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Marty is alive. Wendy is alive and Charlotte and Jonah are alive, and somehow it isn't enough.
Ruth is dead. Marty can't fix this. She's not just away with Darlene. She's not laying low at the trailer park or working at the casino. She's dead.
She's dead and it's Marty's fault. Wendy can say it's not but God, it is. It is, it is, it is. It's always been his fault.
Mel's gone too, all because he saw them for exactly what they were. Jonah had... He'd shut his eyes before he took the shot. He was just a kid. He was Marty's kid. He never should have had to do that.
His body had been disposed of. It was so easy to get rid of him. It was disgustingly easy.
He can't even say that it's not who he is. He's been at it for so, so long that it's not a part of him, it is him. There is so much blood on his hands. And he gets to lay here richer than shit in this warm bed, reeking of iron no matter how much he scrubs, and sleep at night.
What did Ruth look like when she died? Did she blame him? Did she know what was happening to her? Did she stare up the barrel of a gun and wonder why he didn't do anything to stop this? If he could talk to her, how would he explain it?
Ruth was clever.
Ruth was so, so clever. She could have been reasoned with. If he'd tried harder in Clare Shaw's office, he could have gotten through to her before she ever killed Javi. She'd still be alive. Cussing and cursing his name, probably, but she'd be here.
What if, during all those times that she'd tried to talk to him, he'd listened? What if he'd made time, found time, something other than worrying about Helen's latest problem or the state of the Belle's champagne flutes? Would it have given him enough purchase to get through to her? Could they have connected?
Marty feels like he's choking. Like he's dying. Like his heart is struggling to beat, like he can't think, and yet the thoughts don't stop. Wendy said it was a panic attack last time. It's that panic-despair-regret type of feeling, that moment of 'what have I done' and 'what am I going to do' that hit him after he put a bullet through Mason's neck. Because it's really the same, isn't it? He didn't want to shoot Mason, didn't make the express decision to wipe him off the face of the earth, but Mason is dead because of something he did, and they got there because Marty ruined his life. Just like Ruth. He'd helped drive her to that edge.
He had to swallow it down all through his speeches. He had to hold the microphone and try to conceal the shake in his hands, then smile at the donors like the standup guy he was supposed to be.
Marty shoves a hand over his mouth, bringing a spare hand up to tangle into his hair and try to find something grounding. Wendy isn't here (she's in the dining room, probably still drinking), but he can't make too much noise without alerting her. He doesn't know why he doesn't want her here.
If Wendy heard him, she'd come in here all subdued and gentle. She'd gather him up in her arms and rock him through it and stroke his hair and hold his hands and be so calm and so steady, like it didn't bother her. And Marty would hold onto her like there wasn't anything else.
She wouldn't understand. She'd take care of him, but she'd never know why he felt like this. Maybe nobody ever would.
Marty doesn't know how long he stays there, only that he's awake when Wendy finally comes in. He closes his eyes. Wendy doesn't say anything.
When Marty wakes up, his mouth feels all thick and his eyes hurt. Wendy pauses in whatever task she was doing. Her hair is fixed, and she's got her day clothes on. She looks like nothing happened. Like she's ready to head to work today.
He feels disoriented. Usually, even when Wendy isn't hungover, she sleeps later than him. And she's definitely hungover.
"What time??"
"It's..." Wendy glances at the clock, "almost noon."
"Oh,"
He doesn't remember sleeping till noon since... Since when? His work days start early. He doesn't have time to dwell. He opens his eyes fully, stares up at the ceiling-
And can't make himself move. He's so exhausted. Marty swallows roughly. It's like sandpaper.
Wendy steps over to him and stoops down to press a careful kiss to his forehead.
"It's okay. You can go back to sleep. I'll handle things today."
It fills Marty with... some kind of emotion, something he can't label. His eyes start to sting, and he closes them before they can start misting over.
Wendy pulls the comforter over him and brushes his hair out of his face. As her footsteps get further away, she calls out, "Love you."
Marty murmurs some half-assed affirmative. The bedroom door clicks shut.
What is he going to do now? He can't find a good answer.
In the end, Marty just goes back to sleep.