asoncalledgabriel | (no subject)

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Gabriel finds himself at Greta's house. It's partly because she's invited him over - she says she needs people to sample things and he does like her baking. Things have been strange and rocky with Neil, and he feels like that's his fault as much as anything, but he has no idea how to change or fix it. Neil seems intent on punishing himself.

He lets himself into the house after getting a text from Greta saying to do just that. He follows the general sound of movement and the smell of baking things to the kitchen.

"I'm here, Greta," he calls so she wouldn't be too startled when he appears in the doorway of the kitchen.

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It's been a while since Greta's really had a chance to talk with Gabriel, much. They've spoken more in passing, usually when he's come to take Saoirse for a wander, or otherwise occupy the lass for a few hours. Which is fine: Saoirse likes him, and Greta likes having another Irish person for the lass to spend time with -- especially since the only other one she knows of was avoiding them for their own safety. But it'll be good to have the lad visit without also expecting him to mind Saoirse, as if she's only here to take advantage of his babysitting abilities.

"Hello," she calls back after hearing him enter. Sadie had trotted off to investigate, but she knows Gabriel well, and cheerfully escorts him to the kitchen. "How have you been?" she asks as soon as he appears in the doorway. She'd offer a hug, but she's got flour up to the elbows and doesn't want to make a mess of him.

"I'm-- I'm alright," he says as he settles at the kitchen table. He isn't sure if that's true at all though, and he finds himself choked up before he can stop it: the sudden, gripping anxiety in his chest that makes it hard to breathe.

He gasps a soft, sharp breath and tries to laugh.

"Sorry, I uhm. I'm--"

God. He feels absolutely ridiculous; he suddenly, desperately wants his mother, or Caroline.

"It's been a long week."

He says he's all right, but he doesn't sound the least bit sure of himself. What would have been a cursory glance on her part turns into a more assessing look, giving him her full attention. And what she sees is rather alarming: the poor lad looks on the verge of tears.

Greta makes a soft sound of dismay, wiping her hands off on her apron before he even has the chance to start apologizing, and crosses over to the table. Once she's there, though, she isn't entirely sure what to do. Gabriel's at an odd age: young enough to almost be a child by Darrow's standards, old enough that no one would have considered him such at home. Her instinct is to just put an arm around him and pull him close; his preference might be for something a little less maternal. After a beat of uncertainty, she steps close enough to set a hand on his back. Close enough, too, that he could lean into her without falling out of his chair.

"What's wrong?" she asks quietly. Maybe he won't want to talk about it, whatever it is, but she doesn't think she can be blamed for asking.

Gabriel feels ashamed that he's ready to fall apart so easily, but he's been holding it all in since Neil talked to him, and he's been holding in everything else since he got here. He doesn't know how to be in this place and it terrifies him.

He leans against Greta, turns his face into her apron like he might have done to his own mother when he was younger. She's never judged his relationship with Neil, whatever it is, and he knows she won't be cruel to him now.

"Everything," he mumbles into her apron, feeling like it's a bit dramatic but maybe also true.

He leans against her like she's his own mother, and it's probably easier than it should be to play the part, smoothing back his hair like she would Saoirse's before dropping her hand back to his shoulder. The poor lad.

His answer, when it comes, almost startles a laugh out of her. Oh, just everything. That narrows it down. But she's not about to start laughing at him; she still remembers how dramatic and all-encompassing her own problems felt when she was about his age. Besides, she doesn't want him to regret confiding in her -- not least of all because if he's confiding in her, that may mean he's short of other options. And she can think of at least one who ought to be higher on the list than her.

Oh, dear.

"Has something happened with Neil?" she gently hazards.

He nearly chokes at the mention of the other boy's name. Jesus, he hadn't meant to just fall to pieces in her kitchen. He's supposed to be here helping and instead he's taking her away from whatever she'd been working on.

Gabriel summons a breath, then another one, and another. He lets the last one go in a heavy but slow sigh and makes himself let go of Greta. He doesn't think he has any dignity to regain but he can try anyway.

"Yes? I don't know. We had a row and I just-- I don't even know how to feel about that. He told me he'd-- He got intimate with another boy. But he comes over to tell me and he's going on about how terrible he feels about it. And I just..."

He trails off and pushes his hair back as he slumps in the chair. "I think I made a mess of it."

The reaction he has to Neil's name is all the answer she really needs, and she tsks softly, rubbing his back while he pulls himself together, until he pulls away. She doesn't even intend to ask what exactly the boy did -- they're both young, it could be any number of things. They may have just never rowed before, with that alone enough to unnerve the lad.

Something in her twists uncomfortably when Gabriel does explain. Ah. So that's what it was.

Greta never got the chance to confess her own infidelity. If she's being honest with herself, she doesn't think she would have. What would the point have been? Upset her husband, and for what? It's not as if the Prince would have given the game away. He's probably forgotten about her already. On to other conquests. At any rate, she certainly wouldn't have gone of him on her knees, sobbing about how wretched she felt.

"What did you tell him?" she asks, pulling out a chair and settling in. Whatever it was, she doesn't think he could take more than partial credit, at most, for it not going well.

"I told him that the way he was going on, all that was left for me to do was tell him not to be so hard on himself. That he was making the whole thing about him, and how terrible he felt. Christ."

He sighs and rubs his face. He feels awful about it now, maybe he shouldn't have said that, but it's also how he felt at the time.

"I don't-- I don't know that he regrets it? And that's fine, I'd almost rather hear that than have him coming to me all mea culpa and tearing himself up before he even tells me."

"Sounds about right," she says drily. "He ought to have been reassuring you, not the other way around."

There's still a piece missing, the why of it all. She knows why she strayed -- she was bored, he was charming, and how does one say no to such an insistent Prince, anyway? She doesn't know what inspired Neil to fall into the arms of some other lad, and she doesn't want to ask. Gabriel might not even know the answer, himself. But if he does, he probably won't want to share it. There's not much pride to be had in not being enough for someone.

She sighs quietly. "I'm sorry, Gabriel." After a moment's consideration, she adds, "Do you want me to send anyone after him, make him rethink his behavior? I have several very burly friends who probably wouldn't take much persuading." She smiles, willing to pass it off as a joke.

"Christ, if I wanted that, I'd be in Sweeney's kitchen," he says with a weak, wet laugh.

Gabriel leans on the table and gives Greta a gentle push back toward whatever had her covered in flower in the first place. "If he liked it, if he-- if he was happy, I don't want him to come crawling to me and feeling terrible about it. If he wants other people, maybe we're just better off being honest about it."

Greta arches an eyebrow, but lets herself get nudged back over to her work. It takes her a beat to remember what she was doing and get back into it, but once she's regained her rhythm, she glances up at him.

"And what about you? Do you want other people?"

There's no judgment in her tone, only curiosity. Gabriel seems to be handling all this with a maturity she's not sure her husband would have displayed, which makes it a little easier to not worry that the wrong question or word choice might send him to his knees.

Besides, the answer matters. They're young and unmarried, and if they both wanted to fool around a bit, there isn't much to stop them. Oh, some people would probably turn their noses up, but it would be the same group likely to sniff at them for not choosing to spend their time with girls. Not much of a loss, really.

"I don't want any of it," he says, quiet and ashamed. "I still have trouble with the idea that this is-- that this is okay. That it's alright to be this way. And I know that comes between us."

He fidgets with the edge of his shirt and stares at the table. He hates the anxiety that knots in his chest when he looks at anyone else, or even Neil, and feels any stirring inside him. Why can't he just feel that way about girls? But he doesn't, and he's certain by now that he never will.

"It's a lot to get over, the things I've been taught all my life."

That's a more depressing answer than Greta had anticipated, and she pauses for a moment, resisting the urge to bustle back out there and give him another hug. This isn't the sort of problem a hug can solve.

"The lessons you're taught growing up can be hard to shake," she agrees. "It was all stories, back home, and stories have morals. Don't stray from the path. Don't talk to the Wolf. Don't lose your way." She wrinkles her nose briefly. "A lot of don'ts. It's a wonder I lasted as long as I did, really. I was always more of a doer."

She smiles, wry and a little sad, but unrepentant. Regret won't change anything, so why bother with it? Besides, she rather likes where she's wound up.

Her expression sobers, and she stops kneading. "There's nothing wrong with you, Gabriel," she says, soft but firm. "You might make mistakes, but you," she gestures with a floury hand, encompassing all of him, "aren't wrong."

Gabriel looks down at his hands and he tries not to fidget too much with the edge of his shirt. He itches for a cigarette but he doesn't ask if he can smoke: he doesn't want Greta's house to smell like it.

"So people keep telling me," he says with a sad sort of smile. "I-- I know it, in my head. I understand what everyone tells me. But it's so hard to let it sink all the way down. Or even if I feel good about something, the bad comes crashing back in before too long. I wish I could forget it entirely. I wish I could have completely started over here."

He's fidgeting in his seat in a manner that makes her feel like climbing the walls in sympathy, and she shakes her head. "Here, come scrub in. You can help me bully this dough into shape." If he's wanting for something to do with his hands, she can at least offer some honest labor in that regard.

"Mind all the wishes," she adds wryly. "They're never as straightforward as you want them to be, even when they come true. Especially when they come true."

Gabriel gets up at her order, and he finds himself feeling deep relief for something to do, something rather mundane and familiar to focus on. He washes up in the sink while he listens to Greta and then joins her out the counter so he can help work the dough.

He offers a dry smile when she mentions the wishes. "Well, until I came here I thought leprechauns were only things my grandmother believed in," he confesses. "She used to leave out milk, you know. Or a little bit of cheese or a saucer of beer. I always thought she was a bit mad, but she said it was for the fairies and that it was a good thing to do."

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