(no subject)

[regan_tam]

All her life, Regan has been good at ignoring what she doesn't want to think about. Always been good at convincing herself of things, for good or for ill -- and oh, she thinks now, it's brought ill. But she's always been good at it, and so she's ignored this question for a long time. She's had opportunities to ask it, even, and she hasn't. And so neither of them have spoken of what happened just over a year ago.

She doesn't let herself think too closely about why. Because then she'd have to think about what the answer might be.

But even she has limits, even on this. Because she is perceptive; she's always been quick to read subtle signals, always intuitive about what people aren't saying. And there have been too many things said and unsaid, too many flickers of her husband's face, too many silences.

Not so many, nowadays. She and Gabriel are a true partnership again, almost as they used to be, and that's a blessing. But she still remembers the days when everything was brittle silence -- it's a cold, miserable knot in her stomach, just the bare memory of it, but she remembers.

You smile in public when you have nothing left. You smile, and you come home to nothing. To an empty silent house and an empty silent husband. I will be as stone, she thought then, every day. I will close my heart and I will be as stone. When everything you love is gone, you cling to what you have because otherwise you will shatter all the way. You cling to what you can still protect with everything you have in you, all the strength of your sorrow and shame and hatred.

And what you can protect is only this: your public smiles, and your public name.

Oh yes. She remembers.

And she doesn't want to think about it. Doesn't want to think about any of this. Wants to forget this, cover over the silences, pretend this never happened until she believes herself and it's all right again.

But she remembers this: cold brittle fury, and a public name, and a helpless hopeless rage that churned inside her, and the feel of a keypad.

(I've reported it for you, Gabriel.)

And she remembers this: her husband's stricken face, and the way he turned away, and the silence after.

(and you are going to cooperate)

And she doesn't want to think about it.

But, in unwary moments, she can't stop thinking about it, all the same.


(Now, they'll be here any minute.)


There've been too many silences.

Comments

[gabriel_tam]

It's been a long day, but not an especially difficult one-- although one particular debate over a bill in Council had set the tone for the session, as well as emphasizing the subtle-yet-growing distance between himself and Fred Atwood on certain matters.

This doesn't disturb him; it's not as though it's unexpected. Gabriel knows the score and the way this game is played. Once dinner was finished, he'd spent part of the evening sending a few key waves, deepening potential allegiances, and another part of it reviewing documents for the morrow.

He'd lost track of the time, to be perfectly frank. It's growing rather late now, and as he finally passes Regan's study on the way to their suite, he's surprised to find her still at work within.

"Ai rén?"

[regan_tam]

The sheaf of papers in her lap is an interactive booklet from Children's Fund Interplanetary. Some of it is stock material, detailing the current activities and organization of different subcommittees; other pages contain more individually tailored notes from Anita Horst, the director, explaining where she thinks Regan would best fit in. Regan's been reading through it, pulling up a sidebar occasionally to jot down notes to herself.

She's been reading through it, that is, except for the moments when she stares unseeing at the page, and finds unwelcome memories whispering through her head again. Like now.

Regan glances up at her husband's voice -- she hadn't heard him coming -- and offers him a quick smile. It's genuine; it's also slightly preoccupied, and a bare instant too late in coming.

[gabriel_tam]

"It's late," he says, kindly. "I'd have thought you'd be nearly asleep by now."

There's more than a touch of concern evident, as well. Gabriel glances at her work, then back up to her face.

"Everything all right?"

[regan_tam]

"I'm just reading over the Children's Fund memos," she says, with a slightly rueful smile in answer. "I'm nearly done for the night."

[gabriel_tam]

It's not exactly an answer to his question, but it's enough of one that he's almost inclined not to press.

Almost.

They know each other well, after so many years. She's been quiet for days, Gabriel remembers, and now this: smiles off-kilter and preoccupied, sitting alone in a room late at night. He's all too familiar himself with the state of mind that might cause just such behavior.

Frowning slightly, he takes a step into the room.

"If you're certain, Regan." It's not quite prying. Not quite, but his concern's much more visible now. Gabriel tries a smile of his own, one that can't quite hide the worry. "I don't suppose there's anything I could do to help?"

[regan_tam]

Her smile fades for an instant there, and she glances down at the papers in her lap.

(Because, well, he could answer the question. That would do something; maybe even help. Probably not.

But for that to happen, Regan would have to ask the question.

And if she did that, she'd have to learn the answer.)

"Just thinking, is all." Another glance at him, slightly rueful.

Regan is stalling, and she knows it.

[gabriel_tam]

The furniture the Tams have grown to prefer over the years is elegantly well-crafted yet sturdy. Gabriel doesn't even think about it before perching on the edge of Regan's desk, bracing one foot comfortably against the floor as he looks down at her.

"All right." It's easily enough said, and as she looks up at him, Gabriel reaches out to cradle her cheek briefly, brushing his thumb lightly over the delicate arch of bone before he lets go and leans back.

"Would you rather I left you alone?"

[regan_tam]

Regan's smile turns less rueful, softer and more real, as she tips her head slightly into the caress.

"No."

[gabriel_tam]

"Then I won't." Quietly and even firmly said, without hesitation. Gabriel smiles back at her, then nods to her work.

"Anything of particular interest?"

Something's troubling her, and with his recent experience in Taos ... well, it's not that far of a reach to wonder if she's run across something in the CFI memoranda that might have caused her to think of River and Simon-- and government programs that deal with children.

[regan_tam]

"Quite a bit," she says, tapping the pages together. "I was looking at the microeconomic support program structures -- they have some fascinating innovations in place there."

Beat.

And then her mouth quirks upward, slightly amused, as she glances up at Gabriel again. "They will wait till tomorrow, though, I suppose."

There's more than one kind of 'particular interest,' and she knows what he's really asking. (And there's some of that too, of course, because never an hour goes by that Regan doesn't find reminders of Simon and River somewhere.) But she is telling the truth, anyway; Regan does find micro-loan support organizations fascinating.

[gabriel_tam]

"Most things will, I've found," he says dryly. Gabriel stands, offering her a hand.

"Why don't we get some sleep?"

[regan_tam]

Regan clips her papers back together, setting them next to her Cortex hub for tomorrow, and takes her husband's hand with a small smile.

She's been sitting in that chair for quite a while, she realizes by the slight stiffness in her lower back. It's a very comfortable chair, of course, but Regan isn't as young as she used to be. Occasionally, her body annoys her by providing subtle reminders of that fact.

[gabriel_tam]

He helps draw her to her feet, not that she really needs it, and puts his arm around her waist as they start toward the door and their suite down the hall.

Gabriel almost leaves it at that, hoping to leave whatever the trouble was in the office behind them-- but finally his concern compels him to ask once more, quietly,

"Regan. Ni meí shì bà?"

[regan_tam]

Regan glances at her husband, and her face softens into a smile.

"Yes."

It sounds sincere. And it's not even a lie -- not entirely. And the things that aren't okay are pushed to the back of her mind, right now.

She kisses his cheek lightly, still with a smile.

[gabriel_tam]

He smiles back and lets it drop, pulling her a little closer before he lets go so that they can enter their suite.

As he walks over to the bureau and starts undoing his cuffs, Gabriel calls over his shoulder,

"We had another message from the realty company earlier tonight; it's possible they may have found something that'll work for us."

[regan_tam]

"Oh?"

Regan settles on the edge of the bed, bending her neck to undo the clasp of her necklace.

[gabriel_tam]

"So they said." His cufflinks clink lightly as he sets them in the receiver, followed by his tie-pin. Gabriel pulls his tie from around his neck and walks to the closet, where he hangs it neatly on its rack, then begins to unbutton his shirt.

"There was a suggestion that we contact them to arrange a viewing. Evidently it's a rather large house with grounds, past the river and in -- New Mayfair, I think they said."

[regan_tam]

Regan's eyebrows rise slightly, as she sets her jewelry with quiet clinks on the bedside table. "Well, that sounds perfect." She stands, moving towards her own bureau. "If it's in good condition, and all."

[gabriel_tam]

"After that third place they showed us," he says dryly, "I believe they received that wave quite clearly."

He removes his vest and hangs it up, then drops his shirt into the hamper.

Gabriel toes off his shoes and bends to remove his socks, adding,

"It'll be nice to get settled somewhere more appropriate."

[regan_tam]

Regan snorts softly at the mention of that third house, shedding her own light jacket.

Her face sobers gradually -- her back is to Gabriel -- and her hands slow, as she folds it and places it in the drawer.

Suŏyŏu de dōu shìdàng. Indeed.

She doesn't want to be thinking about this still.

[gabriel_tam]

The lack of any real response from her draws his attention. Gabriel's still smiling a little at first when he turns around.

He says nothing yet, but simply stands there watching her. As he does his smile disappears, replaced by concern once again.

[regan_tam]

Regan breathes in, and out.

The folded jacket is soft under her hands. Slubbed raw silk, dyed in soft shades of green and blue and edged with delicate embroidery. She's always been fond of it. She smoothes the collar with her fingertips, and pulls her hands back to touch the edge of the drawer lightly.

Quietly, "Gabriel?"

She hasn't turned around.

[gabriel_tam]

"Yes?"

Said just as quietly. He doesn't move.

[regan_tam]

"When--"

"Last year." Her voice is steady, because she has long practice in keeping it so.

She slides her fingertips an inch along the drawer's edge, feeling the smooth wood. Birdseye maple.

"When -- you were researching so much."

It's absurdly hard to say when I turned you in.

[gabriel_tam]

She's not looking at him, and Gabriel Tam is oddly grateful for that.

She's not looking at him, and so she won't see him stiffen, bracing himself as if for a blow to come, looking at her now with wariness overriding the previous concern.

"...yes?"

"I remember," he adds, after a moment, unnecessarily.

[regan_tam]

The caution in his voice hits like a slap, and her fingers tighten.

She deserves it. She knows that.

Never mind, she wants to say, never mind, forget I said a word, but she knows it's too late for that.

"What happened?" Not quite steady, now, despite her best efforts.

"After I--" She makes herself say it. "Reported you."

She's looking at the jacket, the slubbed silk and the intricate stitch-work. She's not really seeing it.

[gabriel_tam]

"Regan. Why--?"

He stops; forces himself to stop, really. Gabriel takes a single slow breath, then another.

"We don't need to talk about this. That was quite some time ago. You had your reasons; I understand why you did it."

[regan_tam]

Silence, for a minute.

"You always think you'll be brave, when it comes down to it," Regan says at last, quietly. Reflectively, as if to herself. "I always thought, no matter how bad things got, I'd..."

She trails off.

And turns, and looks at her husband for the first time since this conversation started. Her face is pale and set, and her eyes are very dark.

Softly, "I don't want to talk about it, Gabriel. I don't want to think about it, to think about anything from back in those days." When their children were gone forever, and society whispered, and she felt as if she walked through every day inside a layer of ice; when her husband was a stranger to her, and all they had were public smiles and private agony.

"But it's still there. I still did it."

Softer, nearly a whisper: "I think maybe I need to know what I did."

[gabriel_tam]

"Oh, ài rén..." Gabriel stops speaking, and in the dim soft light of the room he looks suddenly weary and old.

"It's not--" He pauses, almost as though tasting the words, then continues with slow deliberation,

"It's not your fault. I don't blame you--"

The now goes unspoken, but perhaps not unheard. Gabriel sighs, and holds out a hand to her.

"But I'll tell you. First, though-- come here."

[regan_tam]

Regan stands still a moment longer, looking at him.

He doesn't blame her, at least any more. She does.

And then she lifts her fingers from the drawer -- it looks as natural as ever, but the movement takes deliberate effort -- and turns away from it fully, and steps towards her husband.

[gabriel_tam]

He takes both her hands in his as she draws near and pulls her to him, then wraps his arms around her and holds her close.

Gabriel's eyes are closed. Tension threads through his form and his slightly ragged breathing, but his embrace is strong and secure. After a moment, he pulls back and looks down at her.

"Let's sit down."

He leads her to the bed and sits down beside her. Gabriel runs one hand through his hair and then places it, open and palm-down, on his leg-- his other hand is still holding one of hers, lightly.

He's looking at the floor, not at her.

"Their names were Cathcart and Charrington."

[regan_tam]

'Their.'

Regan listens, silently. Her head is bowed, just slightly; her eyes are on her husband's face, and her hand rests in his.

She doesn't interrupt.

[gabriel_tam]

"The--"

He hesitates, just for a second. What to call them?

In the end, there's really only one word that will do.

"-- interrogators. The two who'd been assigned, I suppose, to investigate the research."

Here he does glance at her, adding,

"It'd been monitored, Regan. Of that I'm sure. It's quite likely they would have come for me eventually."

[regan_tam]

She said it herself at the time.

We were lucky before, but if you keep on like this you'll ruin everything that we've worked for. And They promised they'd be discreet if you cooperate, and you are going to cooperate. Because of course they'd know, she thought then, of course it was monitored and the government would find out, and what would they think then? What would they do? Far better to volunteer information. Far better to cooperate.

She thought a lot of things then.

Regan nods, because she doesn't trust herself to speak, and because she understands why he's saying that. (And he's probably right, for that matter. She does know that. Even if it doesn't much help.)

[gabriel_tam]

What he doesn't say is that it's possible they might not have, but would have continued to watch from afar instead to see what, if anything, he uncovered.

Why do the work yourself when someone else is doing it for you?

"They were interested in finding River and Simon," he says, after a short silence. "They were certain I could help, they said; and they were curious about some of the unusual research I was doing."

"Gunslingers." He says it quietly, under his breath-- almost as if he fears being overheard even here. Gabriel's glance goes to Regan now. "Like Susannah was."

[regan_tam]

Is, she thinks, with a fierceness that surprises her -- Eddie Dean is dead, God rest his soul (as her grandmother always used to pray, and Regan doesn't particularly believe in God but she likes the sentiment), but Susannah's not. Grieving, yes, of course she would be, and maybe they'll never see her again, but she's alive.

Regan liked Susannah Dean.

Any other time she might say something; then again, any other time she might not seize on any distracting thought with such fervor. Regan knows herself.

So, now, she just nods a little, to show she understands, and keeps listening.

[gabriel_tam]

"They wanted to know what I'd learned."

He's back to staring at the floor, and a slight tension threads through him.

"I told them I'd need some time to gather the information -- to report."

He'd come home that night and not spoken to her, Gabriel remembers. He hadn't looked at her at all, and the silence had coiled through their house like a venomous snake.

[regan_tam]

He never came to bed that night; she never knew if he'd slept in his office or on the couch, or stayed up working the whole time. At the time, she hadn't had the energy to care. And then he left the next morning; she didn't say a word of greeting or goodbye, and neither did he, and she waited until he was gone to have breakfast rather than eat in chilly silence.

Very softly, "I remember. You spent all night working."

Ten days, he was gone. On a business trip, she told everyone; he's just fine, and cooperating perfectly they told her. We just need to ask a few more questions. You understand, of course, that discretion is vital in this sort of situation. And the man on the other end of the wave had smiled an impersonal smile, and she'd said Yes, of course, I understand.

Her grip tightens slightly on his hand. She's not sure if it's for his benefit or her own.

[gabriel_tam]

"I suppose I did." It's more than a little grim. "They wanted information, dŏng ma? I made sure to give them everything I found. Everything."

Two months and more of daily searching; it would have taken days, even weeks, to sort through it-- and there hadn't been a pattern to be found. He's sure of that. He'd loaded the results with every piece of junk he could find.

"Except..." and here, Gabriel hesitates. Silence falls for several long moments before he continues.

"I'd been to Milliways, by then. It's how I knew to search in the first place, and what to look for. I couldn't..."

The pressure of his fingers on hers grows stronger as each word slows.

"... I couldn't risk them finding out. If they'd learned-- I couldn't risk it."

"So I-- at Milliways. They caused me to forget. Post-hypnotic suggestion. I forgot everything that night, before I went back the next morning."

He'd chosen to lose his children a second time, in hopes of saving them from himself, and he'd never mentioned a word to her about it.

[regan_tam]

Oh, is all she can think, numbly.

Oh.

And I did this. She has to remember that, because -- because it would be much too easy to let herself forget. And I never knew. Never let herself know.

The quilted coverlet is rough beneath her free hand. The climate control is working fine -- it always works fine -- but she feels cold.

[gabriel_tam]

"I went back," he says again, unnecessarily. "With the report."

He doesn't want to go further. Doesn't want to tell her; doesn't want to relive it.

(even if you leave this room you can never leave this room)

Carefully, deliberately, Gabriel lets go of Regan's hand. Instead, he grips his own leg, hard, controlling his respiration in slow, searing breaths.

"Cathcart and Charrington were... unwilling to accept the results."

[regan_tam]

She's sorry she ever asked.

Stop it, she wants to say. You don't have to tell, it's all right. And I'm sorry, she wants to say, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. And I don't want to hear this, she wants to say, I don't want this, I take it back, I take the whole kě pà thing back.

She's frozen.

A moment ago, Gabriel was gripping her hand almost too hard; now, her palm feels chilly and empty.

Regan places her hands together, deliberately -- palm to palm, fingertips aligned. She presses them between her knees, feeling each joint, each fingerbone. The soft muscle, and the warm skin. The texture of linen slacks against the backs of her hands. She put on lotion earlier -- cucumber-scented.

If she focuses part of her mind on that, she can keep herself from speaking. She can keep herself from focusing on the way Gabriel isn't quite shaking, on the way his breathing is much too even, on the pallor of his face and the way he isn't looking at her.

[gabriel_tam]

The room's too quiet, but it's not bright, and he tells himself to be grateful for that.

The light is dim, and if he looks at the floor, he doesn't see the shadows of nightmare looming over him.

"We traded questions and answers for some time."

Ten days, he knows now, although he hadn't then. Gabriel hesitates, and finishes simply,

"...eventually, when it was over, I returned to the estate."

There's a lot he's left out. He knows it, and he knows that she likely knows it as well.

He's not looking at her.

[regan_tam]

Oh, she knows it. The knowledge is an icy lump in the pit of her stomach.

And she has no intention whatsoever of asking.

Eventually. When it was over. These are phrases she will remember in the dead of night, turning them over and over in her mind in the insomniac darkness, feeling the sick coiling shame of memory. She will file them in her heart, his words now and her words then, alongside the memory of all the times she said Simon, your sister is fine and I'm sure it's just a game and Stop it, Simon, you're making a fool of yourself and this whole family. Regan knows how it feels, now, to know you have betrayed what you love.

Silence stretches between them. To Regan, at least, it feels like a third presence in the room, almost a third person: the weight of all the things unsaid, all the things unsayable. The weight of the past.

At last, very low, "I'm so sorry." Barely a breath, and a little choked.

It's not enough. It will never be anything like enough. And he'll tell her that it's done and past, he'll tell her that he understands and it's all right, but Regan knows to the core of her that it may be done and she may be sorrier than she can ever say, but it's not enough.

[gabriel_tam]

It's different this time, he finds, while the heavy discomforting quiet coils around them, pressing in with a thick near-weight of its own. It's not that he's deliberately trying to keep secrets-- it's that he quite literally cannot tell her what it was truly like.

Day after day with the same constant level of bright diffuse illumination, the same flavorless food, the same questions, over and over and over again--

(never changing always repeating you can never leave this room)

--and then the sharp jabbing pain in his wrist mere seconds before everything changed, the copper-acid taste of blood and fear in his throat, the figures before him looming into nightmarish ghouls, the feel of his fingers sinking into the sickeningly-textured wall

(like old dead skin rotting silk gelid fruit)

as the fuming-orange light seared his half-blinded, near-bleeding eyes with the fire of some unnatural sunset--

"I'm so sorry," Regan says, and Gabriel takes a soft, shuddering breath. He turns to her then, wrapping both arms around her and drawing her in, and if he's holding her a little more tightly than might otherwise be expected, perhaps it's understandable.

"Shh, Regan. You didn't know. Neither did I. We both believed, once."

[regan_tam]

Regan holds on just as tightly. She can feel his chest rise and fall as he breathes -- too fast, too shallow.

"Wŏ ài nĭ, Gabriel," she whispers over his shoulder.

[gabriel_tam]

"Wŏ ài nĭ."

It's some time before she stirs and before he lets go, time in which the two of them sit together and find what shelter they can in each other against the cold cruelty of these memories.

But eventually they do part, long enough to finish getting ready for bed and to lie down. Neither of them speaks. There's no real need, and nothing more to say at present.

In the darkness, Gabriel pillows Regan's head on his shoulder, resting one hand at the curve of her waist. He's not likely to sleep any time soon; neither is she, he knows.

But neither of them is alone, and as he stares unseeing at the ceiling above and waits for exhaustion to overcome him, Gabriel Tam is silently grateful for that.