Dean's never really had his heart broken, but he's plenty familiar with the look of someone who has - dirtbag that he occasionally is, he's used it to his advantage more than a few times. But Fred's a friend, so when Dean goes into the Coffee Shop for a pre-work caffeine fix and spots her, he approaches her table with nothing but genuine concern.
Fred's coping mechanism has less to do with being honest about her feelings and more to do with pretending as though everything's alright. On the other hand, her poker face isn't exactly the greatest, so put the two together and you've got a lame attempt at convincing Dean that she's not as bad as she feels.
"Oh, no, everythin' is fine," she murmurs, though it doesn't exactly reflect in her face. "Just fine. Definitely. Why wouldn't it be?"
Which is pretty much Dean's coping mechanism, too, only with a slightly better poker face, so he can relate.
Dean quirks an eyebrow. "If you were at a bar, you'd be halfway to drunk right now," he says. "Either somethin's wrong, or you've developed a pretty crippling hot chocolate addiction since the last time I saw you."
Fred's next solution to dealing with a person who doesn't believe her when she says she's fine (even if she's really not) is just to change the subject.
Oh look! Someone who looks like she's having a bad day! Molly can't imagine what would happen if someone stopped and accidentally spilled a cup of scalding hot tea on someone who looks that unhappy.
Which is exactly why she's going to "trip" right now, and do just that.
Fred jumps up in an attempt to miss the hot tea, but it winds up all over her front, and she holds her shirt out from her body before the liquid continues to burn her skin.
"Ow ow ow," she mutters, scrambling for napkins and tissues and anything that can maybe soak up the tea. "Frickin' ow."
Robin steps into the coffee shop. His gaze is drawn to Fred immediately. There's still that initial moment where his mind settles on Natasha. His chest aches, and it's a quiet feeling this time. It's an echo that he can remember.
Natasha is dead. She had Mat kill her. The woman sitting at the table is not Natasha, but the look on her face reminds him too much of her.
There are only two options remaining, and he hasn't seen that other woman in a long time.
He walks up to her table and decides to guess at who she is. There are subtle differences between all three women that he's met with that face. It takes him a moment to sort them out, but he recognizes them.
"Fred?" His voice is as subdued as the ache in his chest. "The last that I heard of you, Mat was... trying to find you."
Fred remains ignorant of Robin's presence right up until the moment he reaches her table. It's easy to do when she's sort of wallowing in her own grief. But she looks up, a mixture of sadness and expectation, and tilts her head at the sound of her name on his lips.
And then he says Mat's name, and just hearing it out loud is enough to create a feeling akin to having her heart just plain wrenched out of her chest.
Her fingers reach out toward the one remaining half-full mug of hot chocolate.
"Think he might've found me, after all that," she murmurs. "Not anymore."
Ordinarily, Robin would ask before he sits. However, he is not ordinarily so obviously concerned about someone. It is not as if he has had much contact with Mat. Robin tried to watch over him from a distance, without really getting involved in the boy's life.
He sinks into the chair across from her. There's silence. He doesn't want to know, but he needs to know.
"Did something happen to him?"
The guilt eases into his chest with a familiar tightening feeling. For once, he doesn't bother trying to hide the concern from his face.
It's not about holding up walls anymore. He wouldn't have the energy to do so any longer, even if it was.
She sighs softly. Her fingers tap restlessly against the side of the mug for a minute. There's the all-too familiar temptation to withdraw, to curl inside the inner shell and not talk about any of her problems because she doesn't want to be too burdensome. Her momma had always warned her about that kind of behavior around people she barely knew.
"He's gone," she says, the words falling out almost numbly.
Comments 18
"Hey, Fred," he says. "Everything okay?"
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"Oh, no, everythin' is fine," she murmurs, though it doesn't exactly reflect in her face. "Just fine. Definitely. Why wouldn't it be?"
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Dean quirks an eyebrow. "If you were at a bar, you'd be halfway to drunk right now," he says. "Either somethin's wrong, or you've developed a pretty crippling hot chocolate addiction since the last time I saw you."
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"What've you been up to, Dean?"
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Which is exactly why she's going to "trip" right now, and do just that.
Sorry, Fred.
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"Ow ow ow," she mutters, scrambling for napkins and tissues and anything that can maybe soak up the tea. "Frickin' ow."
Reply
Natasha is dead. She had Mat kill her. The woman sitting at the table is not Natasha, but the look on her face reminds him too much of her.
There are only two options remaining, and he hasn't seen that other woman in a long time.
He walks up to her table and decides to guess at who she is. There are subtle differences between all three women that he's met with that face. It takes him a moment to sort them out, but he recognizes them.
"Fred?" His voice is as subdued as the ache in his chest. "The last that I heard of you, Mat was... trying to find you."
Reply
And then he says Mat's name, and just hearing it out loud is enough to create a feeling akin to having her heart just plain wrenched out of her chest.
Her fingers reach out toward the one remaining half-full mug of hot chocolate.
"Think he might've found me, after all that," she murmurs. "Not anymore."
Reply
He sinks into the chair across from her. There's silence. He doesn't want to know, but he needs to know.
"Did something happen to him?"
The guilt eases into his chest with a familiar tightening feeling. For once, he doesn't bother trying to hide the concern from his face.
It's not about holding up walls anymore. He wouldn't have the energy to do so any longer, even if it was.
Reply
"He's gone," she says, the words falling out almost numbly.
"Gone with a capital G."
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