#wr deirdre convo

[mor-beck-more-problems]

@deathduty

[ a letter is left for Morgan under her breakfast plate, having been set there overnight by pixies, who did arrange Morgan’s breakfast of gourmet brains into a phallic shape. There is a jar of eyeballs pickled in potent anise extract, and a bottle of zombie-approved wine. ]

My Morgue,

Happy anniversary. For the sake of full disclosure, I did have to cancel plans I had for us. But I don’t mind, and anyway, I don’t think Kaden would have appreciated being pushed down the stairs again for my anniversary present to you. I love you very much. I love you very much always. The day is already special. I love you. 

Oh, those French scientists I hired managed to get that god-awful licorice thing to make a strong enough flavor. Progress was slow because they “had ethical concerns about the source of the eyeballs” and “wanted health benefits” and “would like to see their families again”. Maybe I ought to push them all down the stairs. 

Still love you very much

Yours, Deirdre

[ a picture is attached to the letter, with its own note: ]

This is a picture I took of you last week. I think the photography class has been working. At least, it’s not another blurry photo of the floor. Shall we put it into your album together?

[mor-beck-more-problems]

@deathduty​

[pm] It is. She told me what she did. And I thought of you. Is it...something you wish happened instead?

.

[pm] Honestly, I don’t know. If you’d asked me a few months ago, I’d probably have said yes. Not to diminish Bea’s trauma, because dying sucks no matter what, but she can still do magic. It’s not like before, but it’s there.

But the cost of a ritual like that is...a lot. I don’t know how much Nell told you about what it required, but it wasn’t easy, and everyone involved in it...they weren’t okay after. The backlash from the magic was intense. If say, we found out tomorrow that we could temporarily make me dead-dead so I could come back this other way, I don’t know for sure that I could go through with it, knowing that the people I care about would have to suffer, the danger and attention they would be bringing on themselves, the things they would have to do, just so I could be a little closer to living. It feels like it might be too much, especially after the things I’ve done recently. But do I still get a few jealous, intrusive thoughts sometimes? Yeah. 

To be clear, though, I don’t blame you or Remmy for anything. You didn’t know, you couldn’t have, and I’ve made my peace with what I am.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

@deathduty​

[pm] I'll send her down to you. I think she just wants to play. Can I see you too or Would it be okay if How are you?

.

[pm] Today’s felt pretty good, overall. I’ll be done in about an hour or two and then I’ll be all yours for the night. Maybe we could catch up on our TV backlog? Or start a new book together?

[mor-beck-more-problems]

[For old times sake, the present is delivered to Morgan by way of Urk on the 14th, whose tears have merged into his sweat, creating a moist canvas of skin. The box, carved of bone, contains an ornate knife sitting in black velvet. The hilt of the knife brandishes white branching swirls of bone and gold, bearing the symbol of the deer. The blade is stubbornly free of iron, and just as sharp as a good blade ought to be. The sheath also carries a gold carved image of a deer. Urk trips on a rock.] 

My Morgue,

I had this made for you when I went to Ireland, months ago. Do you remember that? I came home bruised and you held me and loved me so tenderly that I couldn’t believe it. You promised that you loved me, and the day after I thought I should have given this to you right then. But I felt it too serious a gesture, too forward. I had this made for you in a place that doesn’t know love. This, symbol of family, for you. And if there were a time for serious, forward gestures, it wasn’t the months that followed. 

But we have come so far, with so much work. And though the last thing I want to do is present you with something too heavy, the truth is the feelings that had this made for you have not changed, aside from growing stronger, fonder. If this is too much for you, you’ll have to tell me. 

In my family, every member is made their own knife—decorated to celebrate them. It is our symbol of duty, honor, sacrifice and tradition. The knife has been the enduring symbol of our family—steadfast metal, crushed into shape, sharpened into weapon. (I can tell you more about this in person, and isn’t that a marvel? To be able to speak like this to each other out loud.) But to you, for you, it only means that you are my family. I have never known love before you, and whatever the tide of Fate brings, you will always be my family. You were the first person to tell me that I mattered, you are the only person to convince me of it. No matter what, I will always be thankful for that. You have changed my life for the better, you have been in my life, and you have become part of its story. 

But I would much rather be in yours too. Together. 

A year ago I gave you a letter I was so excited to write, I had it ready and sent off days before. Perhaps it’s a little insulting to know this letter is being written the day before, though no less excited. It is also perhaps unsurprising to you that I have liked you for a long time. A year ago, I wrote to you a little excited and anxious, and when the reality of my affection for you came to me—I took it all back. Those words; I pretended as if they’d meant nothing. This year, there is nothing to take back or hide. And in that sense, it wouldn’t be fair to keep this from you any longer. I have it, and it was made for you, and it’s yours now. And a year ago I was worried that a mug might be too forward. 

If you’re free, and though I know you don’t drink coffee anymore, perhaps we might indulge ourselves in the social institution of it….and have ourselves that date we couldn’t that day. Porches optional. 

Your loving girlfriend, Deirdre 

P.S  I love you P.P.S  You know, why is it you say Valentine’s is dumb and made-up but all holidays are made-up, and nothing you like is dumb. And, you know what? At least this holiday gives me an excuse to try and be more corny than you.  P.P.P.S  I love you P.P.P.P.S  And as it turns out, I still want to talk to you just a second longer.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

@deathduty

[pm] Yes. No. I don't know. But you wouldn't like it, so I think that makes it bad. But I can't tell. I can't tell what's bad or good.

.

[pm] Binaries are for weenies, my love. I’d rather you be kind than good any day.

Take your time and talk to me when you’re ready. And try not to hurt anyone, including yourself.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

@deathduty

[pm] The whiplash you just subjected me to is very extreme, my love.

I would much rather you have told me that Santa Claus saved your life. Now I owe Marley. I hate that. I’m going to conveniently forget that section of your story and move on with the rest: how okay is “okay”? How creepy were the hands? Did you get what you were looking for? Did you bring me back a bone? I love you (this is not a question, though must be said).

.

[pm] I wish it could be helped. Unfortunately for us, Marley Stryder is much more real than old saint Nick. If it helps, I don’t think it would ever occur to her to ask you anything in return.

And I’m all healed up already, although my windpipe had a hard time for a second. And they were just...way too big than any hand had any right to be. The whole thing had this body like a giant bug and just...way too many way too big creepy hands and legs.

Do the bones of a run over squirrel I ate on the way home count?

I love you, Deirdre. More than ever.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

@deathduty​

[pm] First of all, I love you. Secondly, I am feeling a little better and I think we should carve pumpkins and turnips before it gets much closer to Samhain. I don't want them to spoil. But before that, I need to tell you that I am still really bothered by what you said about humans and our human friends during our last big talk. I think your perspective is more complicated than you let on, and from where I’m at, I can imagine reasons why shifting your thoughts could be frightening and upsetting. But hearing you say that at all was still incredibly hurtful.

I don’t need us to re-open this right now, especially if you don’t either. I am wary of my energy levels and I’d rather spend what I have with you learning about our different Samhain traditions and admiring the leaves and doing anything else that pleases us.

But I did need to tell you this, because I value the honesty we have with each other. I know I would want you to tell me the same if our places were reversed. And, I need to know you are at least trying to figure out what your true feelings are on this, what it is you’re afraid of, and why you make the ‘exceptions’ that you do. I need to know that even if we’re not discussing this, you’re trying to do this work. You don’t have to know or decide or be afraid of conclusions, just try, Deirdre.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

@deathduty​

[pm] Speak for yourself, I happened to like your burnt puff pastry. I thought it both added a nice aroma to the kitchen and had this delightful charred aftertaste. It also came with you telling me not to eat it, and rebellion makes everything taste better. You don’t have to make  I’m good with just the

You know you don’t have to cook me dinner, right? While I’m happy to try your ventures into the culinary arts and getting to see your adorable face sooner is always a treat, you don’t have to do this for me.

But thank you, I do really like pot pie. It’s pie.

.

[pm] Of course I didn’t want you to eat it, it tasted like charcoal! I’m pretty sure we could’ve recreated cave paintings with it. 

I do, but I like to. There’s not a lot of things I can really do to contribute It was always so nice when you came home and I was almost done making something good and we got to curl up and have it tog I miss Besides, I cooked all the time when I was alive, you know? And the challenge of trying new things is nice.

And in that case, you have an excellent pie surprise waiting for you when you get home. Well, not that much of a surprise. The surprise will be if it all comes out the way it’s supposed to.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Call @ Deirdre

MORGAN: [speeds away from the gullet as fast as she can, punching the dial button on the display in her car over and over until she gets a connection. She fights with her voice for calm, not very successfully.] Babe? Deirdre, babe, are you there?

DEIRDRE: [Answers immediately, growing increasingly concerned] M-Morgan? Yes, I’m—yes?

MORGAN: [Cries with relief. Her smile is audible.] Hey. I’m sorry I’m a little late checking in. Something um...ran long unexpectedly. But I didn’t forget. I’m here. I just um--shit-- Sorry, I’m driving and you’re on that fancy bluetooth system built in. I don’t actually have a lot of time right now, but I didn’t want you to worry. Are you home right now? Or um, can you be soon?

DEIRDRE: [The joy of hearing Morgan’s voice is overshadowed by her worry. She paces around their house. Rustling can be heard.] It’s been a day. [She says this as though it doesn’t matter.] Morgan, I don’t—what’s happening? Are you okay? Of course I’m home, I have nowhere else to be. Are you driving home now? Will I see you soon? [At this, she does let joy slip.]

MORGAN: [Sighs, savoring the happy lilt of Deirdre’’s voice] Oh, stars above, I wish, babe. I’m actually driving somewhere in the outskirts right now. I um... [Silence. She can’t recover her voice from her tears, but she pushes herself to sound confident if nothing else.] I kind of did something bad and now there’s a Constance-related emergency in progress somewhere downtown and I need to get there to do something about it. I don’t know what yet exactly, I don’t have all the information, but I’ll come up with something. But I really wanted to hear your voice first, and to ask you to stay home where it’s warded and safe, so I know where to find you after. So I can come home to you. I really, really want to come home to you, babe. I don’t know how we’re gonna fix our shit, but if you’ll forgive me for my share of the mistakes and if you still want us too, I want to be your girlfriend and figure it out with you.

DEIRDRE: [In the silence, Deirdre considers that this is a cruel joke, and this woman isn’t Morgan. This town is known for its oddities, but only Morgan could be this short-sighted.] You want me to stay home while you drive off to Fate-knows-where to do something that sounds reckless? You died getting /ice cream/, and you want me to stay home? Do you seriously think the rest of that matters if you don’t even make it back? [She sighs] Fine. Okay. Fuck you, I’ll stay home. I love you, you stupid— [She laughs, voice taken by tears] Come home to me and we’ll find a way to fix everything. But you have to come home. You have to. [She pauses] How long do you think it’ll take?

MORGAN: [also laughing through her tears] I deserve that. You can keep going, if you want. I’m at this stupid stoplight, and there’s freaking traffic, and...I haven’t been getting things right lately. And this isn’t fair. But I don’t know anything that would make this fair besides just going back eight months and listening to you at the hotel and coming straight home after work and waiting for you to finish with your day and come hold me in that bed. But the best thing I can figure is to keep her from getting her hands on the person I care about most. If you think you can convince the families with kids on our street that our place is the only one safe enough to shelter in from some...I don’t even know what stupid made-up human thing you’d call it, that might be good. But I want you to be safe first. [She sniffles, voice shuddering.] You don’t have to decide anything right now, I’m gonna tell you everything as soon as I come home. I um...I think I should be back sometime in the morning at the latest? If it helps, I’m not doing this alone at least? [Cars honk in the background and Morgan swears under her breath.] I love you too, you know. I love you, Deirdre.

DEIRDRE: I don’t want to be mad at you, my love. I want you to come home, and let me love you, and let us figure everything out. I want that. I don’t want to be mad. [Deirdre looks outside, the street is calm and quiet and as it’s always been] If I see something, I’ll shout out about having a party and they’ll all come running in. You know how they love parties. [She laughs. In her head, that sounded funnier than it was. She just wants to be laughing.] Oh no, there’s nothing for me to decide, Morgan. I love you, I always have. Whatever it is you’ve done, you’re already forgiven. And I want you, and us, and I’ve never stopped wanting that. [She hums. She is filled with indescribable fear but she doesn’t sound like it. Even now, she wants to comfort her love.] I love you. Come home to me; I’ll be waiting. I love you.

MORGAN: Fucking universe, I don’t deserve you, babe. You’re too good. But that’s a good plan. You can warm up the brain pastries I’ve got in the fridge and feed it to the parents without telling them what’s inside until they’ve had too many, get the kids high on Yuletide cookies? You do that and tell me how it went when I get back, and we’ll just be together and do everything you said. Oh Stars, I think this is the easiest conversation we’ve ha--[Tires screech. Something outside stutters and bumps] Oh, shit. Gotta-go-love-you-bye! [Morgan hangs up]

DEIRDRE: [Deirdre listens to the silence long after the call has ended, phone still pressed to her ear. She has so much she still wants to say, but she says just this as though Morgan is still on the other side:] I love you too; for every star in the universe, every blade of grass or inch of earth, always and forever, I love you too. [Silence greets her. Her phone doesn’t move from her hand.]

[mor-beck-more-problems]

[pm] [del: Do you remember when we furnished Ariana's room? I was so nervous about every purchase. I wanted her to like it there. I wanted it to feel like home for her too.] [del: I think I ruined our--] [del: Maybe I'm the one the doesn't fit here.] I'll be out.

@deathduty

[pm] Something wrong, babe?

[mor-beck-more-problems]

@deathduty

[pm] Otto's the one who came up with most of these ideas!!!! That's why he's the best husband I've ever had. Unless you became my husband, then you'd be the best husband. Sorry, what were we talking about again?

[pm] You were telling me everything you bound Otto to do for you.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

@deathduty​

[pm] I’ve taken up archery again. I didn’t think trips out of the house would be safe with Constance around, and I would go in the backyard if, oh, I don’t know, REGAN WASN’T IN OUR SHED.

[pm] First of all: I know I just said it, but: I love you. Second of all: please teach me archery. That is just, unprecedented levels of badass. Thirdly: I don’t know if she’s going to be leaving there anytime soon, so you might just wanna set up some targets that face away from the shed door. I keep trying to get her to come out or let me in with the prospect of unraveling her weird death sense of me, but it’s not working. But she didn’t listen to me when I said she shouldn’t quit her job either, so. Also, with the right supplies, you should be able to ghost proof whatever training area you had in mind. We can absolutely make this happen for you.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

[pm] Does it bother you that you weren't brought back with necromancy?

@deathduty

[pm] ...That’s gonna be a complicated answer. 

Is this because of your conversation with Nell?

[mor-beck-more-problems]

@deathduty

[As Morgan and Deirdre pull up to their house—home from Paris on the 27th—the path to their backyard has been paved, and decorated fresh with flowers. Silently, Deirdre leads them along and into the backyard, with newly paved stone paths of its own. There is one that flows into the patio, and another that comes from the shed and the place Morgan had chosen for her soon-to-be-built studio. They are not connected, not yet. Where the unfinished paths would meet, sits bags of gravel, cement, stone, wood, a box of tools, and a bright yellow generator. Deirdre hands Morgan a letter, before wishing her a happy birthday and saying she’ll take their suitcases inside for them.] 

Morgue, 

If you remember, our first letters carried a silly story about crops and children. When I made the joke, what I was searching for was an excuse to speak to you, even if it was about a fictional farm. The presents were much the same, they gave me a reason to be writing to you and a way to avoid how I felt. But the story morphed into a metaphor, and we began to speak through it before we could speak freely without. There must be dozens of letters I drafted to you, with so many things to say and so much fear about how to say them. I loved you quietly then; in letters I learned to say what my lips could not. I loved you in metaphor, in stories and post-scripts. I loved you with ink. I loved you with gifts and flowers. And when I found the words, I loved you in all these ways and more. 

Loving you has always been a journey of freedom, Morgan; freedom of words, freedom from falsehood. When I say I am happy now, I am happy. When I write, I don’t carry fear. Reality exists here now, there are no more crops and children. What I have to say is here now, with nothing to obscure it. So please, believe me when I say I am happy, beyond measure, that we possess within our relationship the ability to be free; to speak our minds, to grow, to search for truth. I am happy, without equal, to be able to help you in your journey. We haven’t had the easiest time, I know, but I will always be happy that you are honest with me, as much as you can be. That you could say space was what you needed. No matter what, this happiness of mine is true. No matter what becomes of us, I wish it to be a path of honesty. Perhaps I had forgotten that for some time, but I loved you first in our ease of communication. And I will love you always there, even if it becomes difficult, in the place where we speak. 

And even if I don’t understand, I will try. Space ought not to be severed from the world, hidden in the darkness of our backyard. I’ve gotten people to start on some paving, so that your space is still a part of the life around you. So that it is yours, and it is respected. The generator is so that your studio can run on its own, without the house, in case it ever needed to. And if these things sound terrible to you: the paving is intentionally unfinished so that it may be reversed with ease (but also partly because the studio needs to be built first). You’ll find the receipt for the generator sitting on top, with a generous no-questions-asked ninety day return policy for you to consider. All you’d have to do is say so. In the place where we speak, where your words have always mattered.

And if the talking gets hard, there’s always the writing. And the truth: I love you and I am yours regardless of the difficulty or the space. I have always loved talking to you, I will always love it.

Happy Birthday, my love. 

Yours devotedly, Deirdre 

P.S. I used to sign my letters “D.D” because I was afraid someone would read them and know they came from me. I think I’m learning that fear makes an idiot of me. 

P.P.S How does it feel to be an old lady? 

[mor-beck-more-problems]

[ Gifted to Morgan on December 25th. The book, with a resin cast cover, is part photo-album, part scrapbook, filled with memorabilia of Morgan’s life. There are pictures of her as a child, cut from yearbooks and articles. An old pen, dried out, saved from a school that no longer exists. Printouts of Facebook pictures from old acquaintances in Texas. Copies of school documents, newspaper clippings, photographs where Morgan is only in the distance. But she is there, she exists. There are pictures of her from college, old notes, the ribbon from her craft fair win, a staff photo. Therein lies evidence of Morgan’s life; past, present. The rest of the pages are blank, but Deirdre has taped in supplies: glue, scissors, string, pens. The first picture in the book is of Morgan as a child, from the bookstore, holding her Best Reader award. Then there is a space for two more photos, though they are empty. Under that is a letter. ]

. My Morgue, This letter and its gift have gone through several iterations. It finds you now, written on the eve of Christmas, slightly tipsy on your Yule celebratory beverages. I started this project after our trip to Texas, seeing both your sadness at the life taken from you and your happiness of the pieces you could share. And that photo you found, and how special it was. I spent some time compiling and finding everything that I could of you. Some people were more than happy to part with their yearbooks, others strangely enthusiastic to share with me old memories of their lives–and you, in them. For so long you have thought your life erased, but to me, you have always been whole. You have always been here, you have always been you. We cannot bring back every relic; every book and photo lost. But I have always known you were a complete person, whole and beautiful, and I know the world knows it too. The sun wouldn’t line your skin with brilliance, the earth wouldn’t hold you and the wind wouldn’t catch your hair if it didn’t know you. You have walked its ground, touched its flowers, lived its life–and the you it shows is beautiful, more than any stranger could craft. Perhaps there is no such thing as someone who has not lived, was not loved, remembered. The evidence is here, and there’s more that I did not have the time to find. And more that you will create. I look forward to a world where this isn’t the only book of you. We could fill a library with your life. I think I’d like to see it happen. I think it ought to. You are more than what you think you are. You have existed. You have loved. You have lost, and you have gained. You are a part of this world. You are whole. And I love you; endlessly, completely. Yours always,
 Deirdre. P.S. Karen sends her regards (I maintain that I’m still cuter than her) .

[Two polaroids flop out of the letter. One of Morgan and Karen in dark, colourful sunglasses, making faces at the camera. Another of them laughing by Karen’s swimming pool. On a small note is an email address and a screenshot of the message Karen exchanged with Deirdre: “give morgan my email and tell her i say hi. and happy yule, or whatever it’s called.” Deirdre has written her own comment beside it: “I’d push her down the stairs, personally.”]

[mor-beck-more-problems]

[pm] I can't find Moira. Is she with you? Niamh is trying to play with Anya, and Anya wants to sleep. And now they're doing that thing I don't like where they make really loud noises at each other.

@deathduty

[pm] Guilty as charged. She’s crawling all over the studio right now. I can bring her up in a minute, or you can bring Niamh down? They’ll probably just end up chasing each other around the garden.