2009-11-16: You Should Be Scared/You Should Be Sorry



Date: November 16th, 2009


Tracy and Erin speak on the phone between Washington and New York.

"You Should Be Scared/You Should Be Sorry"

The sky is grey but bright above the state's capitol, a phenomenon brought on by the afternoon sun behind cloud. Many people are out walking around Capitol Hill at this noon hour, the distinguished buildings its known for in the background. Tracy Strauss is one of those people, slipping away from her duties for a moment to approach a bench on a green lawn near an autumn tree. The phone in the one hand she has use of isn't out of place here, but the person she's calling is. She sits down carefully on the bench, careful not to jar her long, black coat, which is draped over her shoulders and buttoned once at the throat like a cape because of her injured arm.

Not knowing what to expect, but leaning towards unanswered rings, she calls.

The phone rings. And rings. Just when it seems that it'll go to voicemail, Erin wakes, eyes barely focusing on the phone on her nightstand. Huh.

Morphine really does knock you out. Neat.

She starts to reach for it, discovers that her arm is in a sling - was it like that before? Yeah, she's sure it was - and then has to reach around with her other arm.

At least she answers it in time. "Hullo?" is offered. It sounds like she's half asleep.

Disheartened and increasingly sure Erin isn't anywhere near her phone, Tracy is stoic by the time she actually hears a voice. Surprised, she gives a long pause — she actually draws the phone back and moves to disconnect it, now that she knows.

…But sighing and closing her eyes, Tracy brings the phone back to her ear. "Erin," comes the neutral, but hopefully familiar enough, voice. "It's Tracy."

It takes a second for her to recognise the voice. Her mind is wandering, she can't keep a coherent thought in her head for more than a couple seconds. Tracy? She pulls the phone back from her ear and looks at the caller ID. Oh. Tracy Strauss. That makes more sense.

"Hey. Hi," she says, equally surprised. It's not like she expected a call from Tracy, but chances are, she'd be just as surprised if it was Taine on the other end of the line, or any of her siblings. "What's up?" She pauses, then adds in a somewhat confused, if not amused tone of voice. "I'm in the hospital."

The word hospital doesn't elicit surprise much as it does alarm in Tracy, brows coming together faintly, evident to no one but the men and women in suits and ties who wander past on their way to lunch or back to work. "You're in the hospital— why, what happened to you?" That would be suspicion more than concern, but one thing at a time. Priorities.

What happened? It occurs to her that she probably shouldn't be telling everyone what happened. Or, at least, not over the phone, even if she and Tracy both have some idea about what's going on. "Can't believe you're asking me to think this early," she mutters, which is followed by a grunt of pain and the shuffling of blankets, and then a long pause. "You remember— That text message?" she asks. Erin's not sure that'll be enough information, but it's all she feels comfortable giving. What if she's being watched?

Thankfully, being an actress meant that she could request a personal guard outside her door. Very cool. "My arm's broken."

It is enough, even though it stirs up more questions; however, there's no way Tracy is going to ask them. Not on the phone. Maybe not at all. "Y— " Blindsided, not by the cryptic mention of the text message, but the rest, Tracy looks down at her own arm with her coat draped over it. "Y— you're kidding," she says dryly with just an edge of amusement. How on earth… "I'm sorry, it's just— so did I. I'm sitting here with a broken arm too."

Erin laughs. "Uh-uh. Not kidding. I'll have to tell you how sometime. It was pretty awesome." As much as flying through the air and landing in a pile of camera equipment can be considered awesome. Maybe she'll laugh about it one day, when she's not in so much pain that she wants to vomit. "Did you get to see what bone looks like, too? They won't give me a cast 'til I get the stitches out. I think I'll go for lime green. Mature, I know." She chuckles again. "Which arm was it? Are you okay?"

"…I was sort of out of it," Tracy answers, her voice quieting to a an evasive murmur. While neither of their ordeals with broken bones were laughable, she's nowhere near joking about hers. Her experience far from 'awesome'. "The right. I'm okay, but it's diving me up the wall. You're the one in the hospital."

She's joking about it, because morphine is funny. Chances are, she'll be extremely grumpy about this later.

She's sure they've given her something to make her less inclined to leave, too. They weren't happy when she ran off to see Cass the day after she was hurt. "Eh, I'll be out of here soon. I think they just want to make sure my arm's not gonna fall off."

She sighs. There's not a whole lot she's willing to say, but there is one thing. When she's here, she's probably okay. She's with a lot of people. But as soon as she's out of the hospital… "The truth? I'm kind of scared."

Unseen by Erin across numerous states, Tracy hangs her head down for a moment, frowning. A breeze rustles past, faintly evident through the phone that she's outdoors; for a second, it whips around her hair and a few stray leaves on the path. "…You should be." Comforting friend, Tracy. "Look, there's nothing I can— I'm sorry."

Erin arches her eyebrows. The proclamation that she should be scared instead of something along the lines of 'don't worry, it'll be okay' kind of makes the room feel a little colder. "I— "She pauses, looks toward the door. "What're you sorry for? I didn't ask you to do anything."

"But if I could." Tracy should be sorry for more than that, but she shouldn't talk about it, can't talk about it. "You shouldn't even have your phone," she says, pointedly, drawing out the words. She draws her own phone away from her ear for an instant to flip her wrist and glance at her watch. "I gotta go."

Something in that statement stings. She can't grasp it at the moment, but she can draw one conclusion - it sounds as if even if Tracy could help her, she wouldn't. "Nice," Erin says, allowing bitterness to override the pain. Moment of weakness? Maybe. But she's not going to let anyone know. "Take care of yourself," she says, emphasis purposely on the word 'yourself,' before she snaps the phone shut.

Really, if their situations were reversed, Erin would have said the same thing. But they're not reversed, so she has every right to be angry.

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