Work Text:
Her laptop shows an overflowing inbox, paperwork is sprawled across her desk, and her neglected agenda is pushed off to the side. A mug of coffee sits within reach, long gone cold. Carla wishes it were something stronger to wash away the bitterness that’s clung to her tongue for days—weeks even, but a tiny voice of reason warns her off.
The bottle is hidden close enough to touch, in the bottom drawer to her right, tempting her, and she battles herself not to reach for it.
You can’t drown this in alcohol. Not anymore.
She wishes she could. She wants to, and she isn’t sure how much longer she’ll last.
Her dramatic act the other night—pouring herself half of a bottle of white wine before Lisa—was only what it was. A dramatic act. She wanted her to say something just so she could bite back at her, but her Lisa wasn’t like that. Not anymore. Instead, she offered to make her a sandwich, rolling her tongue ten times to avoid a fight.
When a knock sounds at her office door, Carla doesn’t bother looking up. She buries her face deeper into the paperwork she’d been unconsciously and consciously avoiding, hoping her silence is enough to send whoever it is away.
They should know better by now.
She doesn’t have time for this. She doesn’t have the capacity for a pointless conversation—she hasn’t for a while now. Her mood has only sunk further since seeing Lisa at the pub yesterday. And earlier, while viewing the flats, she could barely pretend. Every smile felt borrowed, every pleasant tone hollow.
By now, word has spread: she moved out of the house they’d only just bought a few months prior, and the wedding is off. People don’t understand. But they were both so in love. The whole factory whispers about her relationship the moment they think she isn’t listening. Kit corners her at every opportunity, eager to bring up Lisa or Becky. And when it’s not him, it’s Ryan doing his best to be supportive. Even her neighbours give her those pitying looks whenever she passes them on the street.
It’s the price of living somewhere where everyone knows everyone.
The worst of it all: she can’t explain what happened. She isn’t allowed to.
And she knows where the blame falls. She’s the one who let her anger spill out unchecked. But now, the fire has burned itself out, leaving nothing but a numb, echoing defeat in its place.
Becky has won.
Carla has taken herself out of the race, for herself, and for Lisa.
People have been tiptoeing around her, expecting her to snap at any moment. It’s the reputation she’s earned—she knows that. And she usually would when she feels this out of control, but the truth is that she doesn’t even have the energy for that anymore.
She’s kept her office doors closed all day, just the way she wants it. Most of the factory staff have already gone home, and soon she’ll be the last one here. Carla craves that quiet, that loneliness. The opportunity to let her mask fall and just be sad, destroyed even, without prying eyes watching her through the windows.
The knocking returns.
When the person enters without waiting for approval, she’s just about to tell them to go to hell. She lets out a heavy sigh, gearing up for a proper Carla Conner bite until her eyes meet the last face she expected to see.
“Betsy…” she breathes, barely a whisper. She clears her throat, offering as much of a smile as she can. “What are you doing here?”
“Hi,” Betsy replies, the smallest, unsure smile tugging at her lips. Carla can see the tension straight away—the fidgeting with her sleeves, the way she doesn’t know where to look. She knows Betsy too well; she can read the storm trembling under her skin. “I know it’s late, and I wasn’t on shift today, but…”
Carla doesn’t need her to finish. The answer is written across her face. She’s come for explanations.
“You can sit, Betsy.”
After a brief hesitation, she lowers herself into the chair to Carla’s left, the same one her mother has occupied countless times before while Carla worked. For an aching moment, Carla sees Lisa there instead, remembers last Christmas when she’d unexpectedly turned up with eggnog and gently convinced her to send the staff home early.
The habit started long before they shared their first kiss, back when Lisa would wander in to vent about her day or to check up on Betsy. She later admitted she found any excuse to come to the factory, drawn by a pull she couldn’t explain—or wouldn’t let herself name. Over time, those visits had become a quiet ritual between them, a silly little indulgence born from the inability to spend a full day apart. Lisa either walked Carla to work and would stick around for a brew, or she’d come in whenever she had some free time from whatever case she was working on.
The memory feels distant now, blurred at the edges, like something from a life Carla can’t quite believe she ever lived. A chance she’d had at a family of her own, but that had slipped away like sand between her fingers.
She shakes her head, as if she can physically dislodge the thought.
“How are you?” Carla asks.
She isn’t asking to pry about Lisa, but because she genuinely wants to know. Despite how quickly everything has collapsed, her love for Betsy hasn’t changed.
She hasn’t seen her for days. Not since she walked out of their home with nothing but her purse, leaving her fiancé crying and begging for her in front of both Betsy and Becky. Betsy has worked shifts since then, only a couple, but Carla made sure to avoid the factory both times. She’s sure Betsy has caught on by now, and the thought sends a small, guilty twist through Carla’s chest.
But she simply couldn’t face it.
Over the course of her relationship with Lisa, Betsy began to feel like a daughter to her, only for Becky to remind her, in the harshest possible way, of exactly what her place really was. The little family they had become was just an illusion. It wasn’t the three of them against the world, as she had once told Lisa; it was them—Becky, Betsy, and Lisa—with Carla on the outside.
And she knew what seeing Betsy would feel like. Her presence aches in the same way Lisa’s did yesterday. However, this time, she can’t run. She barely remembers how she managed to leave the pub without reaching for Lisa when the tears streaked down her face.
“Are you really looking for flats?” Betsy asks, skipping past the pleasantries with that bluntness she uses when she’s on edge.
Her voice is soft, but the tension underneath it is sharp. Carla knows that tone. One wrong word, one badly timed shrug, and Betsy will shatter—or explode trying not to. They’re so alike in that way; their tempers simmer just beneath the surface in times of uncertainty. Betsy reminds Carla of herself as a teenager. She’s always felt like she had a rare instinct for reading her, a quiet understanding that let her navigate the fragile line between calm and chaos.
With a sigh, Carla reaches out, laying her palm open on the desk—an unspoken invitation. Betsy hesitates only a second before sliding her hand into Carla’s. Her fingers are cold, not surprising given her light jacket and the time of night, but Carla isn’t in a position to scold her anymore, not even with the gentlest intentions.
“I can’t stay at the hotel much longer,” she continues softly. “It’s too expensive. Even for me.”
The joke falls flat as Betsy answers immediately, “Then come home. You don’t have to be at the hotel at all.”
She says the words as if it’s the simplest solution in the world, completely unaware that it’s exactly what’s tearing Carla apart.
“Betsy, lovey… I—”
“You were right,” Betsy interrupts, rushing the words out so fast she nearly stumbles over them.
Carla frowns, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
“Becky, she’s…” Betsy falters, her voice tight, eyes wide with worry. “I can’t tell Mom about this.”
Concern coils in Carla’s chest. She leans in, gently tucking a stray bang behind Betsy’s ear with her free hand. “What is it?”
The soft touch brings tears to Betsy’s eyes, and Carla trails her thumb along her cheek. The Swains and their wide, expressive eyes, full of feelings they try to hide. It’s Carla’s biggest weakness. Betsy is so like her mother: tough on the surface, carrying the weight alone, until the flood breaks through.
When she finally speaks, Betsy’s voice is barely above a whisper, her fingers almost trembling in Carla's hand. “She asked me to convince Mom to come to Spain with us.”
It shouldn’t shock Carla, but it hits her like a cold bucket of water. She leans back, as if seared by the confession, and lets out a bitter, humourless chuckle. Slowly releasing Betsy’s hand, Carla drags her own across her face, then pinches the bridge of her nose, taking slow, steady breaths to keep her anger buried.
Part of her wants to scream—not just because she’s known all along what Becky’s real plan was, but because Becky is using Betsy to carry it out. She’s terrified of how far Becky will go to get what she wants. She’s already seen it: the lies piled on lies, the fake tears, all designed to worm their way into Lisa’s mind and to claim her family back. She cannot believe Lisa can’t see what’s staring her in the face, but then again, it’s only in front of Carla that Becky has let her mask slip.
“But… I don’t know anymore if Spain is a good idea for any of us…” Betsy continues, her words surprising Carla with the sudden shift. “Except Mom.”
Carla blinks, stunned. “What?” she whispers, uncertain if she even heard correctly.
She remembers cuddling on the couch with Lisa, silently crossing her fingers that Betsy would change her mind about this ridiculous plan to go to Spain with Becky. Back then, it had been all they wanted. But now, part of her wonders if it really would be that hard for them to convince Lisa to go along with their adventure. Just like Peter, Carla had given Lisa her ticket to be free—and Lisa would do anything for Betsy. Even sacrifice her own happiness.
It’s one of the things Carla loves most about her: how fiercely protective she is of her daughter, how nurturing she can be, even when it drives Carla crazy because she sometimes misjudges the way she shows it.
Betsy doesn’t repeat herself. Instead, she launches into a plea that breaks Carla’s heart.
“Carla, you need to come home. Mom is miserable, and Becky, she’s… Listen, I miss you too—not just Mom. And I need you at home, okay? It’s your home, you shouldn’t be looking for flats. It’s not right.”
Swallowing hard, the weight of her words presses down on Carla. “Sweetheart, you can see me here. This doesn’t change anything between us, I still care about you just the same—”
“But it does!” Betsy snaps, frustration spilling out. She rises from her chair, the legs scraping across the floor as it is brusquely pushed back. “It changes everything!”
“Betsy…” Carla says, trying to keep her calm.
She can see all the pressure Becky has piled on Betsy, all the dreams she’d fed her just through her reactions. Becky is manipulating her just as much as she is Lisa, and it must be so confusing. Carla knows Betsy loves her, but she also knows how fiercely she adores her mother. She remembers the heartbroken girl she first met—the one still raw with grief—whose greatest wish had been for Becky to come home to them, so far from the one who helped her plan her proposal to Lisa.
“No! She thinks that we’ll be the perfect little family again, and I know that’s not what Mom wants. And I know I should want that, I should wish for my moms to get back together, to erase the last four years, but it’s not—I don’t—”
As Betsy’s breathing becomes rapid, nearly tipping into a panic, Carla has no choice but to get up and reach for her. She steadies Betsy by the shoulders.
“Hey, look at me,” she says softly, gently forcing her to meet her gaze while she rubs her arms in a calm, steadying way. “Deep breaths. It’s going to be okay.”
“No, it won’t,” Betsy sniffles. “You don’t even believe that.”
“Listen,” Carla begins. “I didn’t leave because I don’t love your mom, or because I don’t love you. You know I do. I just… It’s just too hard, Betsy.”
“But she wants you…”
“It’s not that easy,” Carla sighs, brushing Betsy’s hair with her fingers. The gesture comes naturally, the same one she’s done to Lisa countless times. She can’t help it; there’s just something about the Swains and their perfect, soft, blonde hair. And when Betsy’s breathing slows down, Carla smiles to herself, having achieved what she wanted. “Your mom wants you to be happy.”
Unlike Becky, Carla doesn’t want to drag Betsy into the complexities of her situation with Lisa. She shouldn’t have to carry that weight, shouldn’t have to know that the choice she gave Lisa was between her and their relationship with Becky. It wouldn’t be fair.
“Shouldn’t she be happy too?” Betsy says, her eyes still glistening with tears. “Weren’t you the one who gave me that lecture a year ago?”
Carla chuckles, gently pinching Betsy’s hip. Of course, she remembers.
“Yes, she should be.”
“So… come back,” Betsy replies, the answer so obvious it almost hurts.
“Betsy…” Carla sighs.
“Why not? You’re both miserable,” she replies, motioning to the state of Carla’s desk and the empty factory. “Don’t try to deny it.”
“I can’t right now,” Carla admits softly, which only earns her an eye-roll from Betsy. “I’m sorry.”
She’s almost surprised when Betsy doesn’t get angry. A year ago, she would’ve stormed out of her office without a glance back, hurling some insult to have the last word. But this time, she simply sinks closer beneath Carla’s hands. Without words, Carla wraps her in her arms, holding her tight. The scent of Betsy’s shampoo drifts to Carla, instantly reminding her of Lisa. She’s certain she used Lisa’s shampoo—her habit of “borrowing” their expensive products as frustrating as it is endearing.
Betsy clings to her, softly sniffling at her shoulder, a quiet signal that she doesn’t want Carla to know she’s crying. Carla’s hand finds the back of her head, keeping her close just a little longer.
“Come on,” she finally says, stepping back. “I’ll walk you to the house.”
While she shuts her laptop screen and grabs her coat from the rack behind her, Carla hears Betsy mutter under her breath, “You mean home…”
Just like Lisa’s similar comment the other day, Carla doesn’t say a word.
“Let’s go.”
—
The short walk is mostly silent. Carla asks about college, but Betsy gives only vague answers, hinting that she’s been skipping again. Carla does not doubt that she’s been doing so to spend time with Becky. She bites back a remark on the subject, especially when she wouldn’t be surprised to learn it is more Becky’s fault than Betsy’s.
Just three minutes after setting the alarm and locking the factory, they’re standing in front of the place Carla can’t call home anymore. She isn’t sure why she offered to walk Betsy. Being here hurts—once more on the outside, looking in. The two flats she viewed today didn’t appeal to her, and the thought that Becky, with her own space, has taken her place in her home fills her with quiet, simmering frustration.
Maybe part of her did it to spy on Lisa, to catch a glimpse of her with Becky, and have her decision reinforced. But that’s not what she sees. Unlike the other night, Lisa is alone on the couch, holding a frame in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other.
“See?” Betsy says about the scene. “That’s a photo of you guys together, by the way.”
“Betsy…” Carla sighs.
“Just come in for a bit. I’m sure she hasn’t had tea yet. I can go out with Becky or something.”
“Sweetheart, it’s not your responsibility to fix this,” Carla says reassuringly, rubbing her hand along Betsy’s arm. “It’s not your fault.”
She doesn’t realize how much it settles inside Betsy—how the difference between Becky insisting she’s involved in the matter, because she’s Lisa and Becky’s daughter, and Carla quietly telling her the opposite, finally clicks. The reassurance in Carla’s touch speaks louder than anything Becky has ever said.
“Right…” Betsy nods, a brief, tentative smile flickering across her face. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
She means at work, during her shift.
Carla nods, to make Betsy happy, but the moment is interrupted when she notices the front door opening. She hadn’t realized Lisa had seen them until she steps onto the doorstep.
“Carla.”
Without another word, Betsy slips away from her, brushing past her mother and into the house. Carla catches her briefly at the window—just a flicker of her shadow before it disappears—and she has no doubt Betsy’s pleased by the timing.
“Hi,” Carla breathes. “Betsy came to see me at work, and I walked her home. I just wanted to make sure she was safe since it’s late and all…” And because your not-so-dead wife is apparently, if we believe her, being watched by thugs who could hurt any one of us.
“Thank you,” Lisa answers with a soft smile. “I appreciate it.”
There’s a fragile glimmer of hope in Lisa’s eyes, and Carla feels it across the distance between them. She’s traced every curve, every shadow of that face in both light and darkness, and the sight twists her heart. Longing tangles with the ache of knowing she can’t give in.
“I should go,” Carla immediately says.
She needs to turn and run, to keep herself from caving, even when every part of her aches to stay.
“Wait!” Lisa shouts, as expected. “How… How were the viewings?”
It’s a trivial question, clearly meant to keep her here, to hold her for just a few more moments.
Carla lies smoothly. She has no other choice. “Great.”
Lisa nods, eyes flicking down as Carla shifts her weight from one foot to the other. The pause stretches, heavy with unspoken words. Lisa looks tired—exhausted even. Her hair is messy from a long day, her shirt is untucked, and the top buttons are undone. The sight is cruel. It’s her favorite version of Lisa, standing right there before her.
“Becky isn’t here,” Lisa finally says, lifting her head. “If you want to come in and talk.”
Carla feels it in that glance—a temptation she knows she shouldn’t give in to, even as she wants to come home.
Heart versus head. Head wins.
“She’ll be here any moment now, won’t she? And we’ll get interrupted, as always, so what’s the point?” Carla says. She hates how cold her tone sounds, but it’s the truth. “And either way, Lisa, I’m not sure what there is left to say.”
She could tell her what Betsy had confided, that Becky admitted she wants to take them both to Spain and reunite their perfect little family… but she doesn’t. Lisa should’ve figured it out herself by now; she’s been warned about Becky’s true intentions, yet still refuses to see it. It’s been clear as day since the first time Becky walked through their door, only deciding to turn up when Lisa was finally happy and moving on.
“I’m going to go now…” Carla announces, unsure why she even does it.
“I love you,” Lisa says, her voice carrying the weight of hope.
It feels like a knife twisting in Carla’s chest—so often said, so rarely acted upon lately.
“I know,” Carla whispers, offering the briefest, almost imperceptible smile before stepping away, leaving the distance between them heavier than ever.
I love you too...