Chapter Text
Maureen recoils when the cold iron barrel turns to fire for an instant, and a bullet lodges itself into Roscoe Malloy. She sees him, with his disgustingly prim three-piece suit, blood gurgling out and staining his white face covering, and realises she doesn’t really hate him as much as she’d like to. It would better befit her reputation if she did, because to kill someone in a fit of fury and antipathy always reads better in the papers than cold-blooded, utilitarian execution, but once again Maureen reminds herself: Charles is dead, and with him any dignity she could have ever aspired to maintain on her own.
Maureen doesn’t hear herself laugh. Blood spills out of Malloy and gastric acid spills into Prospect’s entrance hall, but Charles is still dead. Esther is still in danger. Maureen is still holding her gun and she laughs while her ears pop and her slicked-back hair falls into her face. She sees some ripening berries in the corner of her eye and leans down to pick them, to squash them, to turn them into blush powder and lipstick; a large hand stops her from reaching towards the bloodied spittle drooling out of Malloy’s gaping mouth.
Maureen blinks. She sees Thomas and the Doc looking at her, and her vision shakes, but she doesn’t hear herself laugh because Esther is being kept in an architectural bowel and Roscoe’s voice still rings in her ears. The hand travels from her wrist to her forearm, over her shoulder, down her side and into her hole-riddled pockets. Thomas says something about needing to be quick, and the Doc sways on his feet, but Maureen doesn’t have time for either of them because there is a daughter to be found and kidnappers to be traced and a familiar house to examine and makeup to apply and hair to be slicked and a party to prepare. Because it’s only now that Maureen remembers: Charles asked her to arrange the guest list, send out the invites and review the menu. She sees him cradling Esther, bouncing her on his leg, and Maureen finally allows herself to giggle at her husband’s antics.
But Maureen still feels those large hands pulling at her clothes, even though Charles is sitting five feet away from her, and Esther begins to cry. She tries to help, to go towards her baby, but the toothed, flesh-like inverted-monkey abomination just screams louder, and Charles is dead. Esther is in danger. Maureen laughs and lets her head fall into the crook of Thomas’ shoulder: he grabs at her pockets and she feels tears of hilarity stream out of her eyes. Why won’t he let her tap that berry juice on her lips?
Maureen is unsteady on her feet as she fluctuates between a world in which she’s planning a party in Charles’ stead, and one in which she’s just murdered a man and probably also lost her child. The undulations overwhelm her and Maureen’s shoulders shake while Thomas begs her to get a grip and the Doc tentatively steps into the lion’s den: the hands dip once more into each pocket and Maureen can’t believe Charles is being so handsy in the middle of a crowded ballroom, then Thomas’ voice urges her to drink and she remembers dancing with him, also. Esther twists into the monkey while Thomas morphs into Charles and Maureen keeps laughing in front of Prospect’s bowels.
Maureen clutches the lukewarm gun tighter, and avoids Thomas’ gaze as best she can: he embraces her and she reluctantly folds into his thin arms. Maureen knows she should slip away, because Charles noticing and getting jealous would complicate things ever so much, but Thomas is warm, he’s determined to save her daughter, and he murmurs something about birds and rib cages while she slides her hand along his lapel. Eventually he guides her to the steps, and Coombs smiles gently.
Maureen feels faint, nauseous, her shoulders shake and her hair is loose, but the ground beneath her feet becomes a little more solid when Thomas clutches at her hand to save the Doc from a fall: she breathes, squeezes the palm against her own, and soldiers down the stairs.
Maureen hasn’t been anyone important for some time now, but she realizes that tearing Esther away from the Midas Circle’s clutches would make her at least feel like someone, and that’d already be half the battle.