Your Father's Map (Life, Rachel and Ted)
Title: Your Father's Map
Author: spamdilemma
Fandom: Life
Characters: Rachel and Ted
Rating: G
Summary: Ted and Rachel buy a kitchen table. (Or don't.)
Wordcount: 1105
Notes: Is summer over? (AKA me not belonging to a Life fic community.) Spoilers through the second season.
We'll take the trail marked on your father's map
Accountant Ted gives in (or is paid to give in -- maybe that's part of his job description) and Rachel goes with him to Williams-Sonoma to look for a table. It's not until they're actually in the store, shuffling beside aisles of matching dish sets and crystal stems and every gleaming surface magnifying their unease, that they realize -- these are things to put inside cupboards and line shelves. These are nice things for houses that already have a kitchen table, and an island, and a pantry stocked with muffin pans and stainless steel pots, cookie cutters shaped like zoo animals.
They don't have any of those things, and Rachel pushes her hair out of her face in annoyance because she'd never lived like this before. She'd never been rich (not like stupid Charlie Crews, whom she can't bring herself to call "Uncle," to connect herself to him like he actually likes her instead of what she stands for), but she'd eaten breakfast every morning like a normal human being.
"I don't think they sell tables here," Rachel says, thumbing through a stack of cloth napkins, embroidered aprons. She half expects Ted to scold her; rattle off a Don't touch anything. But he doesn't. He just turns around in the store expecting, whatever. Rachel waits.
Ted clears his throat. "Yeah, I could've sworn they sold tables."
"Haven't you bought one before? You're like sixty."
"I happen to be forty-eight," Ted says, exasperated. He runs a hand through his (gray, Rachel thinks, gray gray) hair. "Anyway, I had a wife then. I had a housekeeper. They took care of home matters."
Rachel almost asks what happened to them, but stops herself. Prison happened and they're gone -- what's the point? She feels something akin to pity, but shrugs it aside. Maybe it's mercy setting in. Maybe she doesn't really care.
"Well, I guess we better make another quick stop somewhere. I have a meeting at four. I'll just ask one of the employees where a table store is around here?"
"I don't think there's such a thing as a table store," Rachel says scornfully.
Teds holds his hands out. "Rachel --"
"I'm just messing with you. God." She bites her cheek as Ted turns away to speak to the woman at the counter. She's making pumpkin bread in little ridged tins and Rachel suddenly wants to cry. It's not like it's something she remembers or even wants to do. She just -- she can hear her dad telling her not to take the Lord's name in vain, to be thankful, and that sick feeling rolls over in the pit of her stomach: her whole life was a lie and she willingly lived it. She still holding to the comfort of his voice even after knowing the truth.
Ted comes back with directions written haphazardly on the back of a lemon chicken recipe, checking his wristwatch. "Okay, so Susan recommended this furniture store nearby. Big selection. Free delivery for purchases over -- well, we'll just go over."
Rachel opens her mouth to say, Oh so you're on a first name basis already, but her throat is tight and she touches the napkins again because they're soft and messed up already and she can't trust herself to say a thing.
"I mean --" Ted starts to say, "we don't have to do it today. If you're tired."
Rachel just nods and walks out the door to the parking lot, Ted trailing behind her, and when they get home Charlie's not there because it's not like he has to be anywhere at all. Rachel hides out in her room until she hears Ted walk his careful edgy walk down the hall, the soft beeping of the alarm set. The house is huge and quiet like a cavern, and it's like Rachel can't upset it. The bright uneven stare of the sun outside is something like relief.
She's sitting out by the edge of the pool when Ted returns with pizza (again) and they eat side by side looking at the fake blue water.
"It's nice out here," Ted says, hesitant. "I mean, once the threat of the coyotes manages to leave my mind." He frowns. "Damn."
Rachel squints at the brown hills sloping up and away from the house and tries to imagine wild animals, but can't. She only ends up thinking about sugar cookies in the shape of lions.
"Anyway," Ted tries again, cutting into the silence. "Charlie should be back soon. I'll tell him about our little misadventure. Maybe tomorrow we can find the right store."
Rachel shifts to face him, sudden. "Do you ever feel like you're haunting this place?"
"Look -- I know I live above the garage, but it's not as if I consider myself a ghoul."
Rachel makes a weird sound in the back of her throat and it's surprising, mostly because its near enough to a laugh. "No, it's not that. I only wondered, if maybe, you understood. We don't belong here. We don't belong anywhere. People take us in, tell us where to go, and we do."
"Do you remember your life before?" Ted asks quietly. He doesn't have to specify when, what life.
And it doesn't happen often, but sometimes -- sometimes Rachel remembers. "Parts," she says. "The therapist asked me to draw pictures after it happened, and I would do that for hours and hours." She stops to think, to pick at a hole growing at the knee of her jeans. "Or maybe it was minutes. It's hard to tell when you're a kid."
"Yes, time is funny that way," Ted says, distant enough for Rachel to think, Maybe he does know.
"But yeah," Rachel says, looking away. "I can remember what it felt like not to have to run away and keep running."
It's more than she's said to anyone in a long time, least of all to Accountant Ted, but he doesn't seem more uncomfortable than usual.
"Hey I, uh, bought some design magazines," he says, rifling through his briefcase set against the deck chair. "It's actually a big decision, buying a table. Some research would be wise."
"It's just a kitchen table -- no greater meaning," Rachel says, but takes from Ted the stack of custom shelving and wood stain and homes she'll never live in. "Although, it's nice to look."
"It is," Ted agrees, standing up and stretching, his back cracking but not too much. "Anyway, I'll just be in the living room."
"Okay," Rachel says, rolling up the bottom of her jeans and slipping her feet into the water, slow, so that the surface doesn't break too hard.
Author: spamdilemma
Fandom: Life
Characters: Rachel and Ted
Rating: G
Summary: Ted and Rachel buy a kitchen table. (Or don't.)
Wordcount: 1105
Notes: Is summer over? (AKA me not belonging to a Life fic community.) Spoilers through the second season.
We'll take the trail marked on your father's map
Accountant Ted gives in (or is paid to give in -- maybe that's part of his job description) and Rachel goes with him to Williams-Sonoma to look for a table. It's not until they're actually in the store, shuffling beside aisles of matching dish sets and crystal stems and every gleaming surface magnifying their unease, that they realize -- these are things to put inside cupboards and line shelves. These are nice things for houses that already have a kitchen table, and an island, and a pantry stocked with muffin pans and stainless steel pots, cookie cutters shaped like zoo animals.
They don't have any of those things, and Rachel pushes her hair out of her face in annoyance because she'd never lived like this before. She'd never been rich (not like stupid Charlie Crews, whom she can't bring herself to call "Uncle," to connect herself to him like he actually likes her instead of what she stands for), but she'd eaten breakfast every morning like a normal human being.
"I don't think they sell tables here," Rachel says, thumbing through a stack of cloth napkins, embroidered aprons. She half expects Ted to scold her; rattle off a Don't touch anything. But he doesn't. He just turns around in the store expecting, whatever. Rachel waits.
Ted clears his throat. "Yeah, I could've sworn they sold tables."
"Haven't you bought one before? You're like sixty."
"I happen to be forty-eight," Ted says, exasperated. He runs a hand through his (gray, Rachel thinks, gray gray) hair. "Anyway, I had a wife then. I had a housekeeper. They took care of home matters."
Rachel almost asks what happened to them, but stops herself. Prison happened and they're gone -- what's the point? She feels something akin to pity, but shrugs it aside. Maybe it's mercy setting in. Maybe she doesn't really care.
"Well, I guess we better make another quick stop somewhere. I have a meeting at four. I'll just ask one of the employees where a table store is around here?"
"I don't think there's such a thing as a table store," Rachel says scornfully.
Teds holds his hands out. "Rachel --"
"I'm just messing with you. God." She bites her cheek as Ted turns away to speak to the woman at the counter. She's making pumpkin bread in little ridged tins and Rachel suddenly wants to cry. It's not like it's something she remembers or even wants to do. She just -- she can hear her dad telling her not to take the Lord's name in vain, to be thankful, and that sick feeling rolls over in the pit of her stomach: her whole life was a lie and she willingly lived it. She still holding to the comfort of his voice even after knowing the truth.
Ted comes back with directions written haphazardly on the back of a lemon chicken recipe, checking his wristwatch. "Okay, so Susan recommended this furniture store nearby. Big selection. Free delivery for purchases over -- well, we'll just go over."
Rachel opens her mouth to say, Oh so you're on a first name basis already, but her throat is tight and she touches the napkins again because they're soft and messed up already and she can't trust herself to say a thing.
"I mean --" Ted starts to say, "we don't have to do it today. If you're tired."
Rachel just nods and walks out the door to the parking lot, Ted trailing behind her, and when they get home Charlie's not there because it's not like he has to be anywhere at all. Rachel hides out in her room until she hears Ted walk his careful edgy walk down the hall, the soft beeping of the alarm set. The house is huge and quiet like a cavern, and it's like Rachel can't upset it. The bright uneven stare of the sun outside is something like relief.
She's sitting out by the edge of the pool when Ted returns with pizza (again) and they eat side by side looking at the fake blue water.
"It's nice out here," Ted says, hesitant. "I mean, once the threat of the coyotes manages to leave my mind." He frowns. "Damn."
Rachel squints at the brown hills sloping up and away from the house and tries to imagine wild animals, but can't. She only ends up thinking about sugar cookies in the shape of lions.
"Anyway," Ted tries again, cutting into the silence. "Charlie should be back soon. I'll tell him about our little misadventure. Maybe tomorrow we can find the right store."
Rachel shifts to face him, sudden. "Do you ever feel like you're haunting this place?"
"Look -- I know I live above the garage, but it's not as if I consider myself a ghoul."
Rachel makes a weird sound in the back of her throat and it's surprising, mostly because its near enough to a laugh. "No, it's not that. I only wondered, if maybe, you understood. We don't belong here. We don't belong anywhere. People take us in, tell us where to go, and we do."
"Do you remember your life before?" Ted asks quietly. He doesn't have to specify when, what life.
And it doesn't happen often, but sometimes -- sometimes Rachel remembers. "Parts," she says. "The therapist asked me to draw pictures after it happened, and I would do that for hours and hours." She stops to think, to pick at a hole growing at the knee of her jeans. "Or maybe it was minutes. It's hard to tell when you're a kid."
"Yes, time is funny that way," Ted says, distant enough for Rachel to think, Maybe he does know.
"But yeah," Rachel says, looking away. "I can remember what it felt like not to have to run away and keep running."
It's more than she's said to anyone in a long time, least of all to Accountant Ted, but he doesn't seem more uncomfortable than usual.
"Hey I, uh, bought some design magazines," he says, rifling through his briefcase set against the deck chair. "It's actually a big decision, buying a table. Some research would be wise."
"It's just a kitchen table -- no greater meaning," Rachel says, but takes from Ted the stack of custom shelving and wood stain and homes she'll never live in. "Although, it's nice to look."
"It is," Ted agrees, standing up and stretching, his back cracking but not too much. "Anyway, I'll just be in the living room."
"Okay," Rachel says, rolling up the bottom of her jeans and slipping her feet into the water, slow, so that the surface doesn't break too hard.