tampered | Oh, every day I start so great...

Entry tags:

Oh, every day I start so great...

When; January 7
Rating; PG-13 because... angst? And probably discussions of disturbing stuff.
Characters; Michael Ginsberg, Tosh Sato
Summary; Ginsberg isn't having the greatest time of anything... and when that happens, he has this weird tendency of running into Tosh.
Log; There are good days and there are bad days, but right now, he's slowly becoming convinced that the bad days outnumber the good ones by such a big margin as to just be unfair. It's not the fact that they're stuck in the City, although of course that doesn't help matters, it's the fact that he can't turn off his brain, can't quiet down the millions of incessant little voices in it, telling him things he doesn't want to hear and doesn't want to think about.

When it gets this bad, the only thing he knows how to do is wander. Back home, feeling like this had always been a reason to spend the night at the office, pounding away at the typewriter keys, channeling all of that frustration into advertisements that, 90% of the time, would never become anything at all. The other 10% were worth something, and that made the work worthwhile. That made the frustration worthwhile. That quieted things down a little.

But here there's nothing to advertise for, and while he could write ads for products he'd been working on back home, there's no tangible reward, no team to pitch them to, nothing meaningful about them. They'd just be another stupid distraction.

So he wanders. He has no idea where he's going, and he's not watching where he's going, either. Which is very likely why, when he finds himself sitting underneath a tree in Xanadu, knees pulled up to his chest, ignoring the cold ground despite the fact that it's January and he's not dressed for the weather, he probably couldn't tell someone where he was even if they asked him.

It's there that Tosh will find him.

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It's not that Tosh deliberately goes out searching for Ginsberg. But ever since the whole shadow-form curse incident, she's felt a little bit responsible for keeping an eye out. A feeling that was solidified when he took such good care of her when she was cursed into a literal second childhood.

So whenever she hasn't talked to him in a while, she makes an effort to spend some extra time in the places she suspects she might run into him. Xanadu is one of those places.

She plops down on the ground next to him, gives him an appraising look, then drapes her scarf around his neck.

"Is the weather like this in New York?"

Frankly, he hadn't expected anyone to find him out here at all. Truthfully, there wasn't any reason to believe anybody'd come looking for him. Around here, maybe even more than at home, he's a nonentity. Sure, if he posts something to the network, people usually respond, but nobody seeks him out. Nobody, he imagines, would remember who he was if he disappeared entirely. So seeing Tosh here, even if she hadn't been searching for him, is enough of a surprise to make him raise his head and nod slightly.

"Sometimes. Usually colder."

Is it a good sign or a bad sign that he's not nearly as garrulous as usual? He feels wrung out, exhausted, words don't seem to do much good in a state like this. He pulls his knees in a little tighter, appreciating the warmth from her scarf, unsure of how to offer even the simplest of thanks.

Three simple words is not at all the kind of response Tosh is expecting, not from Ginsberg. It's pretty obvious something's bothering him -- even if she'd never met him before, she could have figured that out. But this is more than just worries and general nerves.

She sits quietly for a moment or two, wishing she was the kind of person that others felt comfortable opening themselves up to. "I know I'm not the best at knowing exactly what to say to people. But I'm really good at listening. And I know what it's like to feel as if there isn't anyone you can talk to."

"It's not that..."

How does he put it into words? He'd say it's not that he doesn't have anyone to talk to, but, well, he doesn't have anyone to talk to. Not here, not at home, not anywhere. Most of the time, that doesn't matter, because he'll talk to just about anyone willing to listen, or at least, anyone who doesn't immediately tell him to shut up. Whether or not he'll talk about significantly emotional things really depends on his mood at the time.

Right now, his brain can't quiet down. Right now, he's teetering awfully close to letting everything spill out of him. He shouldn't. It always scares people off. Always. But...

"If I say something," he says, oddly quietly, "You'll change your mind about wanting to listen."

"No I won't." There's no hesitation in her reply. "You know the sort of things I've dealt with at home. It takes an awful lot to even surprise me anymore, let alone chase me off."

And if somehow he does manage to come up with a real shocker? She'll deal with it. Ginsberg is a friend, and that means he gets her full support, whatever it is that he needs.

"I promise. If it would make it easier, we could trade. You tell me something that scares you to share, and I'll tell you something."

"Everything scares me to share. Literally everything. People think that I share a lot because I talk so much, but I don't, not really. I talk so much and I don't say anything at all. And when I do say stuff, well, that's when people get really freaked out. You can't say a lot of things that you think, you know? Half the stuff that goes through my head, I don't say. It's safer that way."

He fidgets a little. The ground is cold and hard and damp, and he's starting to realize that maybe sitting here hadn't been the best idea. But he's got his arms wrapped around his legs so tightly that he's not sure he knows how to let go of them.

"But maybe we can trade. There's just so much... there's all of this noise in my head, and I can't make it stop."

Okay, he has a point, maybe. He doesn't offer a lot of very personal information even when he gets wound up on a topic. At least, he hasn't when talking to Tosh. But she can see how badly he wants to talk. And how badly it's affecting him that he can't.

"You can say anything in the world to me. I won't get angry, or hurt. And I won't like you less." She isn't always sure whether touching someone is a good idea or a bad idea, but Ginsberg's body language is kind of screaming for it, so she scoots closer until they're sitting shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip.

"Would it be a little bit better if I started?"

He likes physical touch, craves it, seeks it out, but never seems to get enough of it. You can't very well go around hugging your coworkers or putting your arms around their shoulders or cuddling up to them, and you certainly can't expect them to do that to you. At least, not in his job. Maybe there're jobs out there where people're affectionate with each other, but he's never heard of one. Truthfully, he's starved for any kind of affection. Her being close is a relief.

"I guess. Maybe. I mean, it's not going to be any easier either way, right? Either way, we're going to have to say something that scares the shit out of us."

He doesn't get why she's offering him this. Maybe she won't actually tell him something that scares her. He wouldn't be able to tell, right? She could make something up.

"I think that forcing yourself to face things that frighten you is how you find that you're maybe not as scared as you thought you'd be. I mean really, the unknown is the most frightening thing, isn't it?"

She doesn't want to force it out of him, whatever it is that he's hanging onto, but it feels incredibly important to get him to let it go. There are so many people who would be so much better at this. But none of them are here. Tosh is, and so she's going to do this. Maybe just being that person who can make someone feel safe and secure will be her own challenge to overcome.

"You're right about that, though. It's not going to be easy. It's going to be awkward, and difficult, and we're going to want to back down and say that it's all right, we don't really need to be heard. We can be in the background and be reliable and always all right and not bother anyone. But we aren't going to. We're going to take a deep breath and just...blurt it out."

"Okay," he says, momentarily buoyed by her words, because really, they make sense to him for a second, the kind of sense that only very true, very poignant things do. As far as he can tell, she's being honest, too, which puts more weight behind those words. She acknowledges that it'll be awkward. She doesn't brush it off, doesn't tell him everything will be okay (when, so clearly, very few things are okay.) Instead, she recognizes that it isn't easy, that nothing's easy, that there's always the desire to turn and run away.

"You go first."

It feels cowardly. It really does. But he wants to get a sense of what kind of things they're sharing so that he can tailor his own confessions and thoughts appropriately. It's not manipulative so much as it is terrified that she'll share something minor and he'll spill a huge secret and then things will be even more awkward because of the imbalance, and...

He still can't turn off his brain. He seems to hunch more tightly into himself.

She kind of wants to hold his hand. Because it would feel like they're facing something down together that way. But now that she actually has to keep her word, and offer something about herself that she's afraid to share, she's too nervous to do it. Because what if his reaction is so bad that he wants to not even be near her? So she copies his position, drawing up her knees and looking down for a moment at her boots.

And reminding herself that the point of this is to prove to Ginsberg that he can tell her anything, and she won't judge him for it. If she's going to prove that, she'll have to give him something big.

"You know those special, secret prisons that governments have? The ones where you haven't any rights anymore because what you did was so bad, you don't deserve to be treated like a normal person, and they can keep you there as long as they like? I was in one of those for a while."

She takes a long, deep breath, and watches him out of the corner of her eye.

"What?"

That's certainly not what he'd been expecting -- he has no idea what he'd been expecting, but it hadn't been that -- but he's not judgmental, either, not horrified or appalled or immediately assuming there's something seriously wrong with her, simply... dismayed. Concerned for her wellbeing. Worried, because why would someone like her be in a place like that? Worried, because from what he knows of her, she doesn't deserve to have ever been somewhere like that. Nobody does.

"Why? Why would they put you there?"

And who're they? Which government was responsible? He doesn't trust the government as it is, and this just makes him even more wary. He can't imagine she'd done anything so bad as to require being treated like that. Like she wasn't a human. With no rights. It makes him feel sick.

At first his reaction is, to her ears, what she was afraid it would be. Shock for sure, revulsion maybe? Disgust with himself for being her friend? But just as she's reaching for that instinctive apology, Tosh realizes that it's not her he's horrified by.

The bad part is, he should be.

"Because I stole secret plans from a government facility and built a weapon for a terrorist group."

Her words come out more matter-of-fact that she feels, but it's been a few years now, and it's become just part of who she is. A terrible mistake that led her to a rare opportunity.

"I could say that there were circumstances, that I was coerced. But the truth is that I still did it. Whatever excuses I made for myself at the time, the decision was still mine. I don't think it makes me an evil person, but it doesn't make me a blameless one either."

"Nobody's blameless. Not one hundred percent, not in anything. Whatever you did, whatever reasons you did it for, you probably felt like you were doing the right thing. And even if it wasn't the right thing, nobody should be treated like that. Nobody should be locked up and not given a fair trial and have all their rights taken away like they're some kind of animal. Even animals shouldn't be treated that way."

He obviously feels very passionate about this. His demeanor has become far more animated than it was even seconds before. He doesn't know Tosh all that well in the big scheme of things, but he gets senses about people, impressions of what they're like, of who they are, and he knows she's not a bad person. Maybe not a blameless person, sure, because like he'd said, who could truly call themselves blameless, but not a bad one.

That's something he'd be willing to defend to just about anyone. She's been kind to him. She's listened to him. She's done things in the past that she regrets, but so has everyone. As he'd said, there was no judgement here. Simply incredulity.

Tosh hasn't talked about that incident much with anyone, and not at all outside the original members of her team. Jack was understanding about it all, but then who knows the thing Jack has done in his life? He doesn't have the same kind of perspective that a regular person would have.

Half the time, Tosh is pretty sure she doesn't have a normal person's perspective on things anymore.

"That...really means a lot. I've probably done quite a few things in the past few years that would be hard to explain, but I feel all right with the reasons I did them. Not so much with that whole situation. I wouldn't be the person I am now if things had gone differently. But I suppose I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing, do I?"

Now she does reach for him, although it's just to put her hand on his arm. "You're really kind, you know that? Genuinely, I mean. That's pretty rare."

"Well, I like the person you are. I mean, that's probably selfish to say, since the person you are had to go through all of that stuff, and of course, I wouldn't wish it on anyone, not even my worst enemy, but I do like you. The way you are. So I think it's a good thing. Being you, I mean."

He has no idea how to phrase it, but her hand on his arm and that simple statement of him being genuinely kind is enough to make him get all choked up. Instead of showing it, though, he just puts his head down on his knees and nods a little.

"Yeah. People say that sometimes. Like it's a failing. Too kind. Too softhearted. Tender. Weak."

He's avoiding divulging his own secret, now, that much is obvious.

"I think I like who I am now better, myself. Glad I'm not the only one."

The rambling effusiveness is more like the Ginsberg she knows, and it feels good to have been able to coax him at least a little bit out of his funk. It feels really good that she was able to do it and earn herself a little reassurance about what's probably the one part of her life that she's been worried would freak him out.

But then he's falling back whatever this thing is that's stifling him, and she can't help it, she reaches for his hands to hold them. "That isn't how I meant it at all. I don't think it's a failing. I think the world would be better off with a greater concentration of kindhearted people. For one thing, we'd all feel better about ourselves, because we'd have people like you telling us that we were worthwhile. And I suppose if we all felt a little better about who we were, we'd probably feel better about who everyone else is too."

As greedy for touch as ever, he immediately wraps his hands around hers, almost clinging to her, like she's some kind of life preserver, like he's drowning. And in some ways, maybe he is; drowning in those things he can't or doesn't want to say. But she'd said she'd listen. She'd said she was good at listening. She doesn't see his kindness as a weakness (he sometimes questions whether he truly is kind at all, but maybe that's a topic for a different day.)

"I wish there were more kindhearted people in the world, too. People like you."

There's a long silence. A few moments of careful calculation. And then the words are rushing out, practically stumbling over each other, like he can't resist saying them any longer.

"My mom died when... I mean, I'm... there's... I'm responsible for my mom's death."

There. Stark, flat words. How can he possibly say anything more?

"I'm really not." Tosh would definitely not say that she's a bad person, and she does try hard to be a good one, but she's not so sure she'd really qualify as kindhearted. Although it does feel nice to be told so.

Now that she's sure he isn't going to cringe away physical contact-- she can't possibly resist wrapping her arms around him for a hug. There's no way she'll believe it was on purpose, but she knows perfectly well what it's like to feel guilty for something you couldn't have stopped from happening.

"I'd bet that you're not as responsible as you think you are. And I wish me saying that you don't deserve to be as beaten up about it as I think you are, would make it better. But I've met terrible people, Ginsberg. Killers, people full of hate, people who loved to hurt others. That isn't you, not by a long shot."

It's so easy just to relax into that hug, and it'd be easy to just let all of his thoughts come rushing out, but he has to contain at least some of them, has to avoid sounding entirely crazy. She may think he's a kind person now, may think that he's good and nice and sweet, but she can't possibly think it after he's done talking, not unless she's just as crazy as he is.

"It wasn't my choice. I mean, I never would've chosen to kill anybody. I couldn't do it. I don't have it in me."

Sometimes he worries he does, though. Sometimes he thinks about how easy it would be to hurt someone else. It scares the hell out of him. He tries to avoid those thoughts as best he can. That's what staying up late and writing is for -- it forces those thoughts further back into his mind, away from the forefront.

"I... I was born during the war. In 1944. They tell me that my mother was in a concentration camp, so that's where I was born. I don't like to believe it, either. I know most people don't believe it, when I say it. She died there, but if I hadn't've been born, if I hadn't've existed, I bet she wouldn't've died. There was no way she could've taken care of me and her. I guess she chose to take care of me. And she died. So it is my fault. How am I not one hundred percent responsible? My existence is responsible for someone else's death."

Tosh will hug him as long as he needs her to, if it encourages him to open up a little more, or makes him feel even just the tiniest bit better. She's especially glad she took that chance on it when he explains about his mother, because all she has to do is squeeze him a little tighter.

"I'm so sorry. I can't...I don't know how to imagine what that was like for her. But I think you're wrong. You can't know what the circumstances were, and you can't know that she wouldn't have died anyway."

This isn't an easy topic for Tosh to speak on -- it's a little bit hypocritical for someone like her to claim to understand what Ginsberg's mother might have thought or wanted. She pulls away a little, but just so she can get him to look her in the eyes. "Maybe she gave up something for herself so you'd survive, maybe it wouldn't have mattered, because so many people died and she could have been one of them no matter what. But either way, she died knowing she was able to leave something of herself behind. Something good, that she created. Someone who'll make sure she doesn't just fade away, forgotten. It isn't a tragedy that you exist and she died. The tragedy would have been if you didn't."

By the time she's finished, there's real, raw emotion in her voice, and a hint of tears in her eyes.

"I want to believe that, but..."

There are a lot of things he wants to believe. He always tries to create his own narrative, always tries to come up with stories that'll be more pleasant than the ones he knows to be true. That's why he tells people he's an alien, doesn't it? That's why he's so good at advertising: he knows how to come up with stories that people want to hear, that make them feel good. He's been doing it in his own life for so long that it's easy to extend it out to someone else.

"I don't remember her. I was too young. And I don't know if anyone else remembers her, either. I mean, there must be people in the world, people somewhere who do. I've never met them, though. I don't know anything about her. So she did just kind of fade away, didn't she? I mean, sure, I exist, but what good does that do for her memory? Who knows if I'm anything at all like her? Who knows if she even existed in the first place? If you can't remember someone, if you don't know anything about them, if there're no pictures, no stories, no... anything, are they real?"

Now he's getting existential again, and he knows that's where he usually loses people from the conversation, but Tosh sounds emotional, really emotional, like she cares, and it baffles him.

"You're part of her. And you remember that she existed. Even if you don't remember her for yourself, even if you didn't know her name, you can still talk about her. Now someone else knows she existed too. And that she did something good and brave -- she brought you into the world."

The idea of not disappearing, of leaving some kind of legacy to be remembered by, is desperately important to Tosh. It hurts to see that Ginsberg can't see how important a part of someone's legacy he is, how hard he is on himself simply for being.

"They're real. And even if all they leave behind is a name, someone somewhere will see it or hear and they'll know. They'll be able to say 'this person existed and they contributed something to the world'. You could research, you know. Find out more about her. I bet you'd be good at that. But even if you didn't, it's enough. You living your life, is enough."

"I've thought about... about doing some research. I could ask the orphanage I was in when I was little. I could ask my dad. He might know something, since he's the one that adopted me. Maybe they told him something, anything. But I'm a coward. I don't want to know. Because the second that I start thinking about doing research, I start thinking about the kinds of things I'd have to learn about. I mean, you look at pictures of those places..."

He shakes his head. Words normally come easy to him, but they're not coming easily now. "You look at the pictures, and then you realize that you were there. That the person who brought you into the world was there. And just because I can't remember being there doesn't mean I can ignore the fact that I was. But it's easier not to read about it, not to think about it, not to research things."

It's strange, how understanding she is. She had claimed to not be good at knowing what to say to people, but she does.

"You..." he begins, then sighs. "You were locked away when you could remember it. I can't pretend I know what that's like, either."

"It's awful. I won't pretend otherwise. If I could forget I think I would. And I couldn't possibly compare my experience with your mother's." She won't pretend to be stoic and unaffected by her own past, and she knows Ginsberg has every reason to want to maintain what distance he can between himself and the knowledge of what happened in those camps. "It isn't cowardly to want to protect yourself form that. So doing the research yourself is out. But maybe someone else could do it for you. Someone who doesn't have a personal stake, who'd be able to see it as just research."

He must know someone, have some friend or colleague who would be happy to help him, if they knew he needed it. But that's the big issue here, isn't it?

She wraps her arms around one of his and leans up against his side again. "Maybe you don't have to know her to imagine her. You can create her in your mind, what she might have been like if things had been different for her. Maybe even write about her that way."

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