Work Text:
Gertrude Robinson went back to London immediately after she left Michael, and as quietly as she could. She stepped into her apartment for the first time in several days, set her suitcase beside the door, and lowered herself to lay down on the floor. There was no point in the action. At this point in her career feeling guilty only served as a waste of time, and blubbering from self-pity was a privilege she had not been granted since she was twenty-four years old.
The door to her flat opened, dragging the suitcase several paces, and she began to sit up. The prospect of strange people entering her home was something she had been thinking over for so long the concept didn’t unnerve her as much as it used to.
“Oh, what happened to you?”
“I would prefer if you could answer, Agnes, why you have chosen to come to me now.” Gertrude had not been able to find a definitive pattern to when Agnes showed up to her. It was rare, perhaps once every few years, and could manifest as them finding each other in local cafes or bumping against one another on the tube. Agnes had already shown up at her flat twice and felt no need to knock either time.
Agnes ignored her. She always did when that topic came up. “You look exhausted.” She stepped towards Gertrude and kneeled next to her on the hardwood. The way Agnes moved, regardless of the situation, was akin to a dance.
Gertrude coughed twice, and Agnes felt her forehead. “You have a fever.”
She had scarcely noticed a hand touch her forehead until the heat there was more uncomfortable than it had been all morning. Gertrude had ignored it well enough. That was something she had grown to be extremely good at over the years, but she had indeed taken ill, just as Michael had been fussing about. She coughed lightly, and Agnes hummed in response, a light, trill sound.
“Stand up,” said she. “We are going to rest in bed.”
“We?” It was only half a question.
“Mm-hm.” The joyful tone felt too pleasant. It seemed that all pleasantness was reminding her of Michael at the moment, and, by extension, reminding her of The Door.
Her layers of clothing were peeled back, the scarf removed, the hat pulled off, the coat folded away and the shoes removed, until she was left in a green cardigan, white blouse, and black wool skirt. In resignation, Gertrude unpinned her hair in a hesitant act of acceptance, and as she did so, Agnes began to help her into a gray flannel nightgown and put the cardigan back around her afterwards. She was brought to bed and covered by blankets, staring at the ceiling.
“I believe that doing these sorts of things to people is becoming easier,” she said.
Agnes was removing her own black greatcoat. “I’m sure it has.”
She closed her eyes, the image of the yellow door in the Russian snow flashed across her vision, and she opened them again. She was freezing.
“Are you cold?” Agnes was already climbing into bed beside her.
“It doesn’t really matter.”
Agnes laid down beside her anyway, and that was how Gertrude knew she was feverish, because otherwise Agnes would have, no doubt, made her feel overwarm after only a minute or so. Agnes took her hands and kissed her knuckles. Gertrude tried to stay apathetic.
Agnes would be leaving soon enough, that was the trouble with her. Every time she left Gertrude half believed that it was the last time they would ever see each other. It was perhaps paranoia borne from the fact that pragmatism was the only quality she could truly afford in human interaction, perhaps not.
-
“Yoo-hoo?” Michael nudged the door open with his hip. “Ms. Robinson? I have uh… what is this?” He turned the unopened notebook about in his hands and shrugged. “1950’s Turkey, I think the box said. Either way, you asked if I had seen anything from college ruled notebooks, so that's what I have.”
“Yes, thank you Michael.” Working with him had proven to be unexpectedly draining for the same reason why any other coworker would consider him a pleasure to work with. However, she was satisfied to believe that she had finally found a knack to it; to respond to Michael’s natural likeability and keep the natural sympathy that formed for him on the surface, to be skimmed away when necessary. He was such an awkward man to serve the role, for on the most basic level, his sweetness and endless cheerful nature made him the perfect candidate.
“I made you tea as well. I’ll just leave it on the desk. Here you are. Listen, about this… business trip we’re going on. Are you um… up to it?”
She glanced up at that.
“I just mean that mid-winter is not exactly the time of year I would choose to go to Russia, and we can’t have you getting sick when we’re out, you know, fighting monsters.”
“I’ll be alright.” Gertrude opened the notebook. “Thank you for the concern, and the tea, truly.”
“You’re most welcome, Ms. Robinson.”
-
When Gertrude awoke, she did feel too warm from Agnes’s natural high temperature, but her chest felt a little less tight. She felt Agnes get up and opened her eyes to see their hair untangle from each other as Agnes slid from the bed. Gertrude had told her, during one of their rare meetings, that she was too old now for anyone who knew her true age to leave it so long and loose. Agnes had found the statement hilariously hypocritical and said that many a person could say that Gertrude was too old to not wear make-up or wear maxi skirts every day or a variety of other things about her person. Gertrude had become too cantankerous in her almost fifty years at The Institute.
Agnes stretched and stood up. “You seem a little better,” said she. “I think you just needed a good rest for a chest cold. I think I’ll go off and make some tea.” She scampered out of her bedroom into the rest of her flat.
That was a line far too similar to what Michael would say, a thought which she pushed out of her head, for she was considering that if she was forced to do anything else to Agnes, she would completely lose any lingering sense of identity within a matter of weeks.