Work Text:
Rose hung up the phone and sighed. Dave was missing again, and she had spent the last hours trying to comfort Jade. Rose flopped onto her bed and lay there for some time, but predictably, sleep refused to come at her request. She had convinced Jade that Dave was more than capable of handling himself, but had failed to make herself feel better. Several years had past since SBURB, and Dave’s disappearances had been growing in length. As in every reoccurrence, Rose feared this would be the time he simply left and never called again.
She took the phone, and held it on her chest as she lay in bed. She knew she shouldn’t bother him. It was 2AM where he was. Knowing him, though, he would tell her not to be silly, and call him any time. It was selfish, but Rose gave up and punched in the familiar digits.
Three rings later he picked up.
“Hi, John.”
“Rose…”
Rose was silent for a time, happy to just hear his breathing over the line.
John finally broke the silence. “Is it about Dave?”
“No. Well, yes, I suppose you’re right. Jade is still taking it hard, but I’ll confess that I worry too.”
When John didn’t immediately respond, she continued. “I don’t want to talk about him, though. I’ve just been… feeling stressed.”
John started to sound like he was waking up. “What about your book, then? How is that coming?”
“Ugh… different subject please. Writer’s block - I’m putting it aside for a bit. How’s the theater business?”
“Well, it’s going great! My dad pulled some strings, and I’m going to go on tour with a group this summer.”
“That’s wonderful. I’d like to hear about this group…”
~~~
Rose was still in shock. The funeral was over, and she now sat in the enormous house with John, Jade, and Mr. Eggbert. Her mom had fought monsters, killed colossi with her bare hands, and survived everything SBURB had thrown at her. Eight years later, she died in a car accident. Rose hadn’t even cried… the whole matter still felt unreal.
Really, the only emotion she felt was guilt. Throughout their session, and the succeeding years, she had never come to understand her mother.
Rose buried her face in her hands, and attempted to stifle the sobs. After a long moment, John tentatively sat down next to her, put his arms around her shoulders and drew her to him. All of the stress, responsibility, and fear left over from Sburb came rushing to the surface. Then came life on Earth, her anger towards Dave for abandoning them, the frustration of comforting Jade through the years while she felt so twisted inside…
She cried into John’s shoulder, and he held her tight as her breath came in gasps.
~~~
Rose hardly left the house anymore, preferring the solitude of her too-empty mansion. No-one published essays or poetry anymore, so Rose had found an outlet in fiction. Sitting at her computer, she ignored the ever-blinking new email message and plunged back into her tales of magic, betrayal and war, where the heroes grow in strength and in character in a world where no side of the conflict is right. This fervor carries her late into the night, at which point Rose stumbles into bed and is instantly asleep.
Angry red light filters through the window. The forest is on fire. The rhythmic sounds of impacts vibrate the floor. She watches through her screen’s viewport as John makes a mistake, and dies. Rose tries to scream, but can only produce a whisper of noise. Dave won’t be saving them this time. Soon, Jade is lost to her own meteor, and the fire finally engulfs Rose’s house.
5:17 blinks vexingly on her clock, and Rose turned over and went back to bed.
In the morning, she went to the kitchen for coffee, and shot the calendar a leery glance. John had a huge show in Tennessee that could be the turning point in his career. In a week, he would be driving up to New York to meet her and celebrate. At first she had been excited when they planned it several months ago, but that feeling had since turned into a gathering dread. She had worked so hard to piece herself together again, and didn’t want to rock the boat. Rose was content in this house, alone with her writings. Being honest with herself, though, she was afraid John would leave. Just like her pet, the trolls, her brother, her mom, and everyone else. Yes, she loved speaking with John, loved it and feared it. Some days, it just brought her more pain than joy.
She made up her mind. Summoning her determination, Rose picked up the phone.
“Hi, Rose! What’s up?”
“John… about next week.”
“Yah?”
“My deadline is soon, and I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to see you. Good luck with your show.”
A pause, and a frustrated breath at the other end. John had seen through the excuse.
“Rose. What’s wrong.”
“I just don’t know if we should do this.”
“Rose-”
“I’m sorry, John. I… I can’t.”
Rose hung up the phone.
Rose returned to her writing. As before, she wrote with confidence, the words coming to her without difficulty. She skipped lunch, and only briefly paused for dinner. The house was too small, suffocating her, so she kept writing. She took no pleasure in it.
The sun rose. Rose closed the blinds.
The doorbell rang. Rose ignored it.
It rang again. And again. Rose stormed downstairs and flung the front door open.
There was John. On his knees. With a ring.
Rose’s breath caught in her throat.