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“Do you ever feel like you're always going to be defined by the worst thing that ever happened to you?” Mabel asks.
She doesn't know the sign for define yet, has to spell it out with her fingers. She’s still a little slow with this, but getting better, and Theo is patient with her. He waits until she’s finished before responding, his own fingers moving more cautiously, carefully than she knows is natural for him. “Do you mean your dad or Zoe?” he asks.
She laughs, unexpectedly. “Pick one.”
He grins.
She sits back, leaning against the bed. It feels like they’re teenagers again, sitting on the bedroom floor like this, but it’s not like her West Tower apartment is huge, and anyway - they wouldn’t have done this as teenagers.
Theo was never a Hardy Boy. Just that weird kid she barely noticed, that she’d never have imagined any of them really knew or even interacted with. How could they, she might have thought back then, on account of his being deaf, but also on account of her own self-absorption - caught up with her own stuff. The way the Arconia felt like an escape from her real life, a place where she really belonged. The double-blow of all that imploding and Althea’s cool new friends, and how it seemed like no one understood, or cared, just how broken or lonely she was.
Now he passes the half-empty bottle of champagne - a Christmas gift from Charles - back to her and she takes a swig. She still has no idea whether it’s good or not, but she likes this. The two of them here together, after a random encounter out on the icy streets earlier. The way it feels to be not-alone at this time of year.
“Zoe,” she says, spelling it for him. Then: “my dad.”
He nods, and looks thoughtful. “Dying? Or keeping it secret?” She watches his hands move to his mouth, both of them. Secret on its own was one of the first signs she looked up, after the basics - it felt like the one that connected them the most. A thumb to the lips. But keeping-a-secret is different, and she likes that. Secret alone is the same as the sign for private, and she’s all too aware of the chasm between those two concepts.
She returns the sign. “Keeping it secret.”
He reaches out and squeezes her hand.
“Did you go see your dad yesterday?” she asks. Theo Dimas is out, now, just in time to have been his usual loud, dramatic self over the Arconia being sold - and she says this as someone who counts Oliver Putnam as one of her closest friends - before it all fell through.
Theo shakes his head, then adds: “New Year’s. Maybe.” And then he winces.
“It’s okay.” But she takes another gulp of the lukewarm champagne anyway. Zoe. New Year’s Eve. Five days away. If she’s honest, some years she forgets that it’s the anniversary, until a day or two later. She blocks it out, binge-watching something stupid like Girl Cop while knitting, the way she does with so much else. (And now, even that's tainted; another death to haunt her.)
“It’s not,” Theo signs.
They’ve been over this before. Sort of. They’ve both done bad things, stupid things, dangerous things. They’ve both been hurt by the world. They’ve also been good to each other, these past few years. Theo’s been kind to her. Helped her. Been her friend - a friend close to her own age, even, as opposed to having one foot in the grave (she hates thinking it, but).
The truth is, Mabel thinks, she’s not entirely sure if she wouldn’t have pushed Zoe, in that situation. Not to kill her, just because - because it hurt. Because sometimes people hurt people when they’re trying to save themselves.
She gets that.
Mabel hands the bottle back to Theo. “I’m glad you’re here.”
He smiles. They used to struggle with understanding each other, and even now he’ll sometimes still roll his eyes and act like she’s crazy (he’s the only person in the world who can call her Bloody Mabel as a joke), but at this moment she knows he gets what she’s telling him. It’s okay. We’re friends. We’re both messed-up.
It’s her second Christmas in the apartment and the Cinda case is behind them, finally. She should be celebrating, she thinks, except it’s hard to feel like it when so much of her professional success comes from people dying.
Mabel knows she’s good at it - finding clues, piecing things together, understanding the darker impulses within people. She just wishes she didn’t need to be.
She’s pretty sure the knock on the door will be Charles and Oliver, and when she opens it to see a guy holding a miniature Christmas tree, already bedecked with tinsel and twinkly lights, she groans. “Rudy, I told you to stop trying to offload your stash -”
Theo’s head emerges from the left side of the tree.
“Hi,” she says, and she can feel her face softening, her shoulders untensing.
His hands are busy holding the tree. He mouths a hello instead.
She steps back to let him through the door, mildly ashamed of the drabness. She wasn’t expecting company, not that Theo really counts. This is not like her aunt’s place, the sort of home she imagined for herself when she was younger, back when everything seemed possible. Back when the world wasn’t so ugly. This is just - better than the alternative. Better than having to leave the city, to leave the building, to leave her people and her purpose. Better than being homeless, better than dealing with her mom. Better than death.
God, she thinks, no wonder Eva Longoria wanted to know how many SSRIs I’d tried.
“This okay?” Theo asks when the tree has been placed on an empty crate (formerly containing Milk Gut) doubling as an end table.
“Yeah.” It’s just enough sparkle to make it feel festive, but not so much that it makes her want to puke. She can turn away from it easily if it gets overwhelming, if she needs to hide from it. “It’s perfect.”
It’s not the first time she’s thought about kissing Theo, as she notices now how pleased he looks and then tries to hide it. There were times when she was crashing at his place when they’d be watching some dorky old movie, subtitles on, and one of them would start dozing off on the other’s shoulder and it’d be so cozy and safe that it would have felt so natural just to turn her head slightly and lean in… And then there have been other times, like this, where it’s just the two of them hanging out and it’s the tiniest of gestures on his part that might set her off. She’s come to love his mouth, and his hands - paying attention to people, she thinks, and the way they move, the way they communicate, makes you love them.
But she doesn’t kiss him. Not this time. She hugs him instead. He’s so warm, and she breathes him in, and it feels like home.
This Christmas they’ve actually planned to hang out. Oliver will be with Loretta, she's assuming, Charles with his sister (she helped him pick out a gift), and Theo’s seeing his dad on Christmas Eve rather than on the day itself. So it’ll be just the two of them, low-key, takeout and a movie maybe. Quiet. Cozy. It might be the first time in a long time she’s actually looking forward to the holiday.
Then Theo texts. Turns out there’s a big family gathering planned and his dad wants him there.
Come with me? he types.
Her first feeling is relief - he’s not abandoning her, after all - followed by dread at the prospect of this big family thing. But she says yes.
Then he sends her the address.
This is Oliver’s son’s address, she types back, confused.
Yeah, he replies.
?????
It’s a long story. :)
The smiley-face reassures her.
She understands when she’s there, around a chaotic table. She watches the way Teddy and Oliver are with one another, how they watch Will and Theo like moms on the first day of kindergarten, wanting their kids to be friends. There’s a moment where Teddy, Theo and Will are laughing together and she sees how Will fits in, but she sees too how Will and Oliver share so many mannerisms, and how Will looks at the man who raised him in the same way Theo looks at his dad, how she’d probably look at her dad if he’d lived, and it’s complicated and it’s messy but she gets it.
She hugs Oliver tight before she leaves, and thanks Will for being a great host, and waits as Theo does the same. They walk outside together, and she takes his hand. He lets her, for a while, and then drops it.
She’s confused, until she realizes - he needs his hands.
“I’m an idiot,” she signs.
He shrugs and smirks.
She leans in and kisses him, his lips cold from the winter chill but his breath, his mouth, warm and welcoming. After a moment, she pulls back.
“What took you so long?” he wants to know.