Disclaimer: I do not own Ib.

Colorless

Chapter 8

Garry had regarded the card warily. But he did not begrudge her the option of keeping it. That night, she dreamed.

The sound of scraping deafening in her ears, from the frames of paintings, sculptures dragging their feet across the floor. Creepy, but for the most part harmless, mannequin heads. Ladies and headless mannequins everywhere. And the odd one out in the room of women. The Hanged Man, eyes glowing red. An upside down password and slamming the door shut behind them. Trying and failing to ignore the banging and screeching that they left behind.

Area after area, more like watching a memory than being in a dream. She had not seen the gallery so clearly since the day she was actually present within it.

Two paths. A locked door and a room full of bunnies. A single painting at the fork. Separation. Vines as unbreakable as metal and just as cold emerging from the floor below. Leaving Garry behind. Just for a moment, she thought. Just for a little bit.

Lights flicker off, then back on. Door locked. Keep moving forward. Further from Garry.

A new area. So, so far from Garry now. Red mist that made her cough, but not Mary. A fisherman. A painting of lips. Mary asking questions about leaving. Who would she leave behind? No one, she thought and answered. Myself. Heads on tables and a painting. A room right above where Garry was choking on familiar red mist.

She woke up without seeing the painting clearly.

The routine changed. But not by much. The nameless woman disappeared as suddenly as she had appeared.

They continued going to their bench on Garry's breaks. The sun burned their eyes, unhindered by the familiar red umbrella. There was tension as they sat now. Uncomfortable silence. Because even though the lady had seemed off, they just knew she was important. It made them uneasy and worried. She had become something of a friend. A sense that something big was coming, of change, had them both on edge. This sense, a gut feeling, had them paranoid, no longer allowing the other to leave their sight for more than a moment. They had learned to trust their instincts in the Gallery.

Ib ran her fingers down the lanyard around her neck, pausing to trace the letters of Garry's school. Her hand slid lower to tug and twist at the ID tag that dangled in front of her stomach. Garry had noticed the transference of Ib fiddling with her scarf to fiddling with the useless old lanyard he had gotten at freshman orientation a couple years ago. Looking back, he remembered when she had stopped wearing her scarf, the weather having warmed too much to justify its place on her person. He remembered how gingerly she had hung it up, whispering a soft 'I'll be right back, Daddy,' that was more air than vocalization. He remembered how she would bring her hand to her chest afterward, fingers scraping softly against the fabric of her shirt. How she would frown and look down. How she would bite her lip and pick at her shirt, or button, if it had any. It was obviously an ingrained habit and he wondered if the scarf was the only present her father had given her that went around her neck. He contemplated buying her a necklace. It would cheer her up, distract her from the foreboding feeling that they seemed seemed to follow them now. And hopefully it would make her leave his lanyard and, more importantly, what was in the ID tag at home.

The Hanged Man glared at him through the transparent plastic of the tag. It mocked him with shameful reminders of cowardice and promises of insanity.

"-rry?"

He shook himself, startled into awareness. He raised his eyes to meet the concerned gaze of his companion.

He forced a smile. "Sorry. Spaced out a bit there. What did you say?"

The furrow between her brows deepened. "I asked if you were okay."

"Yeah."

"You're lying to me." A sad statement.

"I-I'm not," he insisted, wincing as he stuttered.

She ignored his reply. "You said you'd let me help. You said that you'd talk to me."

"I figured it out," he replied quickly, the pitch if his voice abnormally high.

He expected anger, petulance at being brushed off. A temper tantrum like a normal child. Maybe even the teenager's shrug of dismissal, allowing him to keep his secret. He received neither.

Her expression told of nothing but disappointment and her next words drove the feeling home.

"I told you what was bothering me."

He could almost believe he could taste the agony that flowed through her words and shined in her sad eyes. She just wanted to help. It was all she ever wanted to do.

His mind raced. He wanted to reassure her. He wanted to change the subject. A million phrases darted through his mind that would allow him to accomplish just that.

But what came out of his mouth was this:

"I don't want to go back..."

He hunched over, fixing his gaze firmly to the ground. Though he did not say it, they both heard the end. To the Gallery. A pause. Then, a comforting little hand placed on his shoulder that made him flinch. He did not look up. But he could hear her clothes rustle as she retracted her hand and sat up straight.

"You don't want to go back," she repeated softly. And he could tell she would work it out.

He said nothing.

She hopped off the bench and turned towards him. Standing in front of his still hunched over form, she looked down at the back of his head.

"You don't want to go back," she said again, voice rising in volume slightly.

He did not move an inch.

"You mean… you don't plan on going back."

He curled deeper into himself. And she knew then she was right.

"But… but… Garry, you promised. You said it, remember? 'We'll get them back, I promise.' You say it every day."

He looked up then. She sounded so broken.

"Ib, listen. Sometimes, you have to cut your losses. We don't know how to get back in. We barely got out the first time. They've been gone for months. There's no guarantee that we'll find them. Or if they…," he trailed off.

"If they what, Garry?"

"If they will even be there for us to find. If they are even worth us finding. If they are even… alive."

There were tears in her eyes now, but she was not crying yet.

"We have to try, Garry."

He shook his head. "We're doing okay, aren't we? We take good care of each other. We'll find a way to enroll you in school. I'm almost done with my undergrad. I have an okay job for now and it's a bit of a squeeze in my apartment but we've been handling it, right? I don't want you back in that place. I can protect you better out here. I'm sure your parents would agree—"

Slap!

She had gotten stronger. It hurt a lot more than it did the last time.

Slap!

Though he had expected anger before, he had never seen it on Ib. But the fierceness of her eyes and stance could not be mistaken.

Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, incoherent with fury.

Slap!

Trembling but under control now, she glared at him.

She spoke clearly, indignantly, "You don't get to use me as an excuse to leave my parents there."

She spun, walking away before he could even register what had happened. He hopped up from the bench, jogging to catch up. He prepared to call out, to attempt to calm her down. He wanted to at least make sure she did not go off on her own and get lost. Then he realized she was walking the path back to the diner. He followed after her at a distance, hoping that giving her space would allow her to calm down. As they entered the establishment, she went to her table by the window and he went back to work, without exchanging a word.

She remained at her table through the rest of his shift, staring out the window. He did not speak to her. He worked distractedly, eyes always darting up to look at her small still figure. He was sure the lasting rigidity of her posture would make her sore later. He pointedly ignored the piercing gaze of his boss and brushed off Mrs. Burton's concerned questioning with a sad smile and a whispered 'She's a bit angry with me.' His shift passed by slowly.

When he came to take her home, she shifted away from his outstretched arms. She struggled down from the too tall chair without looking at him at all. She allowed him to push the heavy door open, not even having to duck under his arm as she slipped out. She was so small. He could feel the lump in his throat, the stabbing pain in his chest, as she continued to give him the cold shoulder. He comforted himself with the fact that at least this time, she walked beside him. With the foreboding feeling that he had been carrying since the Lady had disappeared, it was calming to have her just within arm's reach on the now dark streets. But she did not hold his hand.

They climbed the stairs to their apartment. Ib still would not meet his eyes. He took in her tense form, arms crossed and head down. He did not know how long he stood there—keys hanging loosely from limp fingers—just staring at her, but it was apparently too long. Ever so slightly she lifted her head, still not facing him but no longer fixated on the floor. And a firm sentence in her naturally soft voice that simmered with quiet anger. "Open the door, Garry."

He did so and she slipped through before the door was even opened fully. The deafening sound of the bedroom door slamming was echoing through the apartment by the time he had set his first foot passed the threshold. He locked the door and changed out of his work clothes before walking down the short hallway to stand in front of the bedroom door. He hesitated for only a moment then knocked on the door. After an extended moment with no answer, he opened the door.

She was sitting on the floor, the notepad he gave her in her hand. She pulled page after page off and set them spread out on the floor in front of her. As she placed down the last page with writing from the pad, she sat back and stared at the pages on the floor. It was odd, seeing her stiff angry figure morph into a despairing hunched form. The first sharp inhale was soft, barely audible. Then another, louder. Again and again until she was letting out hiccuping sobs. He looked over her shoulder to look at the pages.

The lump in his throat doubled in size.

The lines were crooked and words were misspelled. But what he was looking at was obvious. A map, blueprints of the place he hated so much. Lines in crayon that matched the colors of the walls in each of the area. And all of them were there. Green area, blue area, and red. All the way to the dull grey In-Between Gallery where Guertena's creations were inanimate but there were still no people to be found. Paintings and sculptures marked from memory and labelled.

He should have known. Of course she would be planning. Her sad looks at the mementos from her parents had never been resigned. She had always lifted her chin defiantly. It had never been a question, not for her. She was getting her parents back. The fleeting moments of doubt had always been brushed away by his promise. To him, empty words of reassurance to tide her over until she accepted the loss. To her, affirmations to her family's successful reunion.

He sat down behind her. He let out a little sigh of relief when she did not resist as he pulled her into his arms. Ib turned in his lap, burrowing her head into his chest. Her cries gradually subsided. Finally, she looked up at him.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"I'm sorry too."

"I was scared… I'm still scared."

"I know. Me too."

"I didn't mean to…," he trailed off.

"You weren't lying."

And she was right. Despite using her as justification for not returning, he really did want to keep her safe. Though he had never met her parents, Ib knew that they would rather she stay out and safe with Garry.

Garry stood, setting her on her feet. He jerked his chin towards the kitchen, silently asking if she was ready for dinner. As she nodded and placed her hand in his, they both smiled.

No secrets. Complete trust.

They were finally back to normal.

A/N: Here's the new chapter! Took me a while to get this to come out the way I wanted but it's finally out. I hope you all enjoy it.

Until next time friendlies,

Dfsemina