Chapter Text
Rose knew she should bring a coat, but she couldn’t be fucking bothered. The winter afternoon was bright and mild, with only the wind off the lake to remind her that a sweater (no matter how thick and wooly) couldn’t stand up to Chicago weather. She pulled the sleeves over her fingers and dialed up the volume on her headphones. The walk downtown was only ten minutes, not too bad.
It was her second week, second stint. She had a few sterile words for what the wind does to her, breaking against her cheeks as she walked. Heather would have a field day. It could be anything this time, passive self-injury, intense body sensation, grounding. Her IT (no computers involved, unfortunately. Individual Therapist) had a habit of repeating things in sessions that sounded suspiciously like horse-shit.
Last time, she had just wanted to complain about missing dinner before group. But Heather had stopped her short, she had concerns about Rose’s level of functioning.
“Why do you think you missed dinner?” she asked.
“Like... lots of reasons. I would have to get over there at 4:30 because we start at 5. But I was halfway through a problem set and I was totally gonna get it… I looked up and I was already late”
“Are you going to have dinner after group, then?”
“I can’t, they close at 8”
She gave Rose a sharp look.
“Have you always had a disregard for your own self-maintenance?”
Self-maintenance…Like she was a car or something. If all she had to do was change her oil, she wouldn’t be sitting in group three nights a week.
There were only a few good spots in the group room. The four corners, especially the ones by the windows, gave her plenty of space to sit with her legs up. She could also watch the traffic lights below her, which became strangely hypnotic after dark. The colors seemed to seep into the air around them, always changing a beat after the walk-signal’s countdown. But to get those spots, she had to be early. And that night she wouldn’t be. She got in the elevator at three minutes to 5 and was stuck waiting outside while meditation finished up.
She could hear the group leader’s voice through the door, even though the person—whoever it was—was supposed to be speaking quietly. She started spinning the ring on her fourth finger, turning it so quickly it tweaked her skin. She leaned her head against the wall, listening for the settling sounds that meant she could go in.
He walked over lazily. His green eyes, dull with exhaustion, peered out from behind wired metal glasses. His features were elegantly wrought, beautiful enough to make her self-conscious: full lips, sharp jaw, bright red hair that he worked his fingers through anxiously... He looked rough in the way other engineers tended to, too many all-nighters and too much eye strain.
His cheeks were scattered with old acne scars and stubble; if memory served, his name was Hux.
She smiled, out of politeness. He gave her a deft nod, serious as the crisp lines of his dark wool coat. Rose wanted to reach for it, despite herself. He was so much taller, it would pool around her feet and bunch at her wrists. He leaned forward and addressed her conspiratorially:
“What do you think it’ll be this week?” he asked, “Hippie bullshit or obvious busywork?”
Rose stifled a laugh. His sharp British accent tried and failed to regiment the syllables into step; as silly as it sounded, she would listen to him read a phonebook. Just as she was about to respond, the door opened.
As she turned over her shoulder, she threw him a last shining smile: “Wait and see, I suppose.”
All the good chairs were taken, so Rose and Hux had to share a lumpy brown loveseat. Even if she strained her neck, the streetlights of the road below were out of sight. Hux must have seen her stretching, he whispered: “Anything I can spot for you?”
Her arms prickled with goosebumps--she told herself it was just proximity. She fidgeted with her rings; it seemed like an admission to tell him how she passed the time during group. She pulled her notebook from the depths of her backpack and opened a clean page. Tilting it toward Hux, she wrote in quick, scribbling print: Planning my escape
He wrote back, You go low, I go high
She coughed discretely, covering a snort, Is that some sort of short joke?
As she looked over, his red-rimmed eyes had a glint she hadn’t seen before--something that cast their green sharper, more alive.
He leaned over just close enough to fit in his fluid cursive, If the shoe fits...
After a very sincere lesson about thought-logging and distress tolerance, they had a few minutes before process group. Sometimes she liked the chance to hear small flashes of everyone’s lives, but it wasn’t without its problems. She’d usually leave with extra weight, whatever feeling she’d been hearing about for the last hour. They’d roll around in her head: careless parents, hurtful partners, school and work coming down like a hatchet against wood. Her life would play on in the background, until she had enough time to sort through which feelings were hers.
The only good thing her IT had told her was to picture putting all this junk away somewhere in her mind. The Sherlock reference stared her in the face, and she did her best to ignore it. When the therapist suggested it, she’d been too fucked up to joke, shaking and dripping snot, curled on the stiff leather couch in Heather’s office. At least the thought problem was fun.
In her dad’s garage, there were these rolling tool carts that had been painted blue at some point. It was chipping, and under it was flinty gray aluminum. She could feel the warbled, enamel edges, and how cool the carts always seemed to be. A room of them would work, with two walls: one for her, one for everybody else. Eyes screwed shut, she pulled the hunk of emotion out of her chest. She pulled open the bottom drawer, and thrust the tangle of emotion inside it. The drawer shut with a satisfying clink. It was dumb and ridiculous, but she felt lighter.
Tonight, she might need a new cart.