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Infinity Smashed: Grey Gets A Life (again)
Grey Gets a Life
Summary: Grey gets to know her coworkers… or doesn’t.
Notes: The cowboy record, in case you’re wondering, is Slim Whitman. The “yodeling horror” is probably his work best known to current-day audiences; it’s “Indian Love Call,” AKA the racist mind-blowing song in Mars Attacks! The other is “Secret Love.” Part of the big gender revision; there are a couple mild scene changes, but nothing huge.
When Andersen hires Grey for the PIN, it’s with the proviso that she keep her hands to herself.
It’s not a hard promise to keep. For the first few years, Grey is too busy trying not to wash out to care about anything else. Thanks to Vicky, she knows now that she can learn… but it’ll always take a while, and she can’t afford to lose this. Every trick Vicky’s ever taught her comes in handy.
The first year or two is awful. Grey only makes it through by the skin of her teeth.
Around year three, things start to click into place. It helps that things are getting more physical; she’s always been better at that. She redoubles her efforts.
Come year four, Grey knows she’s going to make it. For once in her life, she’s going to make something of herself. She’s hit her stride; she knows how things work. Her exhilaration knows no bounds. She’s learning! She’s doing this!
By year six, she’s getting some attention from her superiors. They seem perplexed as to how someone with a start as rocky as hers is getting good.
By year ten, hardly anyone remembers that rocky start. People act like she’s always been good at her job, that her competence is a given. It feels wonderful.
The desire starts coming back, now that she has room for it. But Grey ignores it. For the PIN, she gave up her family, her home, her town, and about all her possessions. Giving this up too is fine.
It’s not like she’ll get it anyway.
…
In her late twenties, Grey ranks Specialist. It’s a big step up in responsibilities and puts her back in the morass of learning, adjusting, and playing catch-up, but she feels up to the challenge this time, and it doesn’t seem to be as bad as before. As an extra bonus, Specialist is a gender-neutral title; she never has to get called Mr. ever again… or “Eric” either, since almost everyone in Ops goes by their last name. People don’t even know her first name anymore.
She loves her uniform, the navy blue suit, the gold rings at the shoulders. It’s a sign of how far she’s come, and men and women alike wear it, so it doesn’t feel like she’s fooling herself. When she shaves, does up her buttons, and knots her tie, she isn’t herself anymore, but an anonymous personification of order. It feels good to leave all that imperfection, all the mess of her behind.
When she makes Specialist, she also gets her own comboy: Drusilla, but everyone calls her Ms. Margaux. She’s old even then—one of Johnson’s original hires—a chain-smoking, dried-out mummy of a woman with a creaky witch laugh, usually uttered deadpan. Nothing ever phases her, and Grey takes comfort in her oft-repeated phrases of, “it’s all been done before,” and “well, ain’t that a kicker.”
It’s not that they’re close, exactly. Grey doesn’t get close to people. But their casual friendship grows over the years like a vine making its way up a wall. They both appreciate routine and regularity. Neither mind companionable silence, or taking things slowly. Working with her feels good, comfortable.
One morning, as Grey’s driving to work, she sees Ms. Margaux waiting at a bus stop; there’s no confusing that big beaded purse and that enormous jug of sweet tea. She pulls over and offers a ride.
“Well, ain’t that a kicker! I didn’t know you lived down here, Grey.” Ms. Margaux gets in, tucking her jug down between her feet.
“New apartment,” Grey says by way of explanation, and moves to turn down the opera, but Ms. Margaux stops her.
“I like this one. But you know, if you’re asking me, you have to try Mario Lanza’s performance…”
It turns out that they like similar music, and for the rest of their fifteen-year work partnership, they share the commute, swapping off on whose tapes get played in the car. It’s pleasant, and Grey keeps it up even after she moves further away. Mostly, they sit quietly, listening to the music; they don’t need to talk, but sometimes they do, and Grey learns little bits and pieces about Ms. Margaux’s life outside the PIN, like her son’s wedding.
“He’s about your age. Wouldn’t you know it, I wasn’t sure he would ever find someone! But I’m glad he did. It’s not good for people, being alone.” She looks at Grey. “Do you have someone, Grey?”
Grey shakes her head. “No.”
“No one you fancy? You’ve never said.”
Grey starts feeling put on the spot. “Not a people person.”
Ms. Margaux can’t argue that; nobody can. But she looks at Grey a long time, then says, “Well, that’s too bad,” and it feels like she’s seeing more than Grey likes. Like she’s halfway to figuring out why Grey never mentions women or exes, has no photos of loved ones on her desk.
For a moment, Grey wants to tell her. She likes Ms. Margaux. She likes their commutes, their tapes, their routines. But that’s exactly why she mustn’t. All of that could disappear in smoke. She can’t afford to lose all this, lose her, to something petty like the life she’s never going to have. It doesn’t matter. It hasn’t mattered in years. It’s never going to happen.
Right now, she seems to like Grey. Why destroy that?
So when Ms. Margaux starts, “do you—” Grey interrupts with, “it’s personal.”
The words sit between them like a toad.
“All right, all right,” Ms. Margaux says. She sounds sad. “That’s just fine. I’m sorry for pushing.”
She never brings it up again.
…
A few times, Grey thinks about apologizing for snapping at her, telling her. But her throat always locks and she never does.
And now Ms. Margaux is gone. Everyone thought it’d be the diabetes, but the cancer got her first.
Her funeral is well-attended, and while there, Grey gets a look at the life she only heard the barest details about. It turns out that while Ms. Margaux’s husband is long passed, she has quite a few children, many grandchildren, a mammoth knitting circle, and there’s barely enough room for everyone. That feels right. It hurts less to think she’s so beloved.
Grey worries she’ll stand out, and she does. She’s big, she’s white, she doesn’t know any of the hymns or have any knitting gear. While going down the line and shaking the hand of her children, giving condolences, a stately man who proves to be her son (the one who married late) asks, “I’m sorry, who are you?”
Grey says that she was Ms. Margaux’s work partner, and the man’s expression clicks. Turns out Ms. Margaux talked about Grey enough for her son to know who she is. He tells Grey to stay after, there’s something he needs to do, but it gets lost in all the people and grieving, so it doesn’t end up happening.
Grey’s mostly forgotten about it when a few months later, she gets a call from Agatha at reception.
“There’s a package for you from Ms. Margaux’s son. It’s clean.”
It turns out that Ms. Margaux left Grey something, but she didn’t have proper contact information written down (or if she did, it got lost) and it’s taken this long for everything to get sorted out. In the package are two records—a 45 and an LP. Attached to the album sleeves are sticky notes, in Ms. Margaux’s crabbed handwriting: “Grey—hope you like. If not, burn so I can listen downstairs.” She can imagine the witch’s cackle at the end: ee-hee-hee.
That evening, Grey stretches out on the living room floor next to her stereo and gives the records a listen.
The LP is an old performance of Treemonisha, an opera she doesn’t know. It’s nice.
The 45’s performer (as depicted on the album sleeve) is a man with a cowboy outfit and a pencil-thin mustache, which doesn’t seem like something Ms. Margaux (or Grey, for that matter) would enjoy. Nevertheless, Grey puts it on—if Ms. Margaux left it to her, it’s only fair to give it a try.
The A-side is some yodeling warbling horror that she knows she will never listen to again. The B-side, though…
“Once I had a secret love
“That lived within the heart of me
“All too soon my secret love
“Became impatient to be free…”
Grey goes still, staring at the ceiling.
No one was older guard than Drusilla Margaux. No one knew the PIN policies better than her; she’d been with the agency through the civil rights movement, through the attempted racial purges after Johnson’s death. If she had suspicions about Grey, she would never write it down or say it in any way that could get her caught.
Grey looks at the sticky notes again, still attached to the album sleeve: “hope you like.”
“Now my heart’s an open door
“And my secret love’s no secret anymore.”
Grey’s never going to know now.
…
It takes a while to adjust to the Ms. Margaux-shaped holes in her life. By the end, Grey was driving halfway across town to pick her up and drop her off, and now all that time hangs empty and silent—no more tapes, no more conversations, no more Ms. Margaux. Like a big statehouse that’s gone but still has all the roads going to and around where it used to be.
Grey tries to rebuild, find new ways of being around people. As usual, motion comes to her rescue: she starts working out after shift at the PIN gym. Lots of first-shifters unwind at the same time, and the sound of her coworkers chatting, lifting, or complaining is nice background noise, plus it helps her keep up with gossip. Even the coworkers that should know better sometimes treat Grey like she’s deaf or inanimate—she hears all sorts of things she’s sure they don’t want her knowing, but she keeps her mouth shut and they keep talking.
That fills the afternoon time gap, at least, and then she comes home and eats dinner on the couch while watching TV. There are a couple shows she watches. One is about a big, strong barbarian princess who wins a lot of fights and kisses a lot of handsome men. The other is about a cop with super-senses who lives with his best friend. It’s not as good as being around real live people, but she likes hearing their voices anyway. They’re company.
One late night, a bad night, she’s on the couch, watching the door and trying to sleep. She turns on PBS and they’re playing reruns of an art show. A man with curly hair and a gentle voice cheerfully talks his way through a landscape painting, and before she knows it, Grey relaxes and falls asleep. It’s like magic.
It means she has to replace her VCR, but she starts taping the painting show. She might not have someone to come home to, but she could do worse than a friendly voice and happy little trees, painted by someone who isn’t unhappy to see her. It’s all her younger self could’ve asked for.
Grey’s never felt at ease in her bedroom. It’s too far back, without a good view of the door. She takes to sleeping on the couch instead, with the TV. It’s better that way.
…
There are rumors about Specialist Ebony Larkin, that she’s a lesbian.
She’s a power-lifter from somewhere in the deep South, has a voice made for radio, and good to work with. She’s level-headed, professional, can talk people down from disaster, and without ever needing to discuss it, she becomes the leader if they’re in a team together. Grey might be her senior, but Larkin’s her superior when it comes to people and the big picture, and nobody with sense questions it.
After Ms. Margaux’s death, Grey wants to get to know Larkin better, but has no idea how. Getting drinks or coffee sounds like a romantic interest, which would put Larkin in a bad position, and their gym routines are different. Larkin’s not even on first shift or in Vago, half the time, and when they do work together, Grey’s throat locks tight every time she attempts small talk—something which only gets worse the harder she tries. Grey has spent years getting good at her job, but she’ll never be good with people, and finally, she decides that she’s never going to pull it off and gives it up.
Then she walks in on Larkin and Doc Pritchard kissing passionately in the stairwell.
They all freeze. Larkin’s face becomes the professional mask she wears in hostage situations; Pritchard just looks terrified. Grey tries to speak, but her throat locks, and she knows that the longer she’s silent, the worse it’ll be, so in panic, she about-faces and marches out.
Larkin follows after her just slowly enough not to draw attention, straightening her clothes. Under the mask, Grey can tell that Larkin is afraid. They both know the work policy, and all Larkin knows about Grey is what she’s like to work with.
“Let’s talk,” Larkin says in that smooth Mississippi River voice.
Grey nods, and they move out of the building to the parking lot, because Grey’s car is overheated and dingy but private.
Larkin keeps using her work voice, the one for aggravated armed people. “Is this going to be a problem?” she asks.
Grey tries to think what to say, something she can say, that will reassure Larkin. She thinks of Ms. Margaux, of the old 45, and when her mind threatens to freeze, she blurts, “I’m gay too.”
It’s not entirely accurate, but it’s the only way she knows how to say it.
Larkin jolts. Looks Grey over. The mask pops off and she sags with relief, making a sound like someone who has just finished running a marathon.
“Oh, thank Jesus,” she says in a normal voice. “Don’t scare us like that. Come on, let’s go tell Taneesha she ain’t getting washed today.”
And then they’re friends.
…
Larkin and Pritchard—well, Ebony and Doc—change everything.
They’ve both been out of the closet socially for years, everywhere but work. They’re living together in the gayborhood of Autumnville, go to a gay church, have gay friends, and are involved in various gay groups around town. It’s like a whole new world that’s always been there and Grey never knew it.
All her life, Grey has been a shameful secret. With them, it’s ordinary, anticlimactic even.
Though it apparently took her mother a while to come around, Doc’s family is supportive. Larkin’s family mostly isn’t (“fundy preacher’s daughter,”) but she seems to have such a massive circle of loved ones from church, the gym, and elsewhere that she thrives regardless.
“Oh sure, it hurt then, and still does sometimes,” she says, “but it’s their problem, not mine.”
She says it casually, offhandedly, but Grey has to sit and think about it for a long time, mulling it over. Their problem, not hers.
She becomes more Larkin’s friend than Doc’s—Ebony doesn’t mind long stretches of silence, but Doc seems to think the air needs filling, and anyway, she’s not Ops like they are. They try to have Grey over for dinner parties a few times, but that’s a failure—too many people, too much conversation. It’s overwhelming, and Grey can tell most of the other guests find her off-putting, a looming, scarred-up white man who doesn’t talk. Nobody needs that.
She and Ebony work out on Fridays, though, and have periodic TV nights, watching sports, Barbarian Barbara, or Disasters in Dykeland, a low-budget soap opera that Grey doesn’t understand but watches anyway because it’s soothing to see a TV show with a similar racial breakdown to their workplace but where everyone, from the detectives to the heiresses to the auto mechanics, are gay women. (And also because Ebony has stars in her eyes for the actress who plays the heroic OB-GYN and her evil con artist twin sister.)
At one point, a new neighbor moves next door to the heroic OB-GYN. She’s big, like Grey, terse like Grey, a bodybuilder with short hair. Her name is Bea. She’s transsexual.
The first time Bea appears on the screen, Grey freezes dead with a nacho in her hand, overwhelmed with recognition. She’s seen transsexuals before, of course, even on Disasters in Dykeland… but this is the first time she’s knowingly seen one that looks and acts like how she would, if she could.
Unaware, Ebony gets up for more drinks and snacks, asks if Grey wants anything, but Grey just shakes her head and doesn’t look up.
Bea becomes her favorite character on Disasters in Dykeland. She’s never made the butt of a joke, never called a man even when she fixes a car engine, builds muscle mass, or gets angry. She gets a non-transsexual girlfriend, only to dump her within three episodes for treating her badly, which gives Bea an opening to go on a three-minute monologue on the joys and sanctity of being yourself. Ebony wanders off to use the bathroom, but Grey sits riveted and munches tortilla chips while “women come in all shapes and sizes!” rings out from the screen. For Ebony, it’s old hat; for Grey, it’s a paradigm shift.
It takes her a few weeks to dare tell Larkin, but she doesn’t want another Ms. Margaux situation. Grey’s getting older, her back and knees and shoulder are starting to go on her, and somehow, she’s having a harder time living with the idea of dying without anyone knowing who she really is. Still, she’s afraid when she tells Ebony, “I’m like Bea.”
Ebony just looks at her for a moment, then nods like this doesn’t really surprise her. “Okay,” she says. “You want to change anything? What I call you?”
Grey shakes her head, and that’s that. But while on the surface, nothing’s changed, it feels like her heart is opening anyway.
…
After almost getting disemboweled in a workplace accident, Grey has to adjust again. Her libido is unscathed, but the physical limitations take some getting used to, and the interim is maddening.
To make matters worse, her work life is in flux at the same time. After Ms. Margaux’s death, Grey worked with Darlene for a while, and that was fine, but now Darlene’s been promoted—well-deserved and long-overdue, but Grey’s been shuffled through temp comboys ever since.
Diaz at HR has no sympathy for her: “If you want the nice fish to stick around, stop scaring them off.”
The latest is a young “cool Mormon,” oppressively friendly, and Diaz gets her wish, because Grey can’t get rid of him. No matter how Grey stonewalls, Penn keeps getting into her personal space, trying to make them bro-buddies, and Grey has no patience for it. She’s restless, sexually frustrated, and she misses Ms. Margaux, but she makes it through the shift without snapping, and at least now she can get some time to herself and exercise off some of the tension.
Penn pops up, seemingly out of nowhere, gym bag over his shoulder. “You hitting H&M, bro? Wouldn’t you know it, so am I!” He punches Grey in the shoulder, making her flinch. “Let’s do some reps together!”
In mute appeal, Grey looks at Larkin, who spreads her hands.
“Sorry, I have a church dinner with my name on it.”
Penn’s ears prick. “Where do you worship?”
Rainbow MCC, Grey knows, but Larkin can’t say that. “Around Autumnville. See you Friday, Grey.”
Grey waves goodbye and tries not to sigh. It’s not Penn’s fault; he’s just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ms. Margaux and Darlene are hard acts to follow, and Grey can’t think of a polite way to escape, asides from avoiding the gym entirely, and exercise is the only physical release she has right now.
Penn looks so pleased; Grey feels bad for not liking him. He wants so badly to be her friend.
“That Larkin is a heck of a woman. Is she… you know…?”
Grey just stares at Penn in cold silence until the comboy looks away.
“Just wondering. You two involved?”
“No.”
Penn lights up again. “More for me! Eh?”
Grey wishes she could say that Larkin is taken, but she can’t. All she can do is ignore Penn’s hand, held out for a high-five.
Penn’s smile doesn’t dim. “That’s okay, bro, I know you’re happy for me.”
The whole workout is an exercise in frustration. Penn stands too close, keeps trying to get Grey to talk or high-five him, makes a production out of his reps and doesn’t put back his weights properly, and between that and the gnawing aching want Grey’s stuck with, it’s unbearable. Normally, Grey’s problem is driving people away, but Penn, the one person she wants gone, is oblivious. Grey doesn’t know what to do. This has never happened to her before.
At least the workout is over so she’ll finally be free.
“Steam room, bro?” Penn asks.
“No.” Torture, Grey is sure, is sitting in a broiling room with nothing but a towel and Penn.
She assumes they’ll part ways and that’ll be the end, but Penn follows her to the men’s showers nonetheless and insists on washing with the curtain open: “all bodies are God’s bodies, bro!”
Grey yanks her own curtain shut. Why is Penn is acting like this? Is this a Mormon thing? A Penn thing? Whatever it is, it makes her want to tear her hair out. There are a million people in the department who would happily be friends with Penn, a million people who aren’t her. Why is he being so persistent? What does he want from her?
A chilling thought comes to mind. Wait—
No. Impossible. Penn’s young, handsome, sociable. He’s Mormon. Surely he’s not flirting with Grey.
It would explain all this, though.
If Penn is indeed flirting, Grey isn’t flattered. She’s aghast. (And resigned—of course, of all the times and all the men in all the world…) Bad enough when she thought Penn was determined to just be bros with her (or maybe convert her), but if it’s more than that…
She has to get rid of this kid. But how?
Grey starts to undress, and then she knows. The stitches are out, and the scabs have healed, but the scars are still raw and red, and she makes no move to hide them when she pulls back the curtain to put her clothes away.
Penn lights up—but then his eyes go down and his expression freezes.
Grey stares hard at him, not hiding her irritation. She feels some bitter satisfaction when Penn averts his eyes, clears his throat uncomfortably, and pulls his curtain shut.
He requests a transfer to third shift the next week. Granted.
Problem solved.
…
Diaz’s office is right by the break room; it’s impossible to get coffee without passing her. The day after Penn becomes third shift’s problem, Grey tries to sneak past, but no such luck; Diaz pounds on the window to get her attention.
“Hey Grey! Come meet the new fish!”
Unable to refuse, Grey enters her office.
Penn was in his twenties, slim and white and smiling. The new guy is Grey’s age, short and round and Indian (the Bombay kind, not the Darlene kind), with bifocals, gray hair at his temples and mustache, and a quizzical expression. He’s turned around in his chair to get a look at Grey, and he’d be a very attractive man if he weren’t looking at her so dismissively.
Diaz isn’t. She’s all smiles. Behind his back, she mouths the word, “piranha,” points at him, and nods with gleeful satisfaction. Aloud, she chirps, “This is Babubhai Doshi.”
“Bob,” Doshi corrects without looking away from Grey.
Diaz ignores him. “Say hi.”
Grey just stands there. Doshi doesn’t say anything or put out his hand either; he’s squinting at Grey as though trying to get her measure, eyeing her coffee jealously. The silence just hangs there.
Diaz looks pleased with herself. “You’ll love each other,” she assures them.
Doshi turns around forward again to give her a contemptuous look, and Grey takes the opportunity to slip out. As she does, she hears Diaz say, “Grey’s senior specialist with honors.”
“Great.” Doshi’s voice is acid. “I love boy scouts.”
Grey doesn’t mind if her new comboy dislikes her and thinks she’s stupid. That’s fine, a relief even—less to feel conflicted about. It’ll make it easier to drive him off, and the sooner it happens, the better it’ll be for them both. All Grey has to do is be herself as hard as she can for long enough, and he will surely request a transfer out too.
He can’t be harder than Penn.
…
It turns out that Bob is one of the wash hires. He hates being here only slightly less than he hates the idea of being washed, and Diaz in HR apparently hates him right back. (“He’s worse than you are,” she says, “and he fell out of all the better assignments.” Grey’s not sure how she feels about being a workplace punishment, but Diaz says it’s the best use for her.) So Bob can’t request a transfer; all he can do is try to irritate Grey into requesting one for him, and Diaz makes her position clear: “I tried all the nice fish in the pool, and you drove them off. So now you get the piranha.”
They’re stuck with each other.
They go back and forth for a while, Bob trying to drive Grey crazy, Grey trying not to show any reaction. No matter how catty he gets, no matter how sarcastic, she ignores his tone and gives him the shortest, most businesslike response possible. It spares her the effort of figuring out social niceties and also seems to drive him up the wall. When Bob confuses 5th Street South and South 5th Street once, Grey double-checks every single call for a week. Bob gets revenge by finding out Grey’s first name and calling her Eric every chance he gets.
Nobody has called Grey that since high school, and hearing it on Bob’s tongue gets a reaction that she doesn’t like. Grey’s tempted to try calling Bob Babubhai to get him back, but no, that would tell Bob that it’s working, give him something to work with. Grey’s job is to make herself dead weight, be the boring dullard he clearly thinks she is. So she shows no reaction, which irritates Bob more anyway.
After a week, he bursts into her office and demands, “are you seriously this boring?”
Grey is tempted to say, “yes,” but that might be overplaying it. So she just shrugs.
Bob makes a sound of aggravation, throws up his hands, and storms off.
Larkin gives Grey a chiding look. Grey just sips her coffee.
“Come on, Grey,” she sighs. “Just apologize to Diaz and let the man have his damn transfer. Give him to Hernandez or something. Why are you doing this?”
Grey isn’t sure. Maybe she still misses Ms. Margaux. Maybe she’s being petty and doesn’t want to admit to anyone, even Larkin or Diaz, that Bob might be “winning.”
But then she realizes that really, it’s because she doesn’t want Bob gone. In a perverse way, she’s enjoying herself. She’s enjoying this.
How did that happen?
…
The power battle continues until a kidnapping that Thanksgiving. Then, without a word or a thought, they’re on the same team, and the results are… unexpected. Grey expects Bob to crack under the pressure, and he almost does, but then he rallies, puts things together in ways Grey can’t, and combined with Grey’s experience and Larkin running the hostage negotiation, they get the child safe.
That evening, after shift end, Bob catches Grey raiding the staff fridge. They’re both tired and drained, and Bob looks awful, but he’s calm, looking at Grey like he’s never seen her before.
“That’s a good act you have,” he says. “I’m impressed.”
Grey just stares at him.
“You’re not stupid at all; you just want everyone to think you are. What I don’t get is why.”
Grey tenses, and Bob sees it. His eyes spark. “Gotcha.”
Grey tries to shutter her expression, but it’s too late. Bob’s smiling now, clearly not fooled. He moves forward.
“You know how I got hired, right? Because I got bored. In three months, I found out what Agent Smedley was up to in his off-hours and got him run out of Seattle. You hear about that?”
Of course she did. Everyone did.
Bob’s getting into her personal space now, trapping Grey between himself and the open fridge. He’s a head shorter than her. “Well, now I’m bored, Eric… and you’re interesting.” He reaches forward and plucks the ice cream out of Grey’s hand without breaking eye contact. The move brings him even closer, and he purrs in a velvet voice, “You’re never getting rid of me now.”
Bob’s surely just trying to antagonize her, but her neck prickles anyway.
Bob pulls away, out of Grey’s space, and seemingly turns his attention to the ice cream label. “So,” he asks in his normal voice, “have I been getting to you?”
It’s late. Grey’s hungry, tired, and not looking forward to spending Thanksgiving on the couch with the television. So she says, “yes.”
Apparently Bob doesn’t expect that; he looks up, startled for a moment, then laughs. He has a good laugh. “Good!” he says.
He leans past Grey to put the ice cream back into the fridge, but doesn’t touch her. “Don’t eat this low-fat crap,” he says. “It’s Darlene’s. And quit stealing our food; they’re blaming it on me. Take me home and I’ll feed you a proper Thanksgiving dinner and keep my mouth shut about this.”
Grey is so staggered that she says yes, and she and Bob become friends.
Summary: Grey gets to know her coworkers… or doesn’t.
Notes: The cowboy record, in case you’re wondering, is Slim Whitman. The “yodeling horror” is probably his work best known to current-day audiences; it’s “Indian Love Call,” AKA the racist mind-blowing song in Mars Attacks! The other is “Secret Love.” Part of the big gender revision; there are a couple mild scene changes, but nothing huge.
When Andersen hires Grey for the PIN, it’s with the proviso that she keep her hands to herself.
It’s not a hard promise to keep. For the first few years, Grey is too busy trying not to wash out to care about anything else. Thanks to Vicky, she knows now that she can learn… but it’ll always take a while, and she can’t afford to lose this. Every trick Vicky’s ever taught her comes in handy.
The first year or two is awful. Grey only makes it through by the skin of her teeth.
Around year three, things start to click into place. It helps that things are getting more physical; she’s always been better at that. She redoubles her efforts.
Come year four, Grey knows she’s going to make it. For once in her life, she’s going to make something of herself. She’s hit her stride; she knows how things work. Her exhilaration knows no bounds. She’s learning! She’s doing this!
By year six, she’s getting some attention from her superiors. They seem perplexed as to how someone with a start as rocky as hers is getting good.
By year ten, hardly anyone remembers that rocky start. People act like she’s always been good at her job, that her competence is a given. It feels wonderful.
The desire starts coming back, now that she has room for it. But Grey ignores it. For the PIN, she gave up her family, her home, her town, and about all her possessions. Giving this up too is fine.
It’s not like she’ll get it anyway.
…
In her late twenties, Grey ranks Specialist. It’s a big step up in responsibilities and puts her back in the morass of learning, adjusting, and playing catch-up, but she feels up to the challenge this time, and it doesn’t seem to be as bad as before. As an extra bonus, Specialist is a gender-neutral title; she never has to get called Mr. ever again… or “Eric” either, since almost everyone in Ops goes by their last name. People don’t even know her first name anymore.
She loves her uniform, the navy blue suit, the gold rings at the shoulders. It’s a sign of how far she’s come, and men and women alike wear it, so it doesn’t feel like she’s fooling herself. When she shaves, does up her buttons, and knots her tie, she isn’t herself anymore, but an anonymous personification of order. It feels good to leave all that imperfection, all the mess of her behind.
When she makes Specialist, she also gets her own comboy: Drusilla, but everyone calls her Ms. Margaux. She’s old even then—one of Johnson’s original hires—a chain-smoking, dried-out mummy of a woman with a creaky witch laugh, usually uttered deadpan. Nothing ever phases her, and Grey takes comfort in her oft-repeated phrases of, “it’s all been done before,” and “well, ain’t that a kicker.”
It’s not that they’re close, exactly. Grey doesn’t get close to people. But their casual friendship grows over the years like a vine making its way up a wall. They both appreciate routine and regularity. Neither mind companionable silence, or taking things slowly. Working with her feels good, comfortable.
One morning, as Grey’s driving to work, she sees Ms. Margaux waiting at a bus stop; there’s no confusing that big beaded purse and that enormous jug of sweet tea. She pulls over and offers a ride.
“Well, ain’t that a kicker! I didn’t know you lived down here, Grey.” Ms. Margaux gets in, tucking her jug down between her feet.
“New apartment,” Grey says by way of explanation, and moves to turn down the opera, but Ms. Margaux stops her.
“I like this one. But you know, if you’re asking me, you have to try Mario Lanza’s performance…”
It turns out that they like similar music, and for the rest of their fifteen-year work partnership, they share the commute, swapping off on whose tapes get played in the car. It’s pleasant, and Grey keeps it up even after she moves further away. Mostly, they sit quietly, listening to the music; they don’t need to talk, but sometimes they do, and Grey learns little bits and pieces about Ms. Margaux’s life outside the PIN, like her son’s wedding.
“He’s about your age. Wouldn’t you know it, I wasn’t sure he would ever find someone! But I’m glad he did. It’s not good for people, being alone.” She looks at Grey. “Do you have someone, Grey?”
Grey shakes her head. “No.”
“No one you fancy? You’ve never said.”
Grey starts feeling put on the spot. “Not a people person.”
Ms. Margaux can’t argue that; nobody can. But she looks at Grey a long time, then says, “Well, that’s too bad,” and it feels like she’s seeing more than Grey likes. Like she’s halfway to figuring out why Grey never mentions women or exes, has no photos of loved ones on her desk.
For a moment, Grey wants to tell her. She likes Ms. Margaux. She likes their commutes, their tapes, their routines. But that’s exactly why she mustn’t. All of that could disappear in smoke. She can’t afford to lose all this, lose her, to something petty like the life she’s never going to have. It doesn’t matter. It hasn’t mattered in years. It’s never going to happen.
Right now, she seems to like Grey. Why destroy that?
So when Ms. Margaux starts, “do you—” Grey interrupts with, “it’s personal.”
The words sit between them like a toad.
“All right, all right,” Ms. Margaux says. She sounds sad. “That’s just fine. I’m sorry for pushing.”
She never brings it up again.
…
A few times, Grey thinks about apologizing for snapping at her, telling her. But her throat always locks and she never does.
And now Ms. Margaux is gone. Everyone thought it’d be the diabetes, but the cancer got her first.
Her funeral is well-attended, and while there, Grey gets a look at the life she only heard the barest details about. It turns out that while Ms. Margaux’s husband is long passed, she has quite a few children, many grandchildren, a mammoth knitting circle, and there’s barely enough room for everyone. That feels right. It hurts less to think she’s so beloved.
Grey worries she’ll stand out, and she does. She’s big, she’s white, she doesn’t know any of the hymns or have any knitting gear. While going down the line and shaking the hand of her children, giving condolences, a stately man who proves to be her son (the one who married late) asks, “I’m sorry, who are you?”
Grey says that she was Ms. Margaux’s work partner, and the man’s expression clicks. Turns out Ms. Margaux talked about Grey enough for her son to know who she is. He tells Grey to stay after, there’s something he needs to do, but it gets lost in all the people and grieving, so it doesn’t end up happening.
Grey’s mostly forgotten about it when a few months later, she gets a call from Agatha at reception.
“There’s a package for you from Ms. Margaux’s son. It’s clean.”
It turns out that Ms. Margaux left Grey something, but she didn’t have proper contact information written down (or if she did, it got lost) and it’s taken this long for everything to get sorted out. In the package are two records—a 45 and an LP. Attached to the album sleeves are sticky notes, in Ms. Margaux’s crabbed handwriting: “Grey—hope you like. If not, burn so I can listen downstairs.” She can imagine the witch’s cackle at the end: ee-hee-hee.
That evening, Grey stretches out on the living room floor next to her stereo and gives the records a listen.
The LP is an old performance of Treemonisha, an opera she doesn’t know. It’s nice.
The 45’s performer (as depicted on the album sleeve) is a man with a cowboy outfit and a pencil-thin mustache, which doesn’t seem like something Ms. Margaux (or Grey, for that matter) would enjoy. Nevertheless, Grey puts it on—if Ms. Margaux left it to her, it’s only fair to give it a try.
The A-side is some yodeling warbling horror that she knows she will never listen to again. The B-side, though…
“Once I had a secret love
“That lived within the heart of me
“All too soon my secret love
“Became impatient to be free…”
Grey goes still, staring at the ceiling.
No one was older guard than Drusilla Margaux. No one knew the PIN policies better than her; she’d been with the agency through the civil rights movement, through the attempted racial purges after Johnson’s death. If she had suspicions about Grey, she would never write it down or say it in any way that could get her caught.
Grey looks at the sticky notes again, still attached to the album sleeve: “hope you like.”
“Now my heart’s an open door
“And my secret love’s no secret anymore.”
Grey’s never going to know now.
…
It takes a while to adjust to the Ms. Margaux-shaped holes in her life. By the end, Grey was driving halfway across town to pick her up and drop her off, and now all that time hangs empty and silent—no more tapes, no more conversations, no more Ms. Margaux. Like a big statehouse that’s gone but still has all the roads going to and around where it used to be.
Grey tries to rebuild, find new ways of being around people. As usual, motion comes to her rescue: she starts working out after shift at the PIN gym. Lots of first-shifters unwind at the same time, and the sound of her coworkers chatting, lifting, or complaining is nice background noise, plus it helps her keep up with gossip. Even the coworkers that should know better sometimes treat Grey like she’s deaf or inanimate—she hears all sorts of things she’s sure they don’t want her knowing, but she keeps her mouth shut and they keep talking.
That fills the afternoon time gap, at least, and then she comes home and eats dinner on the couch while watching TV. There are a couple shows she watches. One is about a big, strong barbarian princess who wins a lot of fights and kisses a lot of handsome men. The other is about a cop with super-senses who lives with his best friend. It’s not as good as being around real live people, but she likes hearing their voices anyway. They’re company.
One late night, a bad night, she’s on the couch, watching the door and trying to sleep. She turns on PBS and they’re playing reruns of an art show. A man with curly hair and a gentle voice cheerfully talks his way through a landscape painting, and before she knows it, Grey relaxes and falls asleep. It’s like magic.
It means she has to replace her VCR, but she starts taping the painting show. She might not have someone to come home to, but she could do worse than a friendly voice and happy little trees, painted by someone who isn’t unhappy to see her. It’s all her younger self could’ve asked for.
Grey’s never felt at ease in her bedroom. It’s too far back, without a good view of the door. She takes to sleeping on the couch instead, with the TV. It’s better that way.
…
There are rumors about Specialist Ebony Larkin, that she’s a lesbian.
She’s a power-lifter from somewhere in the deep South, has a voice made for radio, and good to work with. She’s level-headed, professional, can talk people down from disaster, and without ever needing to discuss it, she becomes the leader if they’re in a team together. Grey might be her senior, but Larkin’s her superior when it comes to people and the big picture, and nobody with sense questions it.
After Ms. Margaux’s death, Grey wants to get to know Larkin better, but has no idea how. Getting drinks or coffee sounds like a romantic interest, which would put Larkin in a bad position, and their gym routines are different. Larkin’s not even on first shift or in Vago, half the time, and when they do work together, Grey’s throat locks tight every time she attempts small talk—something which only gets worse the harder she tries. Grey has spent years getting good at her job, but she’ll never be good with people, and finally, she decides that she’s never going to pull it off and gives it up.
Then she walks in on Larkin and Doc Pritchard kissing passionately in the stairwell.
They all freeze. Larkin’s face becomes the professional mask she wears in hostage situations; Pritchard just looks terrified. Grey tries to speak, but her throat locks, and she knows that the longer she’s silent, the worse it’ll be, so in panic, she about-faces and marches out.
Larkin follows after her just slowly enough not to draw attention, straightening her clothes. Under the mask, Grey can tell that Larkin is afraid. They both know the work policy, and all Larkin knows about Grey is what she’s like to work with.
“Let’s talk,” Larkin says in that smooth Mississippi River voice.
Grey nods, and they move out of the building to the parking lot, because Grey’s car is overheated and dingy but private.
Larkin keeps using her work voice, the one for aggravated armed people. “Is this going to be a problem?” she asks.
Grey tries to think what to say, something she can say, that will reassure Larkin. She thinks of Ms. Margaux, of the old 45, and when her mind threatens to freeze, she blurts, “I’m gay too.”
It’s not entirely accurate, but it’s the only way she knows how to say it.
Larkin jolts. Looks Grey over. The mask pops off and she sags with relief, making a sound like someone who has just finished running a marathon.
“Oh, thank Jesus,” she says in a normal voice. “Don’t scare us like that. Come on, let’s go tell Taneesha she ain’t getting washed today.”
And then they’re friends.
…
Larkin and Pritchard—well, Ebony and Doc—change everything.
They’ve both been out of the closet socially for years, everywhere but work. They’re living together in the gayborhood of Autumnville, go to a gay church, have gay friends, and are involved in various gay groups around town. It’s like a whole new world that’s always been there and Grey never knew it.
All her life, Grey has been a shameful secret. With them, it’s ordinary, anticlimactic even.
Though it apparently took her mother a while to come around, Doc’s family is supportive. Larkin’s family mostly isn’t (“fundy preacher’s daughter,”) but she seems to have such a massive circle of loved ones from church, the gym, and elsewhere that she thrives regardless.
“Oh sure, it hurt then, and still does sometimes,” she says, “but it’s their problem, not mine.”
She says it casually, offhandedly, but Grey has to sit and think about it for a long time, mulling it over. Their problem, not hers.
She becomes more Larkin’s friend than Doc’s—Ebony doesn’t mind long stretches of silence, but Doc seems to think the air needs filling, and anyway, she’s not Ops like they are. They try to have Grey over for dinner parties a few times, but that’s a failure—too many people, too much conversation. It’s overwhelming, and Grey can tell most of the other guests find her off-putting, a looming, scarred-up white man who doesn’t talk. Nobody needs that.
She and Ebony work out on Fridays, though, and have periodic TV nights, watching sports, Barbarian Barbara, or Disasters in Dykeland, a low-budget soap opera that Grey doesn’t understand but watches anyway because it’s soothing to see a TV show with a similar racial breakdown to their workplace but where everyone, from the detectives to the heiresses to the auto mechanics, are gay women. (And also because Ebony has stars in her eyes for the actress who plays the heroic OB-GYN and her evil con artist twin sister.)
At one point, a new neighbor moves next door to the heroic OB-GYN. She’s big, like Grey, terse like Grey, a bodybuilder with short hair. Her name is Bea. She’s transsexual.
The first time Bea appears on the screen, Grey freezes dead with a nacho in her hand, overwhelmed with recognition. She’s seen transsexuals before, of course, even on Disasters in Dykeland… but this is the first time she’s knowingly seen one that looks and acts like how she would, if she could.
Unaware, Ebony gets up for more drinks and snacks, asks if Grey wants anything, but Grey just shakes her head and doesn’t look up.
Bea becomes her favorite character on Disasters in Dykeland. She’s never made the butt of a joke, never called a man even when she fixes a car engine, builds muscle mass, or gets angry. She gets a non-transsexual girlfriend, only to dump her within three episodes for treating her badly, which gives Bea an opening to go on a three-minute monologue on the joys and sanctity of being yourself. Ebony wanders off to use the bathroom, but Grey sits riveted and munches tortilla chips while “women come in all shapes and sizes!” rings out from the screen. For Ebony, it’s old hat; for Grey, it’s a paradigm shift.
It takes her a few weeks to dare tell Larkin, but she doesn’t want another Ms. Margaux situation. Grey’s getting older, her back and knees and shoulder are starting to go on her, and somehow, she’s having a harder time living with the idea of dying without anyone knowing who she really is. Still, she’s afraid when she tells Ebony, “I’m like Bea.”
Ebony just looks at her for a moment, then nods like this doesn’t really surprise her. “Okay,” she says. “You want to change anything? What I call you?”
Grey shakes her head, and that’s that. But while on the surface, nothing’s changed, it feels like her heart is opening anyway.
…
After almost getting disemboweled in a workplace accident, Grey has to adjust again. Her libido is unscathed, but the physical limitations take some getting used to, and the interim is maddening.
To make matters worse, her work life is in flux at the same time. After Ms. Margaux’s death, Grey worked with Darlene for a while, and that was fine, but now Darlene’s been promoted—well-deserved and long-overdue, but Grey’s been shuffled through temp comboys ever since.
Diaz at HR has no sympathy for her: “If you want the nice fish to stick around, stop scaring them off.”
The latest is a young “cool Mormon,” oppressively friendly, and Diaz gets her wish, because Grey can’t get rid of him. No matter how Grey stonewalls, Penn keeps getting into her personal space, trying to make them bro-buddies, and Grey has no patience for it. She’s restless, sexually frustrated, and she misses Ms. Margaux, but she makes it through the shift without snapping, and at least now she can get some time to herself and exercise off some of the tension.
Penn pops up, seemingly out of nowhere, gym bag over his shoulder. “You hitting H&M, bro? Wouldn’t you know it, so am I!” He punches Grey in the shoulder, making her flinch. “Let’s do some reps together!”
In mute appeal, Grey looks at Larkin, who spreads her hands.
“Sorry, I have a church dinner with my name on it.”
Penn’s ears prick. “Where do you worship?”
Rainbow MCC, Grey knows, but Larkin can’t say that. “Around Autumnville. See you Friday, Grey.”
Grey waves goodbye and tries not to sigh. It’s not Penn’s fault; he’s just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ms. Margaux and Darlene are hard acts to follow, and Grey can’t think of a polite way to escape, asides from avoiding the gym entirely, and exercise is the only physical release she has right now.
Penn looks so pleased; Grey feels bad for not liking him. He wants so badly to be her friend.
“That Larkin is a heck of a woman. Is she… you know…?”
Grey just stares at Penn in cold silence until the comboy looks away.
“Just wondering. You two involved?”
“No.”
Penn lights up again. “More for me! Eh?”
Grey wishes she could say that Larkin is taken, but she can’t. All she can do is ignore Penn’s hand, held out for a high-five.
Penn’s smile doesn’t dim. “That’s okay, bro, I know you’re happy for me.”
The whole workout is an exercise in frustration. Penn stands too close, keeps trying to get Grey to talk or high-five him, makes a production out of his reps and doesn’t put back his weights properly, and between that and the gnawing aching want Grey’s stuck with, it’s unbearable. Normally, Grey’s problem is driving people away, but Penn, the one person she wants gone, is oblivious. Grey doesn’t know what to do. This has never happened to her before.
At least the workout is over so she’ll finally be free.
“Steam room, bro?” Penn asks.
“No.” Torture, Grey is sure, is sitting in a broiling room with nothing but a towel and Penn.
She assumes they’ll part ways and that’ll be the end, but Penn follows her to the men’s showers nonetheless and insists on washing with the curtain open: “all bodies are God’s bodies, bro!”
Grey yanks her own curtain shut. Why is Penn is acting like this? Is this a Mormon thing? A Penn thing? Whatever it is, it makes her want to tear her hair out. There are a million people in the department who would happily be friends with Penn, a million people who aren’t her. Why is he being so persistent? What does he want from her?
A chilling thought comes to mind. Wait—
No. Impossible. Penn’s young, handsome, sociable. He’s Mormon. Surely he’s not flirting with Grey.
It would explain all this, though.
If Penn is indeed flirting, Grey isn’t flattered. She’s aghast. (And resigned—of course, of all the times and all the men in all the world…) Bad enough when she thought Penn was determined to just be bros with her (or maybe convert her), but if it’s more than that…
She has to get rid of this kid. But how?
Grey starts to undress, and then she knows. The stitches are out, and the scabs have healed, but the scars are still raw and red, and she makes no move to hide them when she pulls back the curtain to put her clothes away.
Penn lights up—but then his eyes go down and his expression freezes.
Grey stares hard at him, not hiding her irritation. She feels some bitter satisfaction when Penn averts his eyes, clears his throat uncomfortably, and pulls his curtain shut.
He requests a transfer to third shift the next week. Granted.
Problem solved.
…
Diaz’s office is right by the break room; it’s impossible to get coffee without passing her. The day after Penn becomes third shift’s problem, Grey tries to sneak past, but no such luck; Diaz pounds on the window to get her attention.
“Hey Grey! Come meet the new fish!”
Unable to refuse, Grey enters her office.
Penn was in his twenties, slim and white and smiling. The new guy is Grey’s age, short and round and Indian (the Bombay kind, not the Darlene kind), with bifocals, gray hair at his temples and mustache, and a quizzical expression. He’s turned around in his chair to get a look at Grey, and he’d be a very attractive man if he weren’t looking at her so dismissively.
Diaz isn’t. She’s all smiles. Behind his back, she mouths the word, “piranha,” points at him, and nods with gleeful satisfaction. Aloud, she chirps, “This is Babubhai Doshi.”
“Bob,” Doshi corrects without looking away from Grey.
Diaz ignores him. “Say hi.”
Grey just stands there. Doshi doesn’t say anything or put out his hand either; he’s squinting at Grey as though trying to get her measure, eyeing her coffee jealously. The silence just hangs there.
Diaz looks pleased with herself. “You’ll love each other,” she assures them.
Doshi turns around forward again to give her a contemptuous look, and Grey takes the opportunity to slip out. As she does, she hears Diaz say, “Grey’s senior specialist with honors.”
“Great.” Doshi’s voice is acid. “I love boy scouts.”
Grey doesn’t mind if her new comboy dislikes her and thinks she’s stupid. That’s fine, a relief even—less to feel conflicted about. It’ll make it easier to drive him off, and the sooner it happens, the better it’ll be for them both. All Grey has to do is be herself as hard as she can for long enough, and he will surely request a transfer out too.
He can’t be harder than Penn.
…
It turns out that Bob is one of the wash hires. He hates being here only slightly less than he hates the idea of being washed, and Diaz in HR apparently hates him right back. (“He’s worse than you are,” she says, “and he fell out of all the better assignments.” Grey’s not sure how she feels about being a workplace punishment, but Diaz says it’s the best use for her.) So Bob can’t request a transfer; all he can do is try to irritate Grey into requesting one for him, and Diaz makes her position clear: “I tried all the nice fish in the pool, and you drove them off. So now you get the piranha.”
They’re stuck with each other.
They go back and forth for a while, Bob trying to drive Grey crazy, Grey trying not to show any reaction. No matter how catty he gets, no matter how sarcastic, she ignores his tone and gives him the shortest, most businesslike response possible. It spares her the effort of figuring out social niceties and also seems to drive him up the wall. When Bob confuses 5th Street South and South 5th Street once, Grey double-checks every single call for a week. Bob gets revenge by finding out Grey’s first name and calling her Eric every chance he gets.
Nobody has called Grey that since high school, and hearing it on Bob’s tongue gets a reaction that she doesn’t like. Grey’s tempted to try calling Bob Babubhai to get him back, but no, that would tell Bob that it’s working, give him something to work with. Grey’s job is to make herself dead weight, be the boring dullard he clearly thinks she is. So she shows no reaction, which irritates Bob more anyway.
After a week, he bursts into her office and demands, “are you seriously this boring?”
Grey is tempted to say, “yes,” but that might be overplaying it. So she just shrugs.
Bob makes a sound of aggravation, throws up his hands, and storms off.
Larkin gives Grey a chiding look. Grey just sips her coffee.
“Come on, Grey,” she sighs. “Just apologize to Diaz and let the man have his damn transfer. Give him to Hernandez or something. Why are you doing this?”
Grey isn’t sure. Maybe she still misses Ms. Margaux. Maybe she’s being petty and doesn’t want to admit to anyone, even Larkin or Diaz, that Bob might be “winning.”
But then she realizes that really, it’s because she doesn’t want Bob gone. In a perverse way, she’s enjoying herself. She’s enjoying this.
How did that happen?
…
The power battle continues until a kidnapping that Thanksgiving. Then, without a word or a thought, they’re on the same team, and the results are… unexpected. Grey expects Bob to crack under the pressure, and he almost does, but then he rallies, puts things together in ways Grey can’t, and combined with Grey’s experience and Larkin running the hostage negotiation, they get the child safe.
That evening, after shift end, Bob catches Grey raiding the staff fridge. They’re both tired and drained, and Bob looks awful, but he’s calm, looking at Grey like he’s never seen her before.
“That’s a good act you have,” he says. “I’m impressed.”
Grey just stares at him.
“You’re not stupid at all; you just want everyone to think you are. What I don’t get is why.”
Grey tenses, and Bob sees it. His eyes spark. “Gotcha.”
Grey tries to shutter her expression, but it’s too late. Bob’s smiling now, clearly not fooled. He moves forward.
“You know how I got hired, right? Because I got bored. In three months, I found out what Agent Smedley was up to in his off-hours and got him run out of Seattle. You hear about that?”
Of course she did. Everyone did.
Bob’s getting into her personal space now, trapping Grey between himself and the open fridge. He’s a head shorter than her. “Well, now I’m bored, Eric… and you’re interesting.” He reaches forward and plucks the ice cream out of Grey’s hand without breaking eye contact. The move brings him even closer, and he purrs in a velvet voice, “You’re never getting rid of me now.”
Bob’s surely just trying to antagonize her, but her neck prickles anyway.
Bob pulls away, out of Grey’s space, and seemingly turns his attention to the ice cream label. “So,” he asks in his normal voice, “have I been getting to you?”
It’s late. Grey’s hungry, tired, and not looking forward to spending Thanksgiving on the couch with the television. So she says, “yes.”
Apparently Bob doesn’t expect that; he looks up, startled for a moment, then laughs. He has a good laugh. “Good!” he says.
He leans past Grey to put the ice cream back into the fridge, but doesn’t touch her. “Don’t eat this low-fat crap,” he says. “It’s Darlene’s. And quit stealing our food; they’re blaming it on me. Take me home and I’ll feed you a proper Thanksgiving dinner and keep my mouth shut about this.”
Grey is so staggered that she says yes, and she and Bob become friends.