Time Warp: Role Reversal [Rhea]

[Rhea Hartman]

Cecil's elbow nudge fell on an unresponsive arm. She chuckled, belatedly, and scraped banana slices onto her plate. Her stomach hadn't decided yet if food was a good or a bad thing, but she didn't plan to give it much of a choice. She speared a banana and a triangle of pancake, swallowed, and immediately her stomach rolled with nausea. She gritted her teeth and fought it down. Another sip of water, another Asprin because at her weight the recommended daily dosage couldn't be that strict, more agonizing nibbles of pancakes and bananas, and eventually her stomach settled. As she reached the edge of her first pancake, she began to appreciate it as something actually worth eating rather than a necessary evil.

“Thanks for taking care of the door,” she said, now that the danger of imminent vomit had passed. “I'll pay you back.” She didn't have enough emotions left over to be embarrassed, but she did feel a little awkward as the morning October breeze drifted freely through her living room. She didn't know what Josef had told him, and she didn't remember most of last night anyway. But it was hard to pretend that everything hadn't gone to shit when your front door was ripped in half.

[Cecil Wathen]

As Cecil picked at his own breakfast he watched Rhea out of the corner of his eye, ready to run and grab a pan or something if she looked about ready to empty her stomach. Thankfully she was able to keep it down, which was very promising, and he ate in silence while she settled down. When Rhea spoke about the door he responded with a small shrug. “Don't worry about it; I didn't exactly have to take out a loan or anything for it.” He speared another piece of banana with his fork. “You can repay me by running Mephit next time I'm sick. Trying to keep up with her while you've got flu isn't fun, at all.”

The banana disappeared, and Cecil went into the kitchen and found some orange juice in the fridge. He poured a little into two glasses, setting one in front of Rhea and sipping the other himself as he returned to his seat. After a moment, he spoke again. “I'm here if you want to talk about it. If you don't... well, I'm still here, and if there's anything I can do just let me know, yeah?”

[Rhea Hartman]

Rhea knew she should feel more gratitude for Cecil's presence. She knew she should feel bad about the way his cheerful Welshness vaguely grated on her hangover. But she didn't. Her chest felt like nothing but a cavity filled with a dull headache.

She took the orange juice with a quiet thanks, took a sip, and set it back down. She nodded and shrugged one shoulder. “Haden and Dan and everyone's fine,” she said dully. There was little she wanted to do less than talk about it, except maybe go to a German death metal concert, but she knew that the empty urge to lay on the sofa for the rest of the day must be fought. So, hating Cecil a little bit for his attentive friendship, she continued. “A guy I...an old...a friend got married yesterday,” she concluded, her speech cut short by the tightening of her throat again.

She felt stupid just saying it. Like she'd spent the night bawling into a tub of ice cream and watching The Notebook. Like a silly girl sad about her boyfriend, as if she didn't have things going on in her life.

But Sam hadn't been just some boyfriend. And last night, the pilot light she had carried for four years, knowing it would never come to anything, had gone out. And she had come back to her house boozed out of her mind and tongue tasting of someone else's nicotine, and in a moment of fury at the injustice of it all, ripped her door from its hinges.

[Cecil Wathen]

It was a strange mix of different emotions that appeared when Cecil saw his close friend in so much pain. There was the desperate longing to be able to take the cause of the hurt away, the shared grief over her torment, and the overwhelming urge to track down whatever or whoever had hurt her and make it bleed. The chief concern, however, was trying to alleviate a little of her suffering now, if he could. Any potential messages to be delivered could be dealt with later.

Cecil listened attentively as Rhea somehow manage to stumble around her words, being quiet and patient and letting her tell him in her own time. When she did manage to phrase what she wanted to say, everything suddenly clicked into place. Cecil’s voice was quiet and soft as he spoke. “Ahhh, I see.”

Using the countertop to balance himself, Cecil scooted his stool closer to Rhea’s. They were not often physically affectionate with one another, save for arm-punches and hair ruffling, but if any situation called for it, this was it. Cecil looped his arm around her shoulder, gently pulling her into a side-hug. “I’m sorry, Rhea. I can’t imagine how much that must suck.” He could, of course; the thought of Aaron getting re-married often made Cecil feel slightly nauseous, but Rhea didn’t need to hear that right now.

[Rhea Hartman]

Rhea stared at her empty plate and tried to swallow down the lump in her throat. Cecil was being a good friend again. Her antipathy climbed as he scooted his stool over.

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders in a rare embrace, and the lump in Rhea's throat rose to her mouth. She folded her head into one hand and lost her battle with soft, hoarse tears. Her shoulders jumped underneath their tank top, scars, and the tattoo that named her a heavyweight boxing champion.

“He was--” she began wildly, then coughed and wiped both eyes with the palm of her hand. Her skull felt ready to split from her eyeballs. She swallowed a gulp of water and tried again, “Four, five years ago,” she breathed, “After I quit as a recruiter, I decided to spend the summer in California.” She took a shuddering breath. “See my sister, do some ground work with the forest fires, get my head on straight. Sam and I were on the same squad.” Squad came out as a croak, and it took a few moments of silence before Rhea continued. “I was done with Chads, I said I was done with dating. But he was--”

On hour eighteen of frantically digging ditches to redirect the encroaching fire, she saw him look up with a sooty grin on his face. Cleaning their equipment in the morning, he asked where she grew up. He had spent his childhood summers in Mexico. She heaved burning timber off of one of their teammates, and he dove underneath the crackling bark and dragged him out. On her birthday, he serenaded her in Spanish with a chainsaw accompaniment. They collapsed in a tent pitched on the side of a mountain, began to make love, and fell asleep with three-quarters of their clothes still on. The team made fun of them while everyone stood eating their pre-packaged dinners, and she and Sam just laughed.

Her eyes, her cheeks, her lips were wet.

Groping blindly, Rhea found a pancake and blotted her face with it. “It didn't work out,” she croaked. “At the end of the summer we both had lives to go back to. H-he was training to join the Rangers, and I had Haden and Daniel back here.” She shrugged a tight, sharp gesture. “It's been four years. He's moved on.”

[Cecil Wathen]

Cecil knew that sometimes, when someone was hurting, the last thing they wanted was comforting. He had been exactly the same after his nain had passed away, after his marriage crumbled and again after he had signed the divorce papers. Attempts people had made at comforting him had been brushed off at best and been met with harsh resistance at worst, because it felt like every time he got a hug or a 'reassuring' hand squeeze it forced the floodgates open all over again. However, rationally he also knew that if the floodgates weren't opened then they would always give under the pressure later on anyway, and later on there might not be anyone there to help piece them back together again.

The last thing he wanted was for Rhea to have to face that pain alone.

As Rhea's shoulders began to shake he rubbed them gently, keeping quiet and being there for support if she needed him. When she began to speak he remained quiet, letting her work through it in her own time, piecing together the jigsaw in his mind as she explained what had happened. It didn't take a genius to assemble it, nor to realise just how much this man had meant to her. That was a feeling he could completely relate too, and one that he knew all the comforting in the world would not ease until it burned itself out over time.

When Rhea started blotting at her face with a pancake, Cecil slowly and gently broke the contact with her and tried to softly ease it out of her fingers. “Here, I'll get you some tissue instead.” He stood, heading into the bathroom and returning with a length of loo roll, which he handed to her. Cecil was quiet for a long moment, trying to work out what to say but knowing all the words in the world would not make her situation any easier. “I'm sorry you found out like that, and I'm even more sorry that it hurts so badly.” He slid the plate in front of Rhea away slightly, so she could rest her head on the counter top if she wanted to. “I know nothing I can say will make it all any easier, and it will hurt like a bitch for a while.”

Cecil pondered a thought for a moment, then gave a small nod to himself as he decided. “If you're maybe wanting some company over the next few days and stuff to keep you busy and your mind occupied, I know a great bar with a spare room and a dog that is forever in need of more runs out.”

[Rhea Hartman]

Rhea's head hurt too badly to pay much attention to what Cecil was saying. She unraveled a fistful of toilet paper and pressed it to her eyes, making lights pop in the auras forming behind her retinas. She groped for another glass of water and gulped it down.

As far as empty conciliatory speeches went, Rhea had heard worse. At least it was short. She gave a great wet sniff and cupped her temple in the hand propped up against the counter top. "Yeah, me too," she croaked. She closed her eyes against the pain. Her next words were so quiet that they seemed an exhale of thought rather than something meant for Cecil to hear. "I'm so sick of being fucked up," she murmured.

Rhea opened her eyes at Cecil's suggestion. There was immediate resistance. She did not want to go anywhere, she did not want to do anything. She wanted to lie on the sofa, listless, unneeded, unmoving. "I don't know if I'd call it great," she said reluctantly, massaging her eyebrows with her fingertips. "All your IPAs are shit."

Rhea had literally made a career out of grueling, knife's-edge exertion, and she found it a struggle to pull herself off of the bar stool. But once she was on her feet, the decision was made. "I'll throw some stuff in a duffel," she mumbled as she shuffled back into the rear of the apartment.

[Cecil Wathen]

In the years that he had known her, Cecil had never seen Rhea in such an obviously tormented state. She was always so strong and stubborn, so head-strong and self-assured, and he knew that for her to have dissolved like this the pain and pressure must have been far more intense that he could imagine. That served only to make him more determined to make sure she was okay. She had always been there for him and he would always be there for her, whether she really wanted it in that moment or not.

Cecil gave a dry, humourless breath of a laugh at the statement. “Well, I'm open to suggestions if you think you can do better.” Cecil was acutely aware that taking someone in the middle of a pain-induced alcohol binge into a bar was perhaps not the brightest idea in the world, but at least there he could keep an eye on her. She could get her fix if she needed that to help work through the pain, but he could moderate it and (hopefully) prevent another poor door from succumbing to her frustrations. Besides, he really didn't like the idea of her being alone at the moment.

When Rhea said she'd go throw some stuff together Cecil gave a nod, watching her make her way to the back of the apartment. He let out a soft breath and rubbed his temples for a moment, before gathering up the plates and now-empty glasses and heading into the kitchen. It was a bit of effort finding the washing up liquid, but soon the crockery and glassware, as well as the cookware, were cleaned, dried and put away. He then sorted out the trash ready to throw in the dumpster on the way out, so at least her apartment wouldn't stink when she got back. As he worked, Cecil found himself idly hoping that if any of his sisters ever ended up in such a way, they'd have someone keeping an eye out for them too.

[Rhea Hartman]

Rhea emerged from her bedroom a few minutes later with a large duffel over her shoulder. She noted the empty trash bins and gleaming dishes, didn't much care, but said, “Thanks, Cecil.”

She turned off the heat and locked the screen door before they left. It would at least keep stray cats from wandering in, and with her door now gathered in another one of Cecil's neat trash bags there wasn't much else she could do. Theft was virtually non-existent in Pilot Ridge anyway.

Rhea moved in direct, silent lines from her front door to Cecil's car, from Cecil's car to his apartment door, from his apartment door to his bathroom, and from his bathroom to his guest bedroom. Cecil heard two thuds as Rhea and her bag hit the bed and the floor respectively, and that was that.

She was not a bad house guest. Rhea showed no inclination to repeat the previous night's performance, and she kept her mess strictly contained to the guest bedroom. After she woke up, she ordered pizza for both of them and left it warming in the oven. She took Mephit on walks and left for work the next morning early and silently.

But she didn't laugh. She didn't go to the gym, she didn't listen to music, she didn't snap or tease. She went to work, she watched TV, and slept. Even Mephit, with her brown, heart-piercing eyes, had to nudge and whine for half an hour before the woman would be roused. Tears and vomiting were replaced with dull, monosyllabic courtesy. From Rhea, that was somehow worse.

[Cecil Wathen]

Cecil knew just how agonising it was to go through such an acute and soul-destroying loss, but seeing someone he cared about going through the same thing was almost as hard. He gave Rhea space, gave her all the time and patience for her to try and work through her pain. To see anyone suffering in such silence was awful, but from someone with as much vibrancy and vitality as Rhea normally possessed... He'd have preferred it if she were still kicking doors in. At least then she would have been expressing her hurt and not walking around seemingly so numb.

As the days ticked by Rhea didn't seem to be improving, and Cecil began to slip from concern to worry. He never pushed the issue, never tried to get her to talk or do anything beyond what she wanted to, but after a couple of days he decided maybe that was part of the problem. Perhaps she had gotten stuck, and needed a hand to claw her way back out of the hole that she had fallen into.

Cecil had left Rhea watching TV in the apartment while he had gone back to hers, saying he just wanted to check that everything was okay there. However, he had an ulterior motive in play. When he returned back to his own apartment he picked up his sparring gloves from the shelf, and lightly tossed the ones he had picked up from Rhea's apartment into her lap. “You keep running Mephit so I don't have to, and I'm starting to get fat. Come on, help me out.”

[Rhea Hartman]

The door opened onto the indistinct sounds of people talking over each other on the TV. As Cecil entered, the camera zoomed in on two heavily made-up women laughing, then swooped out to a third looking with pointed, frozen disgust at the other two. The logo at the bottom of the screen read Love and Hip Hop.

Mephit, who had been halfway through the process of nosing Rhea into another run, scrambled to Cecil at his return. Rhea's ponytail and arm did not look up from the TV but said, “Hey Sess. I picked up some of that kung pao chicken you like, it's on the table.”

The padded, fingerless gloves were surprisingly soft in Cecil's hands. The leather had been broken into skin-like creases and dimples, and sweat stained the white trim around the palm. The gloves landed where Mephit's head had rested a moment before. Rhea blinked at them in surprise, picked them up, then twisted over the back of the sofa to look at Cecil. Erika and Amina still argued behind her head, fingernails and hoop earrings flashing. “You want to spar?” she asked blankly, gloves in hand.

[Cecil Wathen]

Cecil petted Mephit as she bounded up to him, ruffling her ears and rubbing her chest affectionately. She really was the happiest animal he’d ever met, and he was glad she’d been around to keep Rhea company over the past few days. The kelpie seemed to have made a habit of always being around when people needed loving attention the most.

“Thanks, Ree. I’ll have it later.” Cecil had no idea if his little plan would work, but he desperately hoped that it would. He was willing to try anything to help break Rhea out of her bubble of sadness, and despite their vast difference of opinion on many things, they were both very much into their sports. He fully planned on using that to his advantage.

Rhea getting up and turning to face him after being presented with the gloves was a promising sign, at least. If she’d have just continued to sit there unmoving that would have been cause for panic stations. “Yeah, I do. I’m out of practice, and you’re small and girly enough for me to take on until I’m back in shape again.” Cecil was jesting, of course, but he was hoping she would be goaded enough to take the bait. The inevitable bruises when she handed his arse to him would be worth it to get her engaging with the world again.

[Rhea Hartman]

Rhea had not owned a dog since Murphy, the galloping, slobbery mutt of her childhood. Her lifestyle couldn't accommodate a pet much more demanding than a beta fish, and after a New York winter cracked a pipe in her apartment and froze Blue solid in his bowl, even buying another one of those felt irresponsible.

As such, Mephit was an unexpected blessing. Rhea had forgotten how therapeutic it was to come home to someone who always wanted to see you. When Cecil was out, Rhea sometimes lifted the dog up onto the sofa with her. She stretched out on her back and hauled Mephit, legs flailing, onto her hips and chest. Mephit whined with guilty excitement, licking Rhea's face and nosing her ears. Rhea rustled her fur and listened to Real Housewives of Orange County.

A dog's affection was about what she could handle. Sam's marriage and all the memories it renewed left her ungracious, apathetic and numb. After spending all day at work trying to act normal, coming home to an overflowing toilet would be preferable to hugs, sad smiles, and “How are you doing?” She hadn't tried to say how much she appreciated Cecil's tact over the last few days. As such, his sudden sarcasm stirred her expression into a frown. 'Small and girly' raised her eyebrows.

Rhea glanced back down at the gloves in her hand and ran her thumb over the leather. Cecil had cast his bait better than he knew. Halfway through the season for her heavyweight belt she had nearly given up boxing. Her enduring love of the sport always carried an undercurrent of defiance. “All right,” she sighed, rising from the sofa. “It's your furniture.”

The gloves slid on easily, and Rhea crossed to the open space of the apartment where they had played D&D not so long ago. “We should put Mephit in the bedroom,” she added as she tightened the Velcro wrist straps. “I don't want to get bitten because she thinks I'm attacking you.”

[Cecil Wathen]

Cecil had always taken some enjoyment in combat sports, though he had never really had the opportunity to indulge in them as anything more than an occasional hobby. While he was at university in Wales he took very regular kick-boxing lessons and had always enjoyed them and eventually got pretty decent, but they had tapered off and eventually stopped once he moved to London with Aaron. The other man had never approved of that kind of sport and his protests against Cecil doing them had gradually become louder and more frequent until Cecil had agreed to stop. Relationships required compromise, after all.

Pft. What a load of bollocks that had turned out to be.

Over the past couple of years Cecil had been getting back into it, thanks pretty much entirely to Josef and his superb teaching skills, but Cecil fully accepted the fact he would never be as good as he had been when he was younger. He would certainly never be good enough to pose any kind of real threat to Rhea, and he knew that. He knew that she did too. He just hoped that his goading would stir some life back into her.

It was why when she moved to stand and join in Cecil couldn’t help but smile, despite the pre-emptive protests from his ribs. He quickly shoved the furniture out of the way, making a large enough space for them to move around in. “Just don’t knock the dragons off that shelf there, and I promise I won’t kick your arse too hard.”

When Rhea mentioned about shutting Mephit in the bedroom, Cecil gave a nod of agreement and a sly smile. “I think she’d be better off being worried for you, but fair enough.” The truth was that if Mephit thought Cecil was getting attacked, he didn’t doubt for a second that the kelpie would attempt to come to the rescue. For as playful and cuddly as she naturally was, she was still very protective of her human. Cecil led her into the bedroom, making sure she was settled down, then closed her in and put on his own gloves. “Ready whenever you are.”

[Rhea Hartman]

Leading scout troops in the Welsh countryside had not prepared Cecil well for trash talking, and Rhea could never decide if she found it more cute or embarrassing when he tried. She looked over at the row of tiny dragons, then back to Cecil. “Okay, sure.”

She watched as he pushed the dining room table into the entryway and closed Mephit in the bedroom. She felt awkward standing in the cleared space in his flat—heavy and sluggish. She hadn't been to the gym in days. Her awareness of her body felt blunted, like her limbs were clothes that didn't fit quite right. Nevertheless, when Cecil stepped forward she slid into a back-weighted stance, her feet triangled to her torso and hands held in front of her chin. Out of joint or not, her body was still hers.

She waited half a moment to collect her bearings and gauge Cecil's body language before she ducked in. They had the advantage of being about the same size, with Cecil's bulk centered in his shoulders and Rhea's at her hips. She hovered at the edge of her range and teased at his collar. After a few counters, she closed in half a step and began working for the chest and jaw.

Her movements were rote, the same warm up she ran against her punching bag. She and Cecil had sparred before, and in her current mood he was not the kind of opponent to kindle her competitive spirit. For one thing, her behavior over the past few days had been ungrateful enough without bruising his ribs. For another, she knew she could trounce him.