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kinkfestTitle: Schroedinger's Adultery
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sophiap
Rating: PG
Warnings: Implied infidelity.
Prompt: Copenhagen, Bohr/Heisenberg: physics in bed; Christian in the lifeboat; last meeting
Word count: approx. 2,000
Summary: There is comfort to be found in uncertainty.
Poor cat, Margrethe says, as she always does when the subject is brought up.
Niels reminds her that the cat, supposedly both dead and alive until observed, is only imaginary. He is amused by her display of sympathy, and she wonders if he knows she meant the remark as a joke.
She doesn't know what he really thinks, of course, just as he cannot see what is in her mind.
All there is is observation, but what she makes of his faint smile and the twinkle in his eye is as much about her as it is about him.
He has been watching her ever since they got word that Heisenberg was going to visit. Watching her, just as she was watching him, and as Heisenberg would no doubt be watched by his German keepers.
Knowing they are being watched will change what they do, how they act, the words they say.
Observation changes reality, fixes it in place.
Until the box is opened, the cat is both alive and dead. Once the box is opened, the cat is either alive or dead.
Niels, of course, says the cat doesn't exist at all.
Margrethe isn't sure she believes him. Still, it's a comfort.
* * *
The reunion is awkward, of course. The war is simply the obvious explanation--nearly all of Heisenberg's attempts to start the three of them talking again remind them of something the war has taken from them. Friends. Routine. Safety.
But still, things are rekindled with mathematical inevitability, and soon, it's as if Heisenberg had never left.
It's... pleasant. Strained, yes, but that is merely her observation, her perspective.
When Heisenberg says he needs to talk, talk where he and Niels cannot be overheard, Margrethe isn't sure what to think. She can only look at the tightness in Heisenberg's face, the dark suspicion in Niels'.
Moments before, they had been deep in animated conversation, heads inclined towards each other. As usual, Heisenberg talked at great speed. Her husband spoke with his usual deliberateness, but with no less passion for that.
She observes the same passion, the same animation, in their sudden, wary silence.
But then, what she observes is as much about her as it is about them.
They walk off, and Margrethe begins to clear the table, wondering and fearing what Heisenberg might say. Might be saying even now.
She is also standing in the hall outside Niels' study years ago, holding her breath and closing her eyes as she strains to listen.
She looks up from her work years before that, looking up just as Niels looks away, drenched in salt water and with Christian nowhere to be seen.
Then, they are gone. Unobserved, they exist only in her imagination. Whatever they are doing, whatever they are saying, it is only in her imagination.
This is not as comforting as it should be. As it has been.
It is not the first walk they have taken, alone.
* * *
Once the box is opened, the cat is either alive, or it is dead. It is no longer both. Also, it is real.
When Niels came up from the dock, alone, Margrethe knew what he was going to tell her. Christian was dead. Their son was dead.
She knew, and yet, in those moments before Niels actually said the words, Christian was both dead and alive. She imagined the words he was going to say, but she also imagined all of the things he might say that were not that.
For one moment, one insane moment, Margrethe thought that as long as she blocked her ears, Christian could remain not-dead.
But Niels told her what happened, and in that moment her son died--truly died--even though he had drowned an hour ago. She heard the words, and it was real.
No more wondering. No more imagining.
* * *
The conversation with Heisenberg did not go well. She knows that as soon as they return. They don't even need to say anything.
There are pleasantries and civilities: offers of coffee and polite farewells, but it is the behavior of the observed, nothing more. Margrethe can only guess at what is being thought, at what is being left unsaid.
Later that night, even though Margrethe is both asleep and awake (and yet truly neither), she knows when Niels finally climbs into bed. The mattress dips with his weight, and she tips towards him. They do not touch, and he is far enough away that she cannot feel his warmth, but his presence still impacts her.
She is so sleep-drunk that she almost asks a question that she first asked herself years ago, but she has just enough presence of mind not to ask, not to peek inside.
Once the question is asked, and answered, the answer is real.
The cat ceases to be a figment of imagination, and is simply alive or dead.
Looking--or asking--changes everything. Changes it and fixes it in place. Forever.
As Margrethe drifts off to sleep, she dreams of a scientist opening a box and letting out a living cat. When the scientist reaches out to pet the cat, the cat hisses at him and runs away, never to return. It may as well be dead.
Poor scientist, Margrethe mumbles in her sleep.
* * *
She has nearly asked several times before then. Nearly looked.
She picks up the dirty dishes and carries them off. She also stands outside her husband's study years before, listening over and over to the memory-echo of a noise she may not have even heard.
Margrethe brushes crumbs from the tablecloth and wonders what would have happened if she had opened the door then. What she would have seen. What would have become real.
The groan was familiar enough. She'd heard it before, many times, when she and Niels were in bed together.
Or perhaps just heard one like it. There were other explanations for what she had heard, just as there were other explanations for why Niels would have been coming up from the dock without Christian, red-eyed and soaking wet.
* * *
When Heisenberg leaves at last, Margrethe is both relieved and heartbroken. She does not examine this feeling too closely, because if she does, she will at once be either one or the other.
She is not sure which outcome is worse.
A few hours before dawn, Margrethe wakes, as she often does these days. She waits to fall back asleep, and she listens to Niels breathing. He is awake, and she thinks that maybe he has been for a while. There's a hitch to his breathing, a sharp near-gasp that is close to being a cry.
She rolls over, and he goes still and alert. For a moment, she thinks he is about to say something.
Are you awake?
He doesn't ask the question, and therefore cannot take her silence for proof that she is asleep. Once he asks the question, Margrethe will either be asleep or awake.
Instead, she is both, and at the same time she is neither. She is whatever he chooses to imagine.
She is not impacted by his response, just as he is not impacted by her question.
Either impact would be catastrophic, and could set off a chain reaction that would end in disaster.
There is comfort to be found in uncertainty. Margrethe knows this all too well.
* * *
Some questions remain long after their owners have died. No, not some.
Many.
And now, now that all are dead and there is no possibility that anyone could be hurt by either question or answer, Margrethe finally speaks.
"Niels, there is something I need to know..."
Author/Artist:
sophiap Rating: PG
Warnings: Implied infidelity.
Prompt: Copenhagen, Bohr/Heisenberg: physics in bed; Christian in the lifeboat; last meeting
Word count: approx. 2,000
Summary: There is comfort to be found in uncertainty.
Poor cat, Margrethe says, as she always does when the subject is brought up.
Niels reminds her that the cat, supposedly both dead and alive until observed, is only imaginary. He is amused by her display of sympathy, and she wonders if he knows she meant the remark as a joke.
She doesn't know what he really thinks, of course, just as he cannot see what is in her mind.
All there is is observation, but what she makes of his faint smile and the twinkle in his eye is as much about her as it is about him.
He has been watching her ever since they got word that Heisenberg was going to visit. Watching her, just as she was watching him, and as Heisenberg would no doubt be watched by his German keepers.
Knowing they are being watched will change what they do, how they act, the words they say.
Observation changes reality, fixes it in place.
Until the box is opened, the cat is both alive and dead. Once the box is opened, the cat is either alive or dead.
Niels, of course, says the cat doesn't exist at all.
Margrethe isn't sure she believes him. Still, it's a comfort.
* * *
The reunion is awkward, of course. The war is simply the obvious explanation--nearly all of Heisenberg's attempts to start the three of them talking again remind them of something the war has taken from them. Friends. Routine. Safety.
But still, things are rekindled with mathematical inevitability, and soon, it's as if Heisenberg had never left.
It's... pleasant. Strained, yes, but that is merely her observation, her perspective.
When Heisenberg says he needs to talk, talk where he and Niels cannot be overheard, Margrethe isn't sure what to think. She can only look at the tightness in Heisenberg's face, the dark suspicion in Niels'.
Moments before, they had been deep in animated conversation, heads inclined towards each other. As usual, Heisenberg talked at great speed. Her husband spoke with his usual deliberateness, but with no less passion for that.
She observes the same passion, the same animation, in their sudden, wary silence.
But then, what she observes is as much about her as it is about them.
They walk off, and Margrethe begins to clear the table, wondering and fearing what Heisenberg might say. Might be saying even now.
She is also standing in the hall outside Niels' study years ago, holding her breath and closing her eyes as she strains to listen.
She looks up from her work years before that, looking up just as Niels looks away, drenched in salt water and with Christian nowhere to be seen.
Then, they are gone. Unobserved, they exist only in her imagination. Whatever they are doing, whatever they are saying, it is only in her imagination.
This is not as comforting as it should be. As it has been.
It is not the first walk they have taken, alone.
* * *
Once the box is opened, the cat is either alive, or it is dead. It is no longer both. Also, it is real.
When Niels came up from the dock, alone, Margrethe knew what he was going to tell her. Christian was dead. Their son was dead.
She knew, and yet, in those moments before Niels actually said the words, Christian was both dead and alive. She imagined the words he was going to say, but she also imagined all of the things he might say that were not that.
For one moment, one insane moment, Margrethe thought that as long as she blocked her ears, Christian could remain not-dead.
But Niels told her what happened, and in that moment her son died--truly died--even though he had drowned an hour ago. She heard the words, and it was real.
No more wondering. No more imagining.
* * *
The conversation with Heisenberg did not go well. She knows that as soon as they return. They don't even need to say anything.
There are pleasantries and civilities: offers of coffee and polite farewells, but it is the behavior of the observed, nothing more. Margrethe can only guess at what is being thought, at what is being left unsaid.
Later that night, even though Margrethe is both asleep and awake (and yet truly neither), she knows when Niels finally climbs into bed. The mattress dips with his weight, and she tips towards him. They do not touch, and he is far enough away that she cannot feel his warmth, but his presence still impacts her.
She is so sleep-drunk that she almost asks a question that she first asked herself years ago, but she has just enough presence of mind not to ask, not to peek inside.
Once the question is asked, and answered, the answer is real.
The cat ceases to be a figment of imagination, and is simply alive or dead.
Looking--or asking--changes everything. Changes it and fixes it in place. Forever.
As Margrethe drifts off to sleep, she dreams of a scientist opening a box and letting out a living cat. When the scientist reaches out to pet the cat, the cat hisses at him and runs away, never to return. It may as well be dead.
Poor scientist, Margrethe mumbles in her sleep.
* * *
She has nearly asked several times before then. Nearly looked.
She picks up the dirty dishes and carries them off. She also stands outside her husband's study years before, listening over and over to the memory-echo of a noise she may not have even heard.
Margrethe brushes crumbs from the tablecloth and wonders what would have happened if she had opened the door then. What she would have seen. What would have become real.
The groan was familiar enough. She'd heard it before, many times, when she and Niels were in bed together.
Or perhaps just heard one like it. There were other explanations for what she had heard, just as there were other explanations for why Niels would have been coming up from the dock without Christian, red-eyed and soaking wet.
* * *
When Heisenberg leaves at last, Margrethe is both relieved and heartbroken. She does not examine this feeling too closely, because if she does, she will at once be either one or the other.
She is not sure which outcome is worse.
A few hours before dawn, Margrethe wakes, as she often does these days. She waits to fall back asleep, and she listens to Niels breathing. He is awake, and she thinks that maybe he has been for a while. There's a hitch to his breathing, a sharp near-gasp that is close to being a cry.
She rolls over, and he goes still and alert. For a moment, she thinks he is about to say something.
Are you awake?
He doesn't ask the question, and therefore cannot take her silence for proof that she is asleep. Once he asks the question, Margrethe will either be asleep or awake.
Instead, she is both, and at the same time she is neither. She is whatever he chooses to imagine.
She is not impacted by his response, just as he is not impacted by her question.
Either impact would be catastrophic, and could set off a chain reaction that would end in disaster.
There is comfort to be found in uncertainty. Margrethe knows this all too well.
* * *
Some questions remain long after their owners have died. No, not some.
Many.
And now, now that all are dead and there is no possibility that anyone could be hurt by either question or answer, Margrethe finally speaks.
"Niels, there is something I need to know..."
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no subject
Date: 2009-11-04 12:40 pm (UTC)There are no words to express how awesome this is *______*
no subject
Date: 2009-11-04 09:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-11-04 07:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-11-04 09:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-11-05 12:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-11-05 01:59 am (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2009-11-05 02:12 am (UTC)Holy mackeral. You somehow managed to catch that 'unknowing' tone from the movie/play entirely. This is fantastic: the ending, the repetition, the constant wondering just what's behind that door...
(I can't think of a better story to answer this prompt of mine. Thank you.)
no subject
Date: 2009-11-05 12:02 pm (UTC)(Also, I love the icon!)
no subject
Date: 2009-11-19 08:46 pm (UTC)