. broken bones .

[joel marston]

On a widescreen Lauren Bacall is eyeing Humphrey Bogart, their coiffed forties glamour posing a distinct contrast to the rest of the room. Having retreated to the comfort of his very favourite movie, The Big Sleep, Joel found himself sad but unsurprised that even this couldn't illicit something within him, that even rewinding his favourite scenes over and over made him feel nothing but a sharp sense of dismay. Usually one look at Phillip Marlowe had him reaching for the pomade, but now he was going through the motions, quoting his favourite lines with a sense of duty rather than affection. "I met her in the hall and she did that to me," Bogart starts, almost allowing Joel to finish the sentence, "Then she tried to sit in my lap while I was standing up." The room is covered in litter, empty beer bottles vying with near empty takeout cartons for space on a floor strewn with clothes. Lighting what must be his fifteenth cigarette, smoke hangs heavy above Joel as he lays on the couch, his hair long his stubble distinctly turning to beard. It's never felt so empty and he wonders if this is all a joke, some elaborate scheme cooked up to make him realize how good he had it. Drunk beyond belief, he's forgotten the texts he's sent, convinced even that it was all a dream-- there was no Zelda, no Zara. After all, who the fuck names their kid Zelda? Feeling so hollow he's surprised he hasn't caved in on himself, he drifts off to sleep, lit cigarette still burning between two fingers.

[zelda atwood]

If there was anything Zelda had gotten out of their six (SIX!) year relationship, it was that Joel was dramatic. Forever influenced by black and white films, he came equipped with long monologues and was always a damsel in distress. Knowing this, she still finds herself sitting in her apartment with her phone in her hand willing it to buzz with a text from Joel. Twenty minutes of sitting and hoping, it's still dead in her hands. He's dramatic, she reminds herself. Shitfaced and dramatic - a likely combination. Her perfect teeth chomp on her fat lip. Zelda fights with the thought of calling in during a quarantine. He is just dramatic, but he wins anyway. She doesn't make an effort to dress. If he is setting up a rope to hang from she couldn't afford the wasted minutes, after all. Zelda watches from the window of the cab as streets get more familiar. It's only been a few months, but it still feels warm and nostalgic. When she jogs up the stairs to her old apartment it's as though she's carrying extra weight. He's being dramtic, sure. But is this also dramatic. Pushing her dark hair behind her ear, she shrugs it off and unlocks the front door with her key. "Joel?" No answer. She rushes toward the sound of the television with a panic and catches Joel with his eyes shut. "Joel," she repeats quietly. Still no answer. Quickly she presses her hands to his shoulders and pushes him "Joel?"

[joel marston]

For once there is no imaginary audience in his head, no readers of the detective series that Joel Marston believed his life to be. In a distant way he realized having Schmidt around had given him something of an excuse to mumble to himself, acting as a stand in for the audience that he was playing up to. It's another twist in his chest, a pain that is at once deep and sharp. Sleep releases him from it for a moment, and when he wakes, it's as if the pain has migrated to his shoulder... oh, no, that's just it being pushed by Zelda. "Fuck off Z, I'm tired," he mumbles, for a moment forgetting all he has lost. It's a moment that's over too quickly for him to enjoy. Shrugging her hand away, Joel pulls himself up with some difficulty, his head pounding and his mouth feeling like it's covered in a layer of fur. His head is spinning, excitement at the sight of her stifled by the absence of a slobbering dog licking his face and bounding about them. He rubs his eyes, trying to force himself to sharpen up. "Zelda..." he murmurs, music swelling from the TV behind her. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

[zelda atwood]

He tells her off in a mumble and she sighs relief, her body relaxing to sit on her ankles. In the background The Big Sleep plays and it's so familiar to her, she can almost quote it. It hurts her heart that Joel is suddenly so alone here. His giant dog was such a prominent observer of life, a representation of adulthood for them both. Her relief is overcome by a hollowness. The absence of Schmidt is felt. Even weighed down by arthritis, he'd always come in for a kiss and a cuddle. If she thought about it too much she'd cry. "You told me you were going to kill yourself," she reminds him, her hands press absentmindedly on his forearm. "Then you stopped replying," she lifts her hands and frowns at him, trying to get a read. "I couldn't go to sleep."

[joel marston]

"I said I wouldn't care if I died," Joel corrects, feeling strange that this should have encouraged her to come and see him. He's flattered that she cares and also upset that it was only because she thought he'd do something so drastic-- was he that pathetic? Is that what it took to make her care? He feels sick from the junk food and the nicotine and the booze and the grief, and her presence is adding a layer of emotional turmoil he can't quite contend with. Still, it was nice to know that he could feel something. "I said it because I wouldn't. But I'm not dead. What would you care anyway?" It's a childish comment, and one easily answered by the fact she'd trekked out to see him during a pandemic. He roots around for a cigarette, trying to straighten out a crumpled Lucky Strike that he'd crushed in his sleep. "I could, before you ruined it." He doesn't know why he's being like this, but he doesn't know how he should be so he can't correct it. "You're committing a crime being here, by the way. Two, actually. Breaking lockdown and trespassing, I should really Mirandize you right now."

[zelda atwood]

"Then you stopped replying," she repeats. Joel became passionate when he drank and she could tell he was passionately bitter. Zelda habitually pushes her hair behind her ear and stands up only to sit in the armchair across from him. The stinging realization that it was the chair that Schmidt claimed as his makes her slide off from it and back down to the floor. She doesn't let his comment about her not caring hurt. He had to know she cared. Why would she come here if she didn't care? She rolls her eyes at his comment, "Mirandize me then." She looks away from him and at the tv. Lauren Bacall was so pretty it hurt. "Should I go?"

[joel marston]

He ignores her insistence on the events that transpired. Though motivated by kindness, her presence feels like a taunt. He's embarrassed by the state of himself and the apartment they once shared, and it hurts even more to hurt this much and to not collapse into the warmth of her embrace. Coming back from the vets without his best friend and remembering that he didn't have a girlfriend anymore either had hit him unbelievably hard, so hard that he really, truly would not have cared if he dropped dead right then and there. He would not have fought off an attacker, he wouldn't have dialled 911 if he had an accident. But no, doing something like that to himself was not something he was capable of. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her sit in The Chair and he has force himself from getting choked up. He can't look at her as she slips to the floor, the implicit understanding of the gesture too much to take in. "Zelda Atwood, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right..." he trails off, exhaling heavily as he falls back into the couch. "Yes. You probably should."

[zelda atwood]

The apartment looked neglected. The heart and love she'd put into it had collected dust. Memories of them hadn't been torn down, but instead left to rot. She had figured he'd toss anything they had shared, but he left everything the way it was and time was slowly taking it instead. Zelda feels an ache in her chest. Joel, Schmidt, the way time moved - it was all so overwhelming. He starts speaking and she bursts into tears. Not slowly but all at once. Big snotty cries that make her lift her tshirt over her face and hide away from his eyes. Her chest stutters as her eyes flood. The guilt that it's his dog and she's crying about it taunts her in the distance. A guilt that she came him as comfort and is leaving puddles all over his floor. She sniffs and tries to hold it together for a minute. She wipes her eyes on her collar of her shirt, still sobbing. "I'm sorry. "

[joel marston]

Silence hangs heavily between them as the movie wraps up. Joel presses play, as he has done 4 times already today, the effort of switching to something else beyond his grasp. Drunken stupor is turning to hungover sluggishness and he glances at the whiskey bottle on the coffee table, before deciding it would be a little too uncouth to simply swig from it in front of her. Besides, she was on her way out, he wouldn't have to wait long. Instead, she bursts into tears. In an instant he's putting his cigarette out, stamping it down as quickly as he can so that he can rush to her side. It's proper tears, the same tears he'd shed on that first return home, and it makes his heart hurt for her. "Oh Z, shh, shh," he says softly, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug. All the things he couldn't say to himself are easier to say to her. "It's okay. Shh, really, it couldn't have gone any better than it did. He was so old, Z, and I got to be there. Shh, come on, it's okay," he says, holding her still and stroking her hair. "Don't set me off."

[zelda atwood]

Zelda grabs fistfuls of Joel's shirt and buries herself into him. It wasn't often that she found herself wailing. She usually found herself comforting rather than being comforted. Her mother had taught her girls to nurture and to be the brave ones in the face of tragedy. When their grandparents died the girls remained solemn, they spent both funerals making sure their loved ones had enough to eat and were cared for. Losing Schmidt was different. Not just because she had a soft spot for dogs but that he had felt like a piece of them and she hadn't been there to help him through. She tries to settle herself. Her chest heaves against his and she forces herself to break away from his comforting arms. Fingers push falling tears away from her eyes, "it's just so short." The life of a big dog; it was scary how quickly they went from youth to seniors. "I'm sorry I wasn't there," she says, knowing that given circumstances she couldn't be there anyway. "Oh, I'm so sorry."

[joel marston]

Zelda was not a crier. It wasn't the first time a beautiful woman had cried after he'd started reading her her rights, but usually they were crocodile tears, big, affected sobs that were designed to make him take pity. This was different, sincere, the kind of sobs you can't hold back no matter how much you try. As distressing as it was to see the usually stoic girl so distraught, it helped to see someone feel what he felt, to truly understand the weight of Schmidt's absence. Feeling his throat constrict, he buried himself in her hair and held tight. "It's okay," he says, to both of them. "It was time." Out of the corner of his eye he can see the dog's still full water bowl, the chewed up old toy, the ratty bed he barely ever slept on. He feels hollow but ever so slightly less so now, and for the first time he thinks about maybe putting them away. Not yet. "Here. Let me grab a shower, you get yourself a beer and we can talk for a minute, that sound okay?" He's slipping into consoling Joel, accessing the part of himself that he couldn't help taking over when he spoke to victims' mothers. The silly part of him that couldn't help making the number one mistake in the book, promising left, right and center that he'd find the perp no matter what it took. "Unless you've gotta rush back. Sorry for scaring you."

[zelda atwood]

It feels good to be held. Even if they weren't in the midst of a pandemic, it'd feel good to be held. His arms hold her tight and she cries more, soaking his shoulder with her tears. It felt genuine, something that had been missing for months now. It was absent in her new apartment, where everything was brand new including her relationship. This was someone who knew her better than herself. How could she have let it go? Zelda nods and falls back to rest on the back of The Chair. She pushes tears away from her long lashes and pushes her hair back. "Okay," her voice is hoarse and she clears her throat pathetically. "I don't." She stands up when he leaves the room and opens the fridge door. In the back of the fridge she finds her regular drink, untouched since she was last here. She feels sick. It hisses when opened and she downs half of it. She goes to sit uncomfortably at her side of the couch.

[joel marston]

The pandemic suited Joel, as he was grateful that he didn't have to go around pretending everything was normal. His work hours were restricted and that was the biggest blessing going, since he knew how they'd react if he'd tried to get time off work over this. Not that they wouldn't allow it, but he was teased enough already, the soft New York boy constantly trying to get them in trouble for what they felt were minor fuck ups. He was glad to be away, glad to be separate from everyone. Except Zelda. More than once he'd fantasised about her still being there, sharing a shower, cooking together, someone he could mourn with. Even in these murky circumstances, he was glad to see her. He rushes through his shower, urging himself to sharpen up, to lose the hangover so he can really enjoy whatever time he has with someone other than ghosts. Shaving quickly, he pushes his hair back, already looking at least 10% less like a hobo. "Sorry," he repeats, sheepish around her. He sits next to her, the corner of a pizza box crunching under his weight. "Sorry it's so messy, I've been... distracted." He glances at the beer in her hand, embarrassed that she'd found it. "You sure that's not out of date?" he asks, forcing a weak laugh.

[zelda atwood]

She tears at the label on the beer bottle. This room was so full of memories, it was hard to distract herself from mourning. This couch would have looked much better on the opposite wall. But there had been a large hole in the drywall that they were both too lazy to fix, so the couch acted like a good cover up. The books on the shelf were a blend of both their tastes. Zelda had a love of first editions and odd books, but it didn't feel right to remove them. She's in the middle of mourning a dead houseplant (which was actually dead before she left) when Joel comes back in. He looks fresher and she smiles at that, "did you let go of the housekeeper?" she asks, settling her hands from shredding the sticker label. "Mmm.. I thought beer was one of those things that got better with age?" she takes a swig, "must be wine." She drinks her beer a little too eagerly, feeling anxious to be here. "I'm sorry about the crying. It just hit me."

[joel marston]

For years Zelda had been an extension of himself, the only person he had ever felt like he didn't have to remotely try to be anything but himself around. Whether he was asking her a dumb question whilst they watched Netflix or donned in black tie, applauding for her as she stood to get an award, their life together shone so brightly in his memory that just the thought left him blinded. It was impossible to tell where his heartbreak at losing her ended and the grief at losing Schmidt began, the two had intertwined to make him feel like life just wasn't worth it anymore. And that was before he saw the headlines about her new relationship. He thinks about it now and it turns his stomach. "It's a pandemic, of course I let her stay home. Still paying her," he says, wondering briefly how she is. She had looked at him with such pity when he told her that Zelda had left, and he couldn't even disagree with her. It feels strange to be talking so stiffly with her. He gets little waves of nausea, then of bitterness, anger and then, inevitably, love, all on repeat. "It's okay. I've been doing the same, daily pretty much. Are you hungry?"