It was rare to find Jefferson within the confines of the Church these days. She often lingered within the shadowy corners of the wooden structure, surrounded by the weathered walls and multi-colored shadows cast by the stained glass windows. This place no longer served as her sanctuary. Instead, the walls seemed to loom in, the rafters seemed to hang low over her head. She felt that she could not breathe often, but her breath often stayed paralyzed in her lungs, sluggish to enter and exit her body.
Lime green eyes traced the line of pale light that illuminated the gap between the double doors to the church. She did not know what time it was. But she hoped that Jefferson would come through them soon. Her gaze lingered there intently. She had made a decision, one that she knew that she could not reverse. But she did not want to carry it out without telling him first. And although the knowledge weighed heavily on her mind, she knew that the gravity of her situation would become much worse. And of these two realities, she was only ready, and willing, to face one. She waited for him, and as time passed, she dozed and dreamed of the fog-edged things ahead of her.
He sensed something was amiss, even from the distance, from days in advance. Jefferson had known she was sick; he had known a long time, and only briefly had they ever discussed it. When that feeling of dread clouded his one-eyed sight and twisted and turned at his stomach, he made for the small chapel with little notice to those he had been with at the time. With every step that neared the church the dread in his bones, his muscles, his scars augmented, like thousands of weights on his shoulders and feet, slowing his steps, allowing him a certain peace to stretch on, a peace Jefferson was aware he would not feel again.
He did not move with confidence. The cyclops did not move with charisma or leadership in his gait; his shoulders sank, his single arm hung without strength at his side. Jefferson did not know what to expect, whether the grimy, bubbling feeling in his stomach would be confirmed as bad or allowed to pass as if nothing had happened. The closer he came to the church, to the little steeple that had become their home since the wreckage of the ranch house, the more doubts heavied his steps and pulled at the rings beneath his eyes. Something called him there, nearly supernatural, and as he parted the church doors and allowed the light in, all thoughts breezed from his mind, washed away like the coolest ocean wave.
He approached her limp, fallen frame with cautious but quickened steps, each one taken gingerly; he would not disturb her with the creaks of the floorboards, of the whines of the building that cried for her, even though it had housed her so briefly. "Geneva," the one-armed scarred man said, the man of walls and unbroken gates said, and beside her he knelt down, tattered fingers at her thinned cheeks, an extension of love in every touch.
"I'm here," he said quietly, a pain in his throat he could not release for her ears to hear. The scarred man bent and kissed at her cheek, once, twice, countless times. "Breathe, Gen... I'm here."
Her eyes could have stayed closed; reality could have remained suspended. She opened her eyes to look upon the face that always lived in her dreams. She breathed for a moment, and as she felt the tattered edges of Jefferson's fingertips, she knew that this was a true moment, and not one that she had imagined, the manifestation of a singular, passionate desire. And to know now that they were here together made it possible for her to push herself up, to meet his gaze, to grasp his hand in her spindly fingers.
"I'm here, I'm fine," she wheezed gently, summoning a weak smile. She did not want to startle him. She waited for a moment and let her eyes trace over the scroll work of scars running over his face. His ruined visage was nothing short of a beautiful miracle to her. She found perfection within the whole of the imperfect flaws that blended together to create his beloved features.
"I love you. I love you so much," she said suddenly, her voice bearing only a thread of its usual quiet strength. She blinked hard, rapidly as her lime green eyes unfocused. Then with a hiss of exhaled breath, the words came to her in a desperate rush. "I'm leaving here. I'm going back...back to before."
His brows furrowed, concern and confusion swallowing him whole. "Leaving this here"? "Going back to before"? The brute's thoughts drifted back to Crimson Dreams, the place she had called home before following him against his will to Phoenix Valley. She had left the Dreamers to suit a curiosity, she had admitted to him somewhere down the line, to find out what it was that held up the walls of Jefferson Soul and how it could be that she could find a crack and break through them. He did not regret a thing. No, he would never regret those long days back then.
"What are you talking about?" he said gently, cupping her face in his only hand. If you love me, his mind buzzed, why would you want to leave?
It was hard for her to meet his emerald colored gaze. Although she only behold one eye, that single green orb seemed so electric. His gaze captured her, ensnared her, and narrowed down her focus until her lime colored eyes could see only him, not the dimly lit rafters of the ceiling, or the shadowed lights cast by the windows. He, like Pripyat, was part of what comprised the center of her universe. It was hard to fight his gravity, but she fought to pull away, because she felt that they needed this; she would not let him suffer this way. There was enough suffering here in the first place.
"I'm sick," Geneva said lamely. She was talking about the obvious, but it seemed the logical place to begin. "I'm sick the way Jordan was..." She knew that he did not like to hear Jordan's name. But she could not lie to him, not about something of this magnitude. "I don't want you to see this happen," she said with anguish in her voice.
(( I love you Gwen <3 ))
He watched her a long moment, feeling as time ticked down to a slow, dull trudge around him, leaving he and she frozen in time between. She was doing what he had always done, what she had taught him not to do — put up walls and run away, choosing to solve her problems on her own. His scars frowned, his shoulders sagged. "I know," he said. He'd known she was sick; he'd known she'd been declining. More than once he had tried to talk about it, but still Jefferson knew little of the demise of Jordan, nor did he wince or twitch when his name left her lips.
He couldn't bear to see her go, to see her leave him behind and suffer on her own. Why? Why would she choose to do it, to leave him in the dark worrying? "The Valley's your home," he said, shaking his head. "I want to be there every step of the way... so does Pripyat and everyone else. You can't go, Geneva... I won't let you..."
She had known what his response would be before he had even uttered it. It was in the defeated lines of his face, the sag of his shoulders. And at this point, she was working carefully, banking on the stretching minutes to build an invisible wall between them. She did not want to seal herself off from him, but she could see no other way. The transparency between them, the way that they could communicate and love one another, was the one thing that had been the defining factor in their strange friendship, and then in their committed relationship.
And she was committed to him. Completely committed to the idea that she would not let him suffer the way that she had suffered. That was the pain that she still harbored deep within her laboring chest, fresh and new every single day that she lived. There was nothing that she could do to alleviate it. Sometimes it was easier to bear, but today it weighed on her as if it had just happened. To have to feel the reciprocal shadow of that pain was hard to accept, but she had to. She touched his clenched jaw gently and then drew herself away. "I am dying, Jefferson," she said bluntly, willing the truth of those words to sink deep into his mind. He needed to know. This was not a decision she was making blindly. "You can't stop me. What are you going to do, lock me away? I am trying to make this as easy as it can be..."
"I am dying, Jefferson."
It was as if his heart plummeted into his stomach and sunk there; his shoulders sagged deeper, his brows furrowed. He had known all along she was -- he had simply never wanted to face it. There was always a possibility in his mind she would snap back to perfect health, back to her old self, but in recent months her health had degenerated so quickly he doubted that possibility. It burnt like fire in his chest, leaving scars on his heart, a rough skin over that tender place none other could penetrate. None other would, he knew, if he lost her.
He held her tighter, form heaving a sigh. He would not argue her declining health. "We are all dying," he said finally, tired of the silence, tired of the notion that her voice was not filling his ears and that it might someday never do so again. The man visibly twitched at such a thought, and his embrace only tightened further.
"I want to be with you every step of the way," he replied quietly. "You can pull through this... and even if you can't, I won't let you die alone. If not for your sake, Geneva... then for mine."
(I love you too :'( )
"This is for you. Everything I do and have done is for you and Pripyat, always," Geneva's tired voice chimed through the tense silence. Beneath the weariness in her words was strength of will. There was an iron core in her voice that was usually absent. She had made her decision, and nothing would change her mind. She had set her course and would fall it through to the end. "Let me spare you, or decide not to let me. This is going to happen either way."
She drew upon her fragile strength to push herself away from the strong grip of Jefferson's arm. Her gray fur seemed so dull next to the sheen of his own. She drew strength in knowing that he was still healthy and still strong enough to live. They had faced so much since the winter. They had lost so much. And it seemed like this was the last thing they could lose together. But this was something that she could give to him. "I revoke my place and rights as a member of Phoenix Valley," she said, withdrawing from him and turning her face to the wall. She didn't think she could bear to look at him now. Walking out of this chapel, and out of their lives together, would hurt more than any pain brought on by this illness. But it needed to be done, and so she did it. For him for their son, for the end of things.
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