his_sarah_jane | [Mixed Muses] A Date with Simon

"I'd love to," he responds, staring happily at the exterior, imagining romantic strolls in the garden at night. He knows how silly his imagination is being, as silly as his emotions, but he can't help it. He's happy, elated, on cloud nine and other synonyms. He's outdoors on an Earth he can breathe in and smell. Milliways couldn't replicate the air and the scent of the Earth. It always felt a little fake to him no matter how realistic it seemed. But this was home, or a home. Closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, he could almost imagine a Sandford some distance away on this ground he stood on. If he only went far enough he could see it, smell it, breath it--

His face was turned up towards the sky. His grin turns bittersweet. He lowers his head, opening his eyes, staring down at the ground. He shakes his head. He's being silly, that's what.

He keeps his eyes on the ground, his smile fading into a thoughtful, mournful expression. Because he's a fake, that's what. The world is real, the air is real, but his breath is an artifice. He suddenly feels cheated. Why was he given a corporeal body? He would've had a better time living as a ghost. He wouldn't have felt any false sense of hope as a ghost: he'd know exactly what he was. Dead. Not pretending to be alive.

When Simon closes his eyes again, it's not to express bliss. Far from it.

Sarah Jane watches him quietly for a few moments before daring to walk over. She places an arm around his back, pulling him against her. She can't imagine what it is like, what he must be going through. But in some way, she promised to try and be there for him. And that is exactly what she intends to do.

Sarah doesn't say anything, only rests her head against his arm.

Lovely time to feel depressed, during a date. He wonders if he's in the mood to eat, now. He doesn't see the point for himself. Still, he can't cancel the date now that they're now, now that he feels a little blue. So he breathes deeply, raises his head, and looks towards Sarah.

"We aren't eating out here?" he asks, putting on that familiar mask of joviality.

She shakes her head, kissing his cheek gently. "I believe Indian was what was on the menu?"

"Ah, yes, of course." He turns towards her car, lifting his hand theatrically. "Lead me away in your chariot."

He's smiling, joking: but like this new body of his, it's all a fake, a show. Unlike this new body, it has a clear purpose: to entertain and disarm the other person. It's a common tactic of his, a mask he can slip into so easily that he can wear it flawlessly regardless how angry or sad he feels.

Sarah Jane looks at him, a tinge of doubt on her face. But if Simon doesn't want to discuss it, she won't press it.

Yet.

So she leads him back to the car, opening her door and sliding in.

The act doesn't end on the sidewalk. Simon takes it with him in the car, in the restaurant, ramping up the humor and the charm to conceal his true emotions. He makes a show of enjoying the food despite how uncomfortable he feels. The more doubtful Sarah Jane looks, the more he performs, hoping she'll be charmed by his smile and his jokes not to worry about him anymore. He's secretly relieved when they return to her house. It means he can stop acting soon. He can slip away from her in the bar and be by himself and breathe that fake breath he breathes while he lets him feel all the things he's suppressed tonight.

Sarah Jane tucks her arm in his as she silently leads him to the gardens. She remains quiet until they take a seat on the patio swing, nestled between green, fragrant bushes. She's done a good job of taking care of her aunt's garden during the years. It's rather cozy when it comes down to it.

For a moment, she remains awkward in the wooden seat as she debates what to do next. In the end, she cuddles up against him, pulling his arm around her back to rest on her hip.

Quietly, "What's wrong, Simon?"

Somehow, he has a harder time keeping up the act here. He turned his face away from Sarah the moment they stepped into the garden, discerning the plants and smelling them, breathing in their very real scent through his fake lungs. He blinked, his eyes suddenly wet. When she spoke, he could feel tears running down his cheek.

He says nothing.

The sounds of his breathing, growing steadier as a futile attempt to regain his composure, only encourage more tears.

As much as she'd like to be cuddled by him, she doesn't think now is the proper time. Sarah Jane moves his hand back to his lap before enveloping him in a tight hug. Gently, she moves his head so she can see the tears and, even more so gently, she places a light kiss on each of his eyelids. Then she moves to rest his head by the crook of her neck.

She'll hold him like this for as long as he needs with absolutely no complaints.

He didn’t want to mourn like this around anyone, much less his date. He didn’t want to mourn anywhere but in his room, by himself, because it was embarrassing for a man to cry, and he didn’t know how long he would cry. He knew he had to mourn a long life full of mistakes and failures punctuated by an agonizing death. He had to mourn his relegation to the false reality of Milliways, this gift of a false body, this lie of a second life. He needed that catharsis, otherwise he might never move on. He just didn’t want to hold up anyone while he did it. But it seems like he doesn’t have a choice.

Any attempt to focus on the now is met with some image, some experience, some feeling that sends more tears to his eyes, that causes him to cling to Sarah Jane as if she can erase the pain, regret and anger. He closes his eyes, feeling so sick he thinks he might vomit. Luckily for Sarah, he doesn’t. It’s just the nausea he feels from being reminded of his old life, a nausea that, at this moment, only comes out in more tears.

After a few minutes, Simon pulls himself up, wiping underneath his eyes. He doesn’t feel any better. He probably won’t for a while. “I should head back to the bar,” he whispers.

"No you shouldn't," Sarah Jane answers softly, wiping at any stray tears. She kisses his forehead, then the bridge of his nose, then the tip of it, and finally gently on the lips. She shakes her head again, smoothing back his hair. "You shouldn't be alone, Simon. This isn't something any person ought to go through alone."

“It’s a lot to go through,” he shakily replies. “N-nobody…you didn’t do this. I did. My fault, my punishment. Don’t have to suffer with me.”

Sarah Jane shakes her head again, continuing to soothingly stroke his hair. "It still doesn't mean you should go through it alone."

Desperation flashes across his face. “Why do you want to go through this with me?”

The answer is clear enough to Sarah Jane. "Because no one should have to go through something like this alone."

He turns his face away, staring at the ground. “Even if they brought it upon themselves.”

Half question, half statement.

Sarah turns to rest her head against his, not loosening her grip on him at all.

"It's the man I met now that matters. Not the man he was."

“I wish I could feel the same way you do,” he replies quietly.

"I believe it's something you have to learn rather than just accept, Simon. It took me years to realise I was better off not being alone."

Simon can’t think of anything to say to that.

He had made his mind up to be alone a long time ago. All he’s doing now is defending that choice by pushing away as many people as he can. Sarah--well, he doesn't want to get rid of Sarah. She's been wonderful. But right now, all he can think is that she's also being very masochistic. This isn't her pain to feel. It's his.

She sighs against him, closing her eyes. Sarah begins to rock the swing gently as she continues to hold him.

There's nothing more to say right now. He just needs to be reassured that he isn't alone. And the best way to do that, as she had learned from an early age, is by contact.

After a while:

"Why do you care so much? About me?"

That's a very good question. She's only just met him and, truth be told, she isn't too sure why she cares all this much. Maybe it has something to do with discovering a joy of taking care of people. Or maybe it's because in him, she's found a sort of kindred spirit of a man actually attracted to her.

Something about him struck a chord, and it's something Sarah Jane still can't put into words.

"I don't know," she whispers. "I just seem to."

"I really don't deserve it."

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