Archive of Our Own

ag·o·ra·pho·bi·a

noun extreme or irrational fear of entering open or crowded places, of leaving one's own home, or of being in places from which escape is difficult. 

During their first meeting, the court-mandated therapist uses the word ‘agoraphobia’. It sticks out from a long string of other words that Vera nods along to but doesn’t take in. It’s the only part of the conversation she remembers afterward, but she firmly tells herself that it doesn’t matter much anyway. It’s something she’s always known about herself, with or without a word to define it. The word doesn’t seem to make it any easier to deal with, so Vera decides to file it away somewhere in the back of her brain and move on. 

She tries to keep living her life the same exact way she always has. When they release her from the hospital, Apollo and Trucy insist on taking her home, no matter how many times she argues (or, well, meekly suggests) that it’s not necessary. She knows that if they come to her house with her, the polite thing to do would be to invite them in and offer them a snack or something to drink, and no matter how much Vera has come to like Apollo and Trucy, to appreciate their company, she still hates the idea of other people in her house. The police have already been inside, and it will take weeks for her to feel comfortable again knowing that other people have been there, touching things and moving them to places where they don’t belong. Also, the only drink she has is coffee, and she is never serving anyone coffee ever again. 

They walk the whole way home, a little more than a mile, because Vera hasn’t ridden in a vehicle (besides police cars and ambulances, recently) in over a decade, and she’s not about to start now. Trucy and Apollo are good sports about it, though, not complaining about either the heat or the stilted silence Vera keeps. She wants to say something, like ‘Thank you’, or ‘I’m sorry’, or ‘Please leave me alone’, or ‘Help’, but she isn’t sure how to make any of the words come out of her mouth correctly. So, silence it is. 

“Well, we’ll go ahead and get out of your hair now!” Trucy chirps when they reach the front door. “Just wanted to make sure you got here okay.” She leans in a bit closer and whispers into Vera’s ear (loudly enough that Apollo can still hear every word she’s saying); “Honestly, the way Polly was carrying on about you, I think he was worried you’d forgotten the apartment number or something.” 

Apollo grumbles some sort of half-hearted denial and pushes Trucy gently out of the way so he can talk to Vera. “I get that you probably don’t want anyone inside right now,” he says, and Vera is startled by his understanding, “But I just wanted to let you know that…you know, we’re here if you need anything. Walks home from the hospital don’t have to be the end, if you don’t want them to be.” 

Vera nods, quickly, hoping to convey both ‘I’d like that’ and ‘But please leave now”. 

Apollo seems to get it, because he starts to turn around, before snapping his fingers and pulling his backpack around to rummage through it. “Almost forgot,” he mutters, ruffling through binders and files, evidently looking for something. 

Trucy takes the opportunity to slink back over and whisper to Vera again. “Please do call,” she says gently, “Or text or whatever. Don’t tell him I said so, but Polly could really use some more friends.” 

“Here it is!” Apollo announces triumphantly as he pulls a small plastic bag out of his backpack and hands it to her. “Some stuff from us, and the rest of our friends.” 

Vera remembers the last time she got a gift from someone other than her Dad. It did not, in simplest terms, end well. But this one, her heart tells her, is very very different. This is the good sort of gift. She gives Apollo and Trucy the biggest smile she can muster, which admittedly isn't very big, but it’s a start, and they both smile back as though they’ve been given a gift in return. 

Then Vera unlocks her door, tries her hardest not to slam it in their faces, and nearly collapses onto the floor, safe for the first time in days. 

The apartment is disturbingly empty. The police must have taken away all her Dad’s paintings to use as evidence, so the walls are just sad, with nothing to cover up the cracks. All of his old equipment is gone too, leaving just a chair and table on the side of the room which used to be the studio. Vera hates how different it makes her feel. Their apartment has been many things over time, but empty has never been one of them. The paint stains are still on the floor, offering some small comfort, and she decides to drag out some old cheap canvases and materials that had been hidden away, unused, under her bed ever since Dad had decided she was meant for better things. For crimes, a voice whispers in her ear, He used you to commit crimes. But another voice tells her that if she decides to resent her Dad then there will be no one left in the world who loves him or thinks of him as a good person, and she cannot allow that to happen. So she moves on and puts the canvases and paint jars in the old studio, to try and fill it up a bit. It works, somewhat. The walls, however, stay stubbornly blank. 

Eventually, she remembers Apollo’s gift, and goes to get it from where she left it, in front of the door, where a welcome mat would go if there were ever anybody to welcome. The plastic bag is a lot fuller than it appeared at first glance. The first thing Vera pulls out of it is a thick paper business card for the Wright Anything Agency. The office address, phone number, and email are all embossed onto the front, and when Vera rubs her finger over them, it’s strangely comforting to feel the difference in texture. When she flips the card over, there’s another phone number, printed in neat blocky red-inked handwriting that can only be Apollo’s, along with the words ‘Call if you need anything!’. Below it, in bright blue sparkly gel pen is what must be Trucy’s number, along with a little doodle of a rabbit wearing a top hat. The drawing is also strangely comforting, so Vera pins the business card up on the corkboard beside her bed. It’s the only thing up there, so far, but Vera considers it a start. 

Underneath that is a small set of Butz Brand paints and brushes. Vera’s never used these before, they’re designed more for small-scale colorful illustration than the classical copies she’s used to making. The colors are nice though, very vibrant, and the brushes are soft against her fingertips, so she sets them on her desk and decides she’ll use them for her next project. Whenever she feels safe enough to paint again. 

Then there’s a set of pH test strips and a key for what each of the colors means, including the effects of different poisons, which Vera assumes comes from the snarky detective who came to the hospital to test her nail polish. That might actually be the most useful thing Vera’s ever gotten, so she puts them front and center on the kitchen counter, beside the mug tree. 

The next thing her hand brushes inside the bag surprises her; waxy and smooth. When she reaches in farther, her fingers come out stained with dirt, and eventually she pulls out an entire potted plant, with thick green and yellow patchy leaves. There is a small sticky note on the pot, which Vera picks off and reads. In Apollo’s blockish, almost computer-printed script, it says “This is a Pothos plant. Trucy picked it out for you at the florists. She also wants me to tell you he’s named ‘Gulliver’. I don’t pretend to understand how she came up with that, but I will communicate the message anyway. You should water him around once a week, and make sure he’s draining. Good luck!” Vera holds the little plant up to the light, inspecting it and smiling slightly to herself. She has to admit, he does look like a Gulliver. She sets him down on her desk, feels the soil in his pot to see how dry it is, then wanders off to get him a little bit of water. In the kitchen, she fills a little green plastic cup around half-way and pours it slowly over the dirt, watching the moisture slowly soak in. She might just be imagining things, but she feels like she can see the plant perk up a little bit, recovering from his no-doubt tumultuous trip in Apollo’s backpack. It feels good to take care of something else, for a change. Makes her feel capable, like an adult who can handle things on her own. More of an adult than she actually is. 

After she rinses the cup out and sets it to dry (very adultly), she returns to her room to continue investigating the contents of the gift bag. The second to last thing inside is a piece of rolled up vinyl wall-art secured by what Vera assumes is one of Trucy’s old scrunchies. On the surface is another sticky note in Trucy’s blue gel pen handwriting. ‘Klavier wanted to send something along too, but he didn’t think you’d like any of his band glossies.’ Vera nods to herself. He’s right, she wouldn’t have liked that at all. Her mind can barely tell the difference between the Gavin brothers in a brightly lit courtroom, she wouldn’t like to imagine what it would do to her if she woke up in the middle of the night to see those blue eyes and a blonde braid looming over her from the corkboard. ‘So he used his connections to get you a Lamiroir poster and CD instead. Give it a listen! I think you’d like her. Since they call her the landscape painter in sound, maybe her songs will give you ideas for new art pieces!’ 

Vera unfurls and examines the poster in question. It seems to be an album cover; a woman and her easel in the middle of nature.The trees around the border are wonderfully done, shaded as to capture the dappling of light. The sun in the background is rendered in small squares of color, almost a Van Gogh style. But it’s the woman in the center who really captures Vera’s imagination. She’s beautiful and somewhat familiar, cloaked in flowing blue and white fabrics and clearly painting with real passion, caught by a third-party observer the way an ancient Greek muse might be. She looks so at peace that Vera envies her. Wants to be her. Wants to rip the poster open and climb inside it to join her. She stares at the image for a very long time,  imagining just that, before she manages to tear her eyes away and pick up something else. 

The CD has the same image on the cover, only cropped differently. Vera cracks it open to survey the disc and track list. The words, of course, mean nothing to her, although they do sound poetic. She realizes now that she’s never really listened to music. 

She opens the top of her bedside radio and sets the disc inside. She wonders if the CD player in it even works. She’s never had cause to use it. Never owned a CD until right this minute. Despite her doubts, the machine quickly buzzes to life. Vera can hear the disc spinning rapidly inside, until the sound is drowned out by the music that begins to play.

The melody drifting out of the speakers is equal parts haunting and alluring. Vera thinks this must be what sailors used to describe as siren song. Just like the poster, she wants to dive into it. Then the woman’s voice comes in and it’s almost too much for Vera to handle. She’s never been to church, but she thinks this must be what it feels like. She lays back on her bed and lets the music wash over her. She doesn’t fall asleep, exactly, but feels like she enters some sort of trance, floating up and down on the music like a buoy in the ocean. She only comes out of it when the CD grinds to a halt, all songs played. She sits for a little while longer in silence, which is itself a kind of song. She decides she likes this music. And it’s a good thing too, because she’s probably never gonna hear any more. The radio is too loud and unpredictable, with people always yelling obnoxiously at each other in between in the songs or trying to sell you something. And she’s certainly never going to a concert. If she wasn’t so frightened by Klavier, she might try and ask him to get her more CDs. Oh well. At least she has this one. 

The last thing in the bag is a thin cardboard box, with a cartoon drawing of a fox made out of an orange on the top, and the words Kitaki Bakery written in swirly font underneath it. Immediately, Vera’s stomach turns. Just the idea of having food in her house that someone else made, someone Vera didn’t know, someone Vera wasn’t watching to make sure they didn’t slip anything else into it, terrifies her in a way she can’t quite explain. When she peeks inside, lifting the lid so slowly and cautiously you’d think she was expecting a bomb instead of a pastry, she sees a lovely large cinnamon roll, sticky and crusted with layers of icing. It’s beautiful, certainly, and so appealing that Vera almost sticks out a finger to touch it, to let the dried icing flake off on her finger and bring it up to her mouth to taste, before a shudder goes through her whole body. She snaps her hand back, and shuts the container as quickly as she can. She almost wants to cut the logo off of the front, because it’s so cute and she doesn’t want to waste a gift she’d been so kindly given, but she knows there will be sweetness and cinnamon stuck to the bottom of it, so, stomach roiling with both guilt and fear, she tosses the box unceremoniously into the kitchen trash can. She wishes she could eat it. Wishes she could be a normal person and not feel afraid of every unknown thing in life. But she can’t, and she’s not. So she tries to accept that and move on. 

She goes to bed hungry. 

When she wakes up the next day, the first thing she decides to do (after forcing down a rather stale piece of toast) is to try out those new supplies Trucy and Apollo gifted her, to paint something that can bring a little color back to these blank walls. She ties her hair back, puts on her smock, and drags an easel out into the middle of the living room.

The canvas stays infuriatingly empty, no matter how hard she stares.

She gets out every other material she has and lays them all out in front of her, begging for one of them to spark something in her. Watercolors, gouache, pastels, oil paints, even crayons, nothing gives her any ideas either on the table or held in her hand above the easel. Eventually, she gets so frustrated that she throws a chalk pastel down on the ground and stomps on it. That cathartic sense of power, of her own ability to destroy something, is the first real emotion she’s had all day, so she chases it. She picks up another pastel and presses down hard on it, letting it crumble between her fingers, and watches the dust float slowly down onto the floor. She does it again and again, smashing them against the floor, crushing them under her heels, snapping them in half, until the entire container is empty and her hands are covered in a medley of dusty colors. When they’re all gone, she feels empty again, with the extra pang of regret at wasting such expensive supplies, supplies that her Dad bought years ago. She scrubs the floor before washing up in the kitchen sink. The colorful water running off her hands almost reminds her of blood. She goes to bed early. 

She can’t come up with anything to do the next day, or the day after that. 

She lays on the ground and watches the ceiling fan spinning around and around and around, following it with her eyes until she gets dizzy. 

She counts all the tiles on the bathroom floor, and then counts them again to make sure she didn’t miss any. She gets two different numbers, but can’t muster the energy to count them a third time.

She picks books off the shelf in good faith, but none of them can hold her attention past the first chapter. 

She almost wishes they’d bought a TV at some point. But rationally she knows that even if she had it, all of the shows would be too loud, the commercials too long, the sitcom characters too obnoxious, the documentaries too dull, the news too depressing. Everything is too something for her right now.

She lays in her bed for hours at a time, even when she can’t fall asleep, listening to the Lamiroir album on repeat until she’s worried she’ll wear out the disc. Then she starts to ration it out. One listen through, then an equal amount of silence before she can restart. Making herself earn it. Trying to make sitting and waiting a purposeful act. 

One of the only things that brings her out of her stupor is remembering that she needs to water Gulliver. Nobody else in this house is dying under her watch.

For the life of her, she can’t seem to remember what she and her Dad did all the time. She knows they worked a lot, but they had time off too. Maybe doing nothing is just easier when there’s someone else there to do nothing with you. 

It's the moment she runs out of blueberry PopTarts that really does it for her. There’s another box of strawberry right next to them, but she can’t even bring herself to touch them. Strawberry was always her Dad's flavor. He would order two boxes every week, one of each, and they would eat them together for breakfast every morning, until they ran out at the same time. There hasn’t been a singular box of PopTarts in this cabinet since Vera was eight years old and used an extra to try and feed the neighborhood stray cat. It feels wrong. Her stomach grumbles, and she briefly wishes she’d saved that cinnamon roll from a few days ago. 

She rips a piece of paper out of an old beat-up notebook and titles it ‘Grocery List’ with a shaking hand. The grocery delivery service her Dad always used was canceled when he died, and Vera doesn’t know the password to their online account or even the name of the company in order to look up a phone number to call, so there’s no way to restart it. She’ll have to go out by herself. To the store. The store which no doubt will be full of loud sounds and unfamiliar foods and people she doesn’t know all talking at once. Just thinking about it almost makes her give up the idea and try to scrounge out a living on protein bars and peanut butter for another week while she builds up the courage. But then she looks at the single box of PopTarts in the cabinet and knows she has to go now. Her Dad would want her to. At least she hopes he would. And she knows he’d never want her to starve to death. ‘Blueberry PopTarts’ is the first thing she writes on the list. By the time she’s done (it takes what seems like hours, but is really only a few minutes), the list looks like this:

• Blueberry PopTarts
• Protein Bars 
• Peanut Butter (creamy) 
• Ramen Noodles
• Bagels 
• White Bread
• Sliced Turkey
• Cheddar Cheese Slices
• Tea Bags (not coffee, never coffee again)
• Boxed Mac & Cheese
• Hair Dye

Vera realizes very quickly that she has no idea how to cook anything. Her Dad had always bought pre-made frozen meals or ordered take-out. She’s not sure if she ever even saw him use the stove. So now she has to learn that as well as all the unwritten social rules about grocery shopping. She knows for certain which prospect scares her more, and unfortunately, it’s the one that comes first. 

She puts on her favorite overalls, as though they might be some sort of good luck talisman, and a cloth mask to cover her face. Even with that protection, she stands staring at the front door for at least fifteen minutes before she summons up the courage to open it and step outside. 

She walks, because she thinks the metro might actually kill her. She goes as quickly as she can while keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the ground so as to avoid any eye contact with strangers. She breathes a sigh of relief when she gets into the store without having to talk to anyone, before immediately having to suck it in again when she notices how truly big the place is inside. There are so many different kinds of everything. So many shelves upon shelves of food that it feels imposing, almost sinister. She thinks of all the hungry people there are in the world and can’t quite understand it, as she gazes down an aisle of enough bread to keep her fed for a lifetime. She snatches her groceries up and stuffs them in a basket with a speed that implies they might disappear at any minute. Actually, she feels as though she might disappear at any minute, like more and more pieces of her are flaking off into the wind the longer she stays outside her home. Like she’s crumbling away into nothing.

The last item on her list proves to be the most difficult. She’s never realized how many different brands of blue hair dye there are. Her Dad had ordered her the same one every month with their groceries for nearly the past decade. She stands in the hair care aisle for what feels like hours, staring up at the rainbow of colors, mentally urging herself to just pick one and get on with it. At one point, a concerned-looking attendant comes up to her and asks if she needs any help. Vera gestures desperately to her hair and then to the shelves, unable to make any words come out. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, the one thing she really didn’t want to do was talk to anyone.

“Are you looking to keep the same color?” the attendant asks, and Vera nods. “Hmm. Alright.” she strikes her chin pensively for a moment before reaching out to grab a cardboard box with a seductive-looking blue-haired model posing on the front. “This should be what you’re looking for. You don’t need any bleach, do ya?” Vera shakes her head, still unable to speak since her brain decided it didn’t want to, and the attendant smiles gently, before backing out of the aisle to leave her alone again. In a terrifying moment, Vera realizes the nice woman probably thought she was deaf. Maybe she should learn sign language. Could be helpful in the future, the next time she finds herself unable to speak in public. It seems to her, in brighter moments, that she’s got all the time in the world to learn new things now.

She passes nail polish on the way to the checkout counter and shudders. She will never paint her nails again. She needs to make sure she doesn’t lose all this new time she has stretching out in front of her.

She nearly collapses the second she gets home, spilling her groceries all over the floor. Luckily, none of them are particularly breakable, but she’s not thinking about that as she curls into herself, knees tucked into her chest on the cold tile. 

Why? Why are some things so hard for her that are easy, unthinkably easy, for everyone else? She has all this time left in her life, will she be spending it all this way; trapped in a few rooms searching desperately for anything to keep her from fading away into nothing?

She thinks about what the court psychiatrist tried to tell her. About agoraphobia. She wishes she could do her own research, but the cell phone her Dad got her for her sixteenth birthday (for no real reason other than a sense of societal obligation, it’s not like they were ever apart) only calls and texts, so she would have to go to the library and use a computer there. She might not remember much of what she was told about agoraphobia, but she knows she doesn’t want to do that — leave the house, walk among strangers, have to talk to them, ask them questions. 

Suddenly and without warning, she breaks down crying on the kitchen floor. She curses herself and her own weaknesses and curses her Dad, screaming at him, whenever he’s ended up, about all the ways he let her down. For not being successful enough to keep her Mother around. For never teaching her how to go out into the world. For warping her artistic talents for his own monetary gain. But most of all, for dying and leaving her alone. She pounds the tile floor until her fists ache and she’s sure the downstairs neighbors hate her. She lets the tears run down her face until there seem to be none left and salty tracks dry on her cheeks. 

She needs to get up, she tells herself. She needs to get out of this house. While she still can. Before she fades into it entirely, letting the wallpaper swallow her up as she starves to death mere meters from food. But where could she go? Where would be safe? 

Almost subconsciously, her eyes wander over to the corkboard, where several days (a seeming lifetime) ago, she hung up Apollo’s business card. 

She picks up her cellphone, and before she can think better of it, calls the number. 

“Wright Anything Agency, Apollo Justice speaking,” booms a voice on the other line so forcefully that Vera almost hangs up immediately, “How may I help you?” 

“It’s…Vera,” she manages to choke out, “Vera Misham. You said…you said that I could call.” 

“Vera!” Apollo exclaims with evident delight, “We were hoping to hear from you!” She hears a scrambling sound in the background and then another voice chimes in. “Vera! How come Polly got the first call?” asks a faux-pouty voice that Vera recognizes as Trucy’s. “It was the whole life-saving innocent verdict thing, wasn’t it? Because I’d like it to be clear that he couldn’t have gotten that without me.” 

Vera sets the phone down on the table and takes a few steps back so it’s not quite so loud. Then she projects her own voice as much as she can, hoping it reaches. “His was just…the first number on the card,” she admits. 

“That’s fair, I guess,” says Trucy, “Next time I’ll remember to write my number higher.”

“Anyway, Vera,” interjects Apollo, and Vera can imagine him forcefully shoving Trucy aside to reclaim his phone, “What’s up? Did you need anything?” 

“Can I…” Vera clears her throat and forces the words out, knowing that if she doesn’t do it now she never will, “Can I come over?” 

The Wright Anything Agency is only too happy to play host to her. She knew they would be, which is why she feels bad asking. But she still packs up a bag of newly acquired groceries and painting supplies like she’s headed to some sort of bizarre playdate and forces herself out the door just in time to collapse into the back of Apollo’s car. He had insisted on picking her up himself (“It’s too far for you to walk. And honestly,” he’d lowered his voice to try and prevent the others from hearing the next part, “I need a break from cleaning the toilet and listening to the Gavineers’ greatest hits on repeat.”) and Vera had acquiesced, considering a car ride far better than dying of heat stroke on the road or of claustrophobia on the metro. 

She has to close her eyes while he drives and try to convince herself she’s not actually moving. She still gets nauseous, but her breathing stays mostly steady. Apollo is unfailingly polite about this and doesn’t try to engage her in conversation, which she appreciates. 

When they arrive, she can tell he’s debating with himself about whether or not to offer to carry her bags up. She also appreciates this, in theory, but isn’t willing to hand her possessions over to anyone, even someone she theoretically trusts. 

“I got it,” she tells him simply, and follows up the stairs in his wake, clutching the bag to her chest.

The office is small and crowded in a way that might usually make Vera feel anxious, but somehow doesn't. As Apollo steps between stacks of case briefs and take-out containers of noodles to lead her to the couch, it’s clear he knows exactly where everything is. The fact that he’s comfortable with it, and clearly so is Trucy, who’s perched in an armchair shuffling a pack of cards in one hand and scrolling on her phone in the other, makes Vera feel more comfortable. 

Trucy springs up to greet them and Vera surprises herself again by accepting a side hug. Then she sets her bag down on the clearest patch of floor she can find and allows herself to be given the comfiest seat on the couch, along with an overstuffed pillow to hold and some ice water in a Max Galactica souvenir cup. She pulls out her sketchpad and doodles the scene around her for a bit while Apollo and Trucy chat. Vera contributes occasionally, but doesn’t feel pressured to speak any more than she’s comfortable with. Apollo sits a polite distance away from her on the couch and tries to avoid looking over her shoulder at the sketchbook.

“You can look,” she tells him eventually, looking up from her shaded version of his eyebrows to the real thing, “It’s not private.” 

Apollo turns an embarrassed shade of red not too dissimilar from his suit. “It’s good,” he mutters, “But do I really look that intense all the time?”

“Yes. Yes you do,” says Vera simply, returning to her shading.

“Ema says hi,” Trucy reports, looking up from her phone, “And that she hopes you don’t let us drive you too crazy.”

“Klavier says hi too,” adds Apollo, who’s pulled out his phone as well to cover his blushing face, “Well, technically he says ‘Guten Tag, Fraulein’ but I’m ignoring the bit.” 

“Bit?” repeats Vera, confused. 

“Apollo’s convinced that Klavier doesn’t actually speak German, but is only pretending for the fangirls,” explains Trucy, “It’s become a whole little conspiracy for him.”

“The accent changes a little bit every time you talk to him, Trucy, I’m telling you! It’s faker than his hair!”

“And I’m telling you that you spend way too much time thinking about his voice. And hair. And clothes. And music. Pretty much everything about him.”

Apollo squawks in deep offense, and then the two of them are off, arguing in a way that Vera hopes is playful, but either way is too fast and full of in-jokes for her to really follow. 

As Apollo and Trucy’s voices weave in and out of her ears, Vera finds her eyes fluttering closed and her mind floating away. She falls asleep right there on the couch, feeling a stronger sense of safety and comfort than she has in months, maybe even years. It’s the beautiful, light kind of sleep, not the lethargic stupor she’s been hazing around in for the past few days. 

A few hours of dreamless rest later, she startles awake. She’s never fallen asleep anywhere besides her own house before and is slightly discombobulated as her bleary eyes adjust to her new surroundings. Someone seems to have placed a blanket over her while she slept and it’s pressing down on her, heavy in a comforting way. Almost like a hug. Vera cannot remember the last time she was given a hug.

Mr. Wright is shambling around, picking up trash and kicking dust bunnies back under the chairs. He turns and grins at Vera when she sits up. “Mornin’.” 

“Did Apollo and Trucy…leave?” Vera asks, looking around at the empty workspaces. 

“They got called out on a case,” he says, throwing away his pile of trash and turning into the mini kitchen, “Just a consultation at the detention center, so I’m sure they’ll be back soon.”

“I’m sorry,” Vera mumbles blearily, rubbing her eyes, “I’m sure I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Mr. Wright, rummaging around in the cupboards, “Would you like some tea? The only brand we have is stupid fancy, cause a friend keeps it here, but it’s still fine if you throw a bunch of milk and sugar in it.”

“Uh…” Vera bites her lip.

“You can make it yourself if you’d like,” he offers, holding up the jar of tea leaves. 

Vera sighs, glad to be understood. But still she wavers. “I wouldn’t want to…impose.”

“Vera, seriously,” Mr. Wright turns to face her, and for one of the first times in her life she doesn’t shy away from the eye contact. “You can stay as long as you like,” he says slowly, sounding out every word. Vera’s gut doesn’t turn at that, nor does she feel the need to chew on her thumbnail, so she knows he’s being sincere. They all really do want her here. So she stays.

She stays for one cup of tea. And then another. And then one she eventually lets someone else make for her. She stays for Apollo’s next investigation and Trucy’s next magic show and only goes home to sleep and eat before she comes right back. 

The Agency becomes her new safe space, her home away from home, her reason to go outside, and quickly, her workplace as well. 

When people come to talk to Apollo for legal counsel, she helps draw suspect sketches and crime scene maps. 

Mr. Wright pays her a decent amount per sketch and a stipend for materials. At first Vera is worried that the agency can’t really afford it, until Trucy promises her that they have, in her words, “A mysterious and generous benefactor”. 

She designs the agency a new logo, posters, even a billboard that she knows will never get put up but has fun with anyway.

Sometimes she even gets to go to court with Apollo and sit up in the stands with her sketch pad. Wearing noise-canceling headphones to ignore the grumblings of the spectators, she draws the lawyers giving objections, the witnesses giving testimony, and even the judge having a mid-morning snack when he gets bored enough. 

Her favorite part is always showing them to people afterwards. 

(“I am certain I looked far cooler than that, Fraulien. You are capturing me in an…unfavorable light, ja? Move to the opposite stand next time.” 

“Trucy is not as tall as me, this is a bad angle!” 

“Well, the hat does add 6 inches, Polly.”

“Wait, go back, did the witness's eyes really squint like that? Mr. Wright, come look at this.”

“Lying. Has to be.” 

“Heh. Let me take that one of the fop getting hit with a Snackoo. Wanna blow it up to poster size and hang it outside his office.”)

When people come to book Trucy for parties and events, they offer Vera’s services for decorating and publicity at a discounted bundled rate. She helps Trucy with props and backdrops for free, of course.

After a few months, people start stopping by just to see Vera. The first time it happens she nearly faints, and then has to hide in the bathroom for a while getting her courage up while Trucy stalls. By the fourth or fifth time, she can handle it, so long as she has a stress ball to squeeze under her desk and Trucy does at least half of the talking. 

When there aren’t any clients (which is becoming a rarer and rarer occurrence, as news of both Apollo’s legal prowess and Vera’s artistic ability spreads through the city) she tries out new techniques. She covers the bathroom walls in plastic sheeting and does her first splatter painting, letting all her emotions out in different colors over the canvas. She tries a collage of crumpled-up crime scene entry permission slips found under Mr. Wright’s desk. She buys a pack of air-dry clay and sculpts a copy of Apollo’s hair horns to glue onto his favorite coffee cup. She practices still lives with objects found lying around the office; Trucy’s top hat atop a pile of case briefs, Charley being hit with morning light steaming through the window, Klavier and Apollo’s jackets thrown together on the couch, the wall of thank-you letters from Mr. Wright’s past clients, with his old beanie hanging off one of the frames. She takes them all home and hangs them on her walls to remind her of the people she loves outside. 

One evening, as she sits in a recently re-upholstered armchair and looks at the paintings, she thinks of all the things she could do. 

She could sublet the apartment (she doesn’t think she could ever sell it completely, the only place she and her Dad ever lived together) and move out, set herself up somewhere less haunted. 

She could learn a new language. Maybe even sign.

She could go to the theatre and see a movie, and even if it was bad she would still get to eat tubs of buttery popcorn. 

She could join a book club. A small one. That never reads horror. 

She could get a cat and take it on play dates with Mikeko. She could buy it cute little collars and fill the house with toy mice and scratching posts shaped like cacti.

She could get a tattoo.

She could go to Paris. Or Rome. Or Cairo. Or Bangkok. Or maybe even Rio de Janeiro. 

She could dye her hair a new color. Purple, or even green. She doesn’t think she will, but she could. 

She could take a cooking class instead of just relying on Apollo’s advice all the time.

She could teach herself to knit. Or crochet. Or cross-stitch. Or embroider. Or do needlepoint. Something besides painting. She loves to paint, has to even, but she thinks there will always be that core of tainted memory whenever she does. 

She could go out and meet new people.

There are, Vera has learned, so many wonderful people in the world. People who do not want to use her. People who do not have to be feared. People who exist, instead, to interact with. To help and be helped by. To love and be loved by.

Apollo is ever-patient and supportive with her, even when his temper runs short with others. He’s good at coaxing her out the door when her first instinct is to slam it shut and spend another day inside lying prone on her bed. The motivational mantras he tries to teach her are a little much sometimes, but they work (in as much as she feels so ridiculous trying them that she laughs herself out of a panic attack). On days that he knows are hard for her, he brings his cat into the office. Mikeko is always perfectly happy to spend the morning dozing and purring on Vera’s lap until she feels a bit better. There’s something to be said for the way that pets, like plants, give you something to get up for. He takes her to the farmer’s market every Saturday for practice, pointing out seasonal vegetables, suggesting preparations, and not getting frustrated when she needs to take a detour to hide in a plant stand for a few minutes and take deep breaths. He also carries whichever plant she inevitably gets attached to while in there through the rest of the market, as long as she lets him pretend to be annoyed and put upon about it. It’s part of their rapport. 

Trucy is everyone’s favorite, so naturally she’s Vera’s too. You just can’t say no to those big blue eyes and that infectious enthusiasm. She tries to make Vera her new glamorous assistant, since Apollo steadfastly refuses. Vera doesn’t think she’ll ever be comfortable enough to actually get up on the stage, but it’s still fun to practice, and it makes Trucy so happy. But the wonderful thing about Trucy is that she loves making other people happy as much as she likes being made happy. She likes to wind little braids through Vera’s hair while she draws and give her little homemade ribbons as a reward whenever she does something outside of her comfort zone. They fill up Vera’s corkboard and her heart as well. Trucy likes showing Vera old cartoons she’s never seen and Vera likes showing her Bob Ross episodes and trying to recreate the paintings live. They spend many afternoons together like that, watching television, braiding friendship bracelets to exchange with Pearl and Maya, and trying new recipes for mug cakes in the Agency microwave.

Mr. Wright always smiles when Vera walks in the door, and his smiles are even starting to reach his eyes these days. She’s the one he trusts to immortalize his return to the courtroom, so all the newspapers and blogs have to go through her to get a sketch, commanding a not unsubstantial profit. Not willing to let him go unthanked, Vera spends it all on high quality materials and framing for a large portrait of Mr. Wright and his old mentor, based on a photo from their first day in court. Vera’s learned enough social cues to pretend not to notice how Mr. Wright cries a bit when she hangs it up, or how often she catches him looking at it wistfully throughout the workday. He never mentions it when Vera locks herself in the bathroom for half an hour and chews off all her fingernails, so it’s fair. Sometimes he stands over her and watches her sketching, and when she prods him he always has little suggestions for helping her develop her own style. He knows more about art than he lets on, Vera realizes. He probably knows more about everything than he lets on, but instead of finding that scary, Vera finds it strangely comforting. 

Klavier continues to grow on her, especially after he cuts his hair. When he visits the office he likes to try and get her to laugh by making up silly little songs about Apollo, which usually works. When Apollo snaps and yells at him, Vera only laughs harder. He also starts teaching her the basic chords to some of her favorite Lamiroir songs on the guitar, which she enjoys although she isn’t any good at it. She can tell he’s always a little uncomfortable around her for a while, trying too hard, putting on too much of a persona, until she pulls him aside and haltingly explains that it’s all okay, she holds nothing against him, she understands how it feels to have the most trusted person in your life use you for their own devices. After that, he’s a lot more normal, and she likes him more. He brings her coffee sometimes in the morning to pretend he’s not just coming to flirt with Apollo and she texts him sketches of cover ideas for his new solo work. 

Ema seems to just get her, which Vera could have guessed just by her sending poison test strips in the gift basket. She guesses it’s because they’ve both spent a very long time being lonely, though Ema will likely never admit that that’s the reason they make such good friends. They both also share an appreciation for silence, which is a rare occurrence around the Agency, and often has to be self-enforced. Vera appreciates that Ema is always ready to enforce it when they need it, whether she has hide Apollo’s Chords of Steel tape or send Trucy outside to practice her tricks. Sometimes, when it’s finally quiet, or the lawyers are out working, Vera and Ema sit and talk. Ema tells her how blood spatter is really like a painting, if you think about it, and Vera pretends to be more grossed out than she actually is, to make it fun. When it’s serious, they talk about Vera’s dad and Ema’s sister and what it’s like to have a passion you love and hate and can’t escape in equal measure. 

It is a very beautiful thing, Vera discovers, to have friends. 

And along with her friends, there are even more strangers, who in small and gentle ways make Vera feel safe and cared for in the wide,wide world. 

A girl with thick brown braids at the florist who helps her pick out a snake plant and agrees that Freya is a rather fetching name. 

The spectacularly-attired owner of a food cart in the park, who remembers Vera’s name and order after just a few visits and starts to have it ready for her every Monday afternoon. 

A boy with fluffy black hair at the planetarium who spends 20 minutes excitedly telling her about the implications of ice being found on Europa, even though she’s really only there to take color studies. 

A smiley waitress at a cafe who brings them out a free slice of gateau at the end of their meal, just because. 

An intimidatingly sharp woman who meets her eyes over the aisle of blue hair dye and gives her an approving nod. 

The charming young couple from down the hall who bring by a bouquet of flowers in a confusingly familiar vase on the one month anniversary of her Dad’s death. 

A teenage boy at the library who pulls off his massive headphones and briefly stops arguing on anime forums to not-quite-patiently but still kindly talk Vera through setting up a business email address and website for her paintings. “Cool,” he mutters, gazing over her shoulder at a photo of the Pink Princess mural she did for one of Mr. Wright’s friends. “Do you take commissions?” She decides she does, and suddenly ends up drawing a lot more samurai than she’d ever expected, gathering a lot of very nice if occasionally overly enthusiastic comments from people online, who become her newest good strangers. 

Another good stranger she meets one afternoon when she’s out for a walk near the Agency’s offices, and suddenly feels struck by the need for a snack. 

A cheerful bell rings as she opens the door to Kitaki Bakery. An energetic-looking young man and elegant woman both look up from the counter at her as she steps inside. “Welcome in!” the woman crows. She pushes the boy forward to handle the new customer as she continues to sweep the floor. 

The glass case is full of enticing confections of all shapes, sizes, and colors, but Vera knows what she’s come here for. 

“What can I getcha?” he asks once she looks up, clicking a pair of tongs together like crab claws. 

Vera can only point, but the boy doesn’t seem to mind.

“Awesome choice, dude. Our cinnamon rolls smack!” He picks out the biggest and shiniest one for her and places it in a familiar looking cardboard box, which he folds up with astonishing dexterity and hands her over the counter. 

Vera selects the most generous tip on the check-out screen and the boy grins widely as she walks away. 

“Thanks, bro! Also I love your hair!” he calls after her, “Totally killer!”

Vera smiles, hand almost on the door, but thinks better of it and turns around. Somehow, her tongue unsticks and she finds her voice. “I like yours too,” she manages to say, pointing at the same spot on her head where his curl is, as if he wouldn’t know what hair she was talking about, “Killer.” 

If Vera weren’t so interested in color, she wouldn’t notice how the boy blushes a little at that. 

“See you around again sometime?” he calls again when she’s halfway through the door. 

“If this…smacks like you said it does,” she replies, holding up the box with the cinnamon roll inside. 

“Oh, it will. Trust,” the boy says, confidently crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Made that batch myself.”

Vera smiles at every stranger she sees on the city streets for the next few minutes, her joy infectious. 

On the way home she passes the grocery store and remembers that she needs to pick up a few things. She writes a quick shopping list on the back of her receipt from the bakery and it looks like this:

• Rigatoni Pasta
• Pizza Dough
• Roma Tomatoes
• Spices for sauce (Text Apollo for details)
• Onions
• Mushrooms
• Fresh Basil
• Mozzarella 
• Garlic Bread
• Cherries
• Strawberries
• Apples
• Tea Bags
• Blueberry PopTarts
• New Pot (For Freya)
• Hair Dye

She can’t find fresh basil, no matter how hard she looks. She knows Trucy would tell her just to ask someone, but she can’t quite bring herself to do that today, so she settles for dried. The week’s food will be a little less interesting, but she’ll go home feeling comfortable, and that’s what matters, she tells herself. Just as she’s preparing to leave, a little girl, maybe 4 or 5, wanders into the produce section looking lost. Vera looks around to see if there are any adults nearby, but there aren’t. Then she remembers that she, herself, objectively is an adult, and if no one else is around to help then she’ll have to. She crouches down to get on eye level with the girl, who has tears in the corners of her eyes and uneven braids. 

“Hey,” she says gently, just as unsure how to talk to children as she is about how to talk to adults. The girl just stares, lip trembling. Vera grasps for something else to say until she realizes the girl is clutching a magazine with a glossy shot of Trucy on the cover.

“Do you wanna know a secret?” asks Vera, pointing at the magazine. The girl nods, slowly. “I know Trucy Wright.” The girl's eyes light up. 

“Really?”

“Really. And I bet once we get you back to whoever you’re here with, I could help them get you an autograph.” 

“Woah. That’d be cool.” 

“Wouldn’t it? Now, where do you last remember being?”

The girl screws up her face and thinks. “Chips. But then I saw this.” She holds up and shakes the magazine. 

“Okay. Let’s go.”

As they walk, the girl reaches up by instinct to grab Vera’s hand. Her tiny fingers wrap around Vera’s, and somehow the touch doesn’t bother her at all. Quite the opposite. Vera steers them towards the chip aisle, where they find a frantic looking middle-aged man. 

“Oh, thank goodness!” he cries, when he sees them approach. “Where on earth did you wander off to?” he asks the girl who must be his daughter as he scoops her up in his arms and adjusts her braids. 

“I found Trucy!” the girl explains, showing him the magazine. “And her friend!”

Vera gives a little wave. 

The man sighs, and smiles at Vera over his daughter's shoulder. “Thanks so much for finding my little fan. It’s been nothing but Trucy in the house for weeks now. Should’ve guessed she’d find the magazines.” 

Vera smiles. “Well, I did have to promise her an autograph to get her back.” 

“Oh, I’m so s-”

Vera digs into her purse to pull out a business card. “If you call the office, I can get one personalized.” 

“Oh,” the man takes it, looking surprised. “Well, thank you very much again.” 

“Bye Bye!” calls the little girl. 

As Vera walks away, thinking about fathers and daughters, she realizes that the conversation didn’t leave her feeling drained at all. She smiles to herself, and flags down an employee to ask about fresh basil.