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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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."

"I think you can compare it. A lack of freedom. Being trapped. Being scared. I don't know. I just know that it's all awful. We don't need to measure awfulness. Maybe someone else could look into it, you're right. Maybe it's better just to have her be imaginary. I do make up a lot of stories. There's a portrait at the Met that reminds me of her. I mean, reminds me of the way I imagine she might have looked. I've got a membership there. I've got a membership to a lot of museum in New York, actually, but that one in particular. When I was younger I just used to go and stare at it. Then I could pretend whatever I wanted."

He shrugs. He thinks most people would probably find that weird. He also thinks Tosh might not find it as weird as most people would. Maybe that's why she's so much easier to talk to, relatively. He leans a little closer to her, too, seeking comfort in her presence.

"There're other things... other thoughts... things that always bother me. But I guess we're still trading, aren't we? So it's your turn." He doesn't really know if she'll go for it. After all, she's already told him something very private indeed.

"Sounds to me like you've got a pretty good started already, with the portrait reminder you of her. If it was me, I think I'd do it way. Give myself an image in my mind, and imagine what she'd have been like. Maybe it's not the best or healthiest way, but I'm not sure that's the most important thing."

It's probably not the best or healthiest way of doing things to be sitting on the cold ground under a tree in the middle of winter, sharing sources of fear and hurt. But it's working for them.

Tosh hadn't really thought ahead to what she might offer next -- honestly, she'd expected her first bombshell to be enough to chase him off. So she nods, biting her lip in thought as she tries to decide what to tell him.

"I fall in love with people I shouldn't. And I love somebody who I'm pretty sure isn't ever going to love me back, but I don't try to stop. That's probably stupid, but I'd rather have stupid and one-sided than nothing at all."

"Why shouldn't you fall in love with them? Because they're not good people? Because they don't love you back? Because there's something else wrong with them? Why don't you try to stop? I know that's a stupid question; love doesn't work that way, you don't just stop, you don't just convince yourself not to have a feeling."

He doesn't feel like anything she could say would chase him off, at this point. The first thing had been shocking, certainly, but he thinks no less of her for it. And she'd weathered his confession admirably. Now he can listen to her talk, hear what she's saying, and this confession of hers certainly isn't shocking. It's understandable. It's sad that it's understandable, because it seems like it could apply to so many people, in so many ways, but it's understandable nevertheless.

"Why do you love this somebody?"

"Some of them haven't been good people at all. One of them even tried to kill me. Some of them have been very good, but I knew going in that it couldn't possibly last. Pretty sure all of them have been damaged and hurt and all wound up in complicated things in their lives."

In other words, not good relationship fodder. Which is something that in almost all cases, she already knew ahead of time and ignored.

Ginsberg doesn't want to hear about her love life woes, she's sure, but it's a relief to have an outlet. To get even just a little bit of how damn lonely and desperate she feels most of the time, out in the open.

"Because he's smart, and funny, and a better person than he lets on, and he wants to fix things and help people. And he's been hurt and he's afraid of being hurt again, and I think he needs someone anyway."

"Tried to kill you?"

He knows he probably sounds stupid just repeating what she's said, but it's hard to imagine her luck is really so bad. Worse than his, from the appearance of things. He may not date people at all, but at least not dating means that he doesn't get nearly murdered. Besides, he's certain that in any relationship, he'd be the damaged and hurt and complicated one, and he's not sure he should inflict that on anyone.

"Well, those're all good things. Smart, funny, good person, wants to help... I mean, he sounds great. Sounds great. He's got to have some flaws. Everyone does. But if he doesn't feel the same way, then you still deserve someone better than that. Even if you can't imagine anyone better, because you love him, so you think he's perfect. But if he doesn't love you, then he's, well, pretty stupid, for one thing, and you can do better than that. Not that I know anything about this stuff. At all. I'm just talking out of my ass."

"It's...really complicated. I'll tell you about it if you want, but another time, yeah?"

The focus isn't supposed to be on the insanity of Tosh's love life, it's supposed to be on getting Ginsberg to talk about what's troubling him. And what happened with Mary is something she's recovered from well enough to be flippant about, anyway.

It's not exactly easy explaining her situation with Owen as it is, and Owen is probably the least complicated relationship in her life. "Oh, he definitely isn't perfect. He's mouthy and a little selfish and sometimes he can be such a prat. And he never lets me drive. But like you said, everyone has flaws. I bet there are lists he could make about mine. Not so sure I agree with you about doing better, though. No offense to Owen, but the pool of candidates is pretty small as it is. And I'm no great catch."

"Yeah, okay, another time."

That sounds like something she might not want to get into, anyway. It's understandable. Nobody's ever tried to kill him (well, not that he remembers, not in the same way, probably, and that's better not dwelt on, either) but he can't imagine it's pleasant.

"Okay, maybe not at home, maybe he's the one you're in love with at home and that's just the way it's going to be, because like I said, who the hell can change how they feel? I mean, I believe that there're people that can, but they're obviously a lot stronger-willed than I am, because I've never been able to alter my feelings. I just have to feel them. But maybe here you'll meet someone. It's possible, right?"

Someday when she feels like Ginsberg is more comfortable with the bizarre things her stories from home would encompass, she'll tell him. It'll be nice to have somebody to share those stories with.

She laughs a little at his question about meeting someone in the City, although it's amusement at her own expense. "Yeah, that's probably pretty likely. Is it a good idea, though? I mean, I don't want to be here forever. I want to go home. I've already made the mistake of being in love with someone I knew I'd have to leave behind. Wouldn't it just be foolish to do it again?"

"Yeah, maybe. Yeah, probably. I don't intend to meet anyone here. I mean, not that I meet anyone anywhere anyway, but especially not here. But maybe it could just be a casual thing. You know, not like someone you fall in love with, just someone you have some fun with. I hear people do that. I've heard rumors about people having fun, but so far, I haven't been able to corroborate those rumors with any of my own evidence."

He laughs a little, too, because apparently the both of them have similar feelings about meeting someone around here. And both of them want to go home; he wonders if she wants to go home as desperately as he does. Maybe. He's overwhelmed with the desire to leave, sometimes. It threatens to take over every aspect of his life, that constant, aching longing.

"I don't think I'd mind something casual. Though I'm not sure I'd be any good at finding someone to be casual with. Maybe someone ought to start a dating service here, or something."

She bumps his shoulder a little bit, a friendly gesture of solidarity in the 'not great at romance' department. The bit about not having first-hand experience with having fun doesn't escape her, though, and she frowns a little.

"I've had a bit of fun, here and there. Maybe you need to spend more time with fun people. Or with me. Not that I'm fun people, but I know a place or two to hang out that aren't completely dire."

"I bet there'd be a lot of people who'd take someone up on a dating service. I might. Except I've sworn off of blind dates entirely. Never again."

At least, not blind dates set up by his father. It hadn't been as disasterous as it could have been (he had a propensity for picturing the worst case scenario,) but it certainly hadn't gone well.

"I think you're fun people. I've got no reason to think you're not. We could hang out somewhere. Do something fun. I've heard it's great."

But these thoughts about romance, these thoughts about dating, these thoughts about being around other people and not feeling terrified and anxious, they have him feeling all twisted up again, like he can't quite think right, like he can't quite breathe. He'd bump her shoulder back, but he's too busy scrunching himself up again, shaking his head.

"In my time, you can actually look up a profile of a person -- what they like to do, their favorite books or music, what they're looking for in other people -- before you even talk to them. So you don't even have to do a real blind date. Sort of like getting to know about a person on the network, by watching them."

Which probably sounds way creepier and stalkerish than she thinks it does. But then again, Tosh also has no qualms about invading a person's privacy when she needs to something about them.

She wasn't expecting their talk about hanging out with people, having fun, going on blind dates, to make him fold back in on himself that way again, and she wonders what nerve she's inadvertently struck. Putting her arm over his shoulders, she watches him worriedly.

"Is there...somebody here that you've got feelings for?" Maybe that's the problem?

"That's... interesting. I'm not sure I'd want people to look up things about me. I mean, what would I even include in a profile of myself? Boring ad guy who thinks he's more interesting than he is, probably. That'd be number one on the list."

Shit, is there someone here he's got feelings for? No, and that's part of the problem. Maybe that would help him figure out the confused thoughts that go through his head, the questions, the constant uncertainty. He sighs. He tries to avoid collapsing too heavily into her arms because being comforted like this feels nice, but he can't just rely on that. He has to get through this, get the words out somehow. She'd done it, hadn't she? She'd talked about her romantic problems. Now it's his turn.

"Awhile back," he says, "My father asked me whether I was... I mean, he asked me whether maybe I wasn't interested in women. Because I don't really date. Because I get set up on these blind dates that go nowhere, or because I ask someone on a date and say something stupid and ruin all of it. Because I've never had sex."

That confession isn't even difficult. He'd blurted it out on a first date with someone before, after all, and she'd been a lot less outwardly comforting than Tosh. He hurries on with his explanation, his words running together more and more, till he's practically not pausing between them.

"And I am interested in women. I mean, that's not the issue. I like them. I'm attracted to them. I think about them, I look at dirty pictures of them--" Again, no shame in admitting that one. "--That's all fine. But I'm not... it's not... it's not just women. I don't think."

Oh. Now she gets it, and yeah, That's probably a much bigger problem for someone from Ginsberg's era. Things are a lot more enlightened in the twenty-first century. Hell, things are even more enlightened around Torchwood than that.

"The funny thing about liking men and women both, is that you start out feeling like you're doing something you aren't supposed to. Something you maybe ought to be ashamed about. But once you get past that, you realize that it actually makes dating a whole lot easier."

She still has her arm around his shoulders, and she squeezes them again. "I dated a woman once. She was an awful lot of fun, and I think I did fall in love a little bit. My male boss and one of my male coworkers are a couple. I saw my female coworker snog a girl once. So I guess I'm trying to say that you shouldn't feel bad, or weird, or think it's just you."

"Doesn't it just... mean there's more people out there to reject you?"

He's not an optimist, by nature. And while he's eternally grateful that Tosh hadn't freaked out by that confession -- somehow, that one had been far harder than the first one, perhaps because he feels like he can't help the first one, can't help where he comes from or what might have happened when he was a child, and he feels that he can change this, somehow, if only he tries hard enough -- he's still not convinced that it's really okay. It'll take a lot more than some kind words, though they are, of course, appreciated.

That she has personal anecdotes to relate, however, makes things a bit easier. "So you're... I mean, you like guys and girls too? You seem so... okay with it. Like it's not some kind of problem. Not that I think it's a problem if people're... you know. It's fine. I see people around here that're homosexual and it's okay. I just don't... I'm not sure how to, uh..."

Yeah, this has him all twisted up in knots.

Oh, every day I start so great...

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)