compartment’s LED display. The time read just after two, and about six stops out from her destination. By her maths, that gave her roughly thirty minutes, give or take.
She dropped one of her bags to her feet, massaging the red and tender flesh of her wrist. The skin screamed angrily back at her, which considering the abuse she had put it through lately, was more than fair. The resounding POP! of her joints was a testament to their use.
She mentally added ‘not doing PT’ to the list of things her sister was going to fuss at her for. Her eyes flit back to the LED display, counting back the hours.
Marian should be just getting out of mass.
Might as well.
The other bag fell to her feet as she rummaged for her phone, retrieving it from her jacket pocket. She could complain all she wanted, but it was nice to call her sister regularly. Nice to know someone still cared.
The number came easy to her, sore fingers swiping fast along the keypad. The train jostled slightly as it rolled into the next stop, doors opening with this ear-splitting sound. Passengers bustled past her, knocking against her shoulders, a sensation that was at the top of her ‘I loathe London’ list. She did her best to press herself further against the wall, thumb already crashing into the dial button.
The line rang, phone slotted pleasantly against her ear. The crowd was dense now, but she kept an eye out for any seat that might open up. Everything ached, the less she had to stand the better.
The train rolled into its second stop as the line connected, a silent answer but not subtle enough for her to have missed it. More people moved their way in and out of the car, knocking into her again. She stayed against the wall.
“Sorella,” she said, tilting her ear to try to drown out the outside sound. “Che fai? Tuttu a postu?”
Somewhere at her side, a woman and her young daughter sat just within earshot. She could see the mother stiffen at her tongue, wordlessly drawing her daughter closer. Another contender for her list.
“Sciocchi, non pozzu mancu jiri ô trenu.” She muttered the words directly into the speaker, adjusting herself slightly. One of her hands came up to run through her hair, getting caught between gently tangled curls.
She waited for the inevitable admonishment for her foul mouth— the horrified gasp, the rapid-fire tone, the forced pleasantries exchanged in the muffled background— but to her surprise, none came. Silence met her on the other end of the line, rousing her from her previous irritation.
It wasn't like her sister to just be… quiet. Silent treatment at times, yes, in that sparsely childish way of theirs, but outright quiet was a rarity, especially as they grew older. No exasperated sigh, no lecture, not even an amused huff, just silence.
A dangerous pit began to grow in her stomach. She adjusted herself again, putting a hand on her opposite ear.
“Marian, ‘allo?” She hoped her wavering voice didn’t sound as panicked as she felt. “Ci sei?”
There was a muffled noise of something on the other end, until finally:
“…Um, I’m sorry. I think you may have the wrong number?”
Schneider blinked.
That was definitely not her sister.
Her eyes flashed back down to the phone, checking the display. She was sure she got it right— Marian hadn't changed her phone recently, she would've told her that. The number was the same as it always was, last four digits one-nine…
…seven-seven.
Marian’s was one-nine-two-nine.
Fuck.
A flush crept into her cheeks as she realized her mistake. No wonder the line had been so quiet.
Stupid.
How could she be so careless?
She cleared her throat awkwardly, remembering she was still, in fact, on the phone.
“Ah, yes. Sorry. I… forget it.” Dio, she fucking hated London. “I thought you were someone else.”
The voice seemed to hum back at her, just barely picked up beneath the cacophony of people around her.
“It’s okay. I thought as much.”
It wasn’t particularly unpleasant, the voice. Cool, even-toned, distinctly British and vaguely feminine. Not old, but not adolescent. Her mental risk-assessment kept her occupied enough to stave off the heat in her face.
Passengers clambered around her as they arrived at the third stop, pushing her further against the wall. It was beginning to make her claustrophobic.
With the phone balanced precariously between her cheek and shoulder, she did her best to drag her bags closer to her feet. The train jostled as she bent over, sending the elbow of a particularly hasty bureaucrat directly into her nose. Pain blossomed immediately, eyes watering as it aggravated the already tender bone. Just her fucking luck. She snapped upright, phone nearly slipping away from her as her hands sped to her face.
“Are you alright?”
“What?” Right, the voice. She lowered her hands, taking a deep, sharp breath through her nostrils. It didn’t help. “Yeah, yes, the train just— I have the wrong number. I’ll go.”
There was another hum.
“You don’t have to, it’s fine. You seem to need the company.”
Oh. Schneider nearly laughed, a sudden rush of air bursting from her chest before she could stop it. That was different.
She moved the phone from her shoulder to her waiting palm, sniffling again. “Are you always this charitable, Ms. Governor? Nothing better to do?”
The voice did laugh at that, a subdued little thing. Genuine, which Schneider could appreciate, but… low, a little tired, which she could respect.
“Governor?”
“You can hide your intentions, but not that accent.” Her wrist was beginning to ache from the position. She switched the phone to her off-hand. “British, no?”
It hummed again. “Yes, of course. You’re not?” It didn’t seem like a true question, more of a confirmation.
"And what gave you that idea?”
“No one notices the accent unless they’re from abroad.” Hm, well it had her there. “You have one yourself.”
It unnerved her a bit, how easily it called her out. It was exciting though. She couldn’t recall the last time she had held an honest-to-god conversation with someone who wasn’t Marian. Between the recovery and the move and… everything else, it had been, what? A few months?
Maybe six or so. Probably longer.
“Sì, I concede. You never answered my question.”
Another hum. “I have a few reports, and some forms I have to submit for approval. So yes, I suppose.”
That made sense, a random call wouldn’t be at the top of anyone’s priority list. She had expected it. Her mouth fell open on instinct, but before she could respond—
“But you seemed interesting. So it wasn’t a bother.”
…Ah. Hm. Different, again. Schneider cleared her throat.
It took her longer than she would’ve liked to find the words. “A bureaucrat, then? The nickname suits you.”
“A student,” and it laughed again. She could feel it in her shoulders, that laugh. “I’m completing my undergrad.”
“Hm, I stand by my point, signore.”
There was a shuffle on the other end that accompanied the low hum this time. Papers, bunched together and tapped against… a table maybe, a desk. A desk was more likely. “I can ask questions, too. Do you attend nearby?”
“I—”
The jostle of the train stole the words from her tongue and the balance from her knees, sending her cascading forward. The steel beam of the chair’s railing pressed roughly against her stomach. She did her best to smother the gasp that left her into a pained hiss.
When she lifted her head it was directed towards the LED display. Stops… four, five, six had all flown by. This one was hers, the hasty bureaucrat and the mother and the young daughter already gathering their things. She rushed to do the same.
“Everything okay?”
She slotted the phone back between her cheek and shoulder, shambling over the gap with her bags wrapped tight over her wrist. The pain of the flesh helped balance out the pain in her stomach. PEMDAS, or BIDMAS, whatever they called it here.
“Cazzo, sì, yes, I’m fine. The stop came sooner than I expected.” She decided to just pick a direction and walk for now, enough to get her out of the station. Too many people.
“I’m sorry, I must’ve distracted you.” Penance didn’t suit the voice as much as it had been made to suit her. “Do you have to go?”
The smell of damp, cold air flooded her senses as she finally traded one grey prison for another. All at once the voice’s words registered.
“No, you didn’t— never mind.” She found herself braced against a small concrete wall and… strangely reluctant. She couldn’t be that starved for human contact, especially from a stranger. She had no idea what their motives were, nothing to verify their claims, just an even tone and surface level geniality.
Still…
“You’re right, I should go.” It was hard to find what to say. Should she just hang up? Thank it for the company? “Sorry for keeping you,” was what she settled on.
A hum. “Don’t be. It was nice to meet you.”
Likewise, she wanted to say. “Sì, ciao, signore,” came out instead. The click of the line was loud in the afternoon air.
Schneider took a deep, shuddering breath. When she turned the phone over, she had a few missed messages from Marian, all dated nearly forty-five minutes prior. It hadn’t felt like that long. If she were honest with herself, it hadn’t felt long at all.
Rolling her wrist to and fro, she began to punch in her sister’s number, taking care to make sure she got it right this time. The inner corner of her lip wedged its way between her teeth, and she was sure that she’d be breaking into her next pack of cigarettes sooner than expected.
She paused, right before hitting the dial button. Her traitorous hand swiped over to the call log, lingering there for longer than she needed to. Longer than she would’ve liked.
The number stared back at her.
Taunting her.
With two quick swipes, she returned to the keypad, line already ringing.
And if she happened to have a new contact saved under ‘Governor’, then that was her business.