The Kramers (updated)

Updated version of the pictures. Yeah, I wasn’t aware of all the little details of the DC universe when I just found the previous images online and decided to write a story based on them =D

Well, I couldn’t miss the chance to tweak a few things a little lol =D at least now the coat is blue in both pictures =D

...

—...and once again, Mr. and Mrs. Kramer: you’re doing better than you think, — the family therapist smiled, snapped his folder shut, and stood up. — Remember the homework? Tactile trust practice. And no drama until next Wednesday.

The door with the sign “Office No.4” clicked shut, leaving them standing in the narrow gray hallway. He, Robert Kramer, tall, in a dark sweater with two light stripes, a yellow shirt underneath, and a coat hanging over his arm. His hand rested on her shoulder, his gaze fixed somewhere off to the side. She, Vanessa Kramer, half a head shorter, in a green blouse with the collar undone and tight black pants. She crossed her arms over her breasts and felt the soft weight, wrapped in a still-unfamiliar and just as uncomfortable bra, shift, and she heard the faint creak of fabric under her fingers.

— “No drama,” — she repeated aloud, her voice ringing a little higher than she wanted. — Maybe you could take your hand off already?

Robert, just a month ago Angela, slowly pulled his hand from her shoulder, as if dragging out the moment, as if that touch was the only thing holding them back from complete disaster.

— Sorry, — he said quietly, leaning toward her a little. — I just… I’m trying to somehow fit in.

Vanessa — or rather, the one who had been Mark, married to Angela before all this chaos with witness protection and the body mix-up — snapped her face toward him. In the gray hallway, her eyes burned with irritation, and yet there was a flicker of confusion in them.

— Fit in with what? — she pressed her arms tighter over her breasts, the blouse stretching, giving her a strange sense of heaviness that made her shiver. — With the fact that we got swapped? With the fact that now I have to hear your apologies from the lips that should have been mine, while your hand holds me like I’m your... — she swallowed, but still, — w-w-wife?

He didn’t answer right away — only shifted his shoulder slightly, as if the coat in his hand had suddenly grown heavy.

— But you are my wife, Van, — he said softly. — Almost everything’s the same as before, just… reversed.

Those words snapped shut like a trap. Vanessa exhaled sharply, tilting her head toward the gray wall, and felt the collar of the blouse rub unpleasantly against her neck. The warmth of the body that was now hers refused to become familiar.

— Fine, let’s go, — she breathed out, slowly walking down the hallway toward the exit, feeling the tremor of something that should never have been there, never ever, but was already becoming part of the routine of existence.

They stepped outside, silent all the way home. The door clicked, and at once the smell of a warm, lived-in space wrapped around them, as if the house itself was trying to caress them and convince them that everything was fine, that this was their home, their family hearth, their place of strength. But both of them knew perfectly well that the house wasn’t theirs, the name wasn’t theirs, even the bodies weren’t theirs.

Robert took off his coat and tossed it onto the back of the couch as he walked by, as if he had always done it that way. The house, which on paper belonged to the Kramers, welcomed them with its familiar coziness — a staircase with a carpet runner, paintings in golden frames, warm light coming from the kitchen. Everything looked perfectly tuned to someone else’s biography, one they had to wear like an ill-fitting suit.

— Well… what’s for dinner? — he said, trying to sound casual, as if that phrase could magically bring normal life back.

Vanessa slowly turned to him. Her green blouse had slipped open a little at the collar, and as she crossed her arms, she felt the soft weight of her breasts push forward, stretching the fabric. She squinted, a sarcastic smile touching her lips.

— Oh, of course, — she drawled. — How could I forget, I’m such a… housewife. Sitting here all day, cooking your stews, ironing your shirts, and happily waiting for my husband to show up and ask what’s for dinner. Just so you remember, darling, in my past life I worked in Excel, not slicing carrots with a knife.

Robert gave a slightly guilty smile, but didn’t answer — he only shifted his shoulders again and walked past her into the living room. His shoes lay carelessly at the entrance, the coat still draped over the couch, as if in this house even things knew their owners had no idea how to handle them properly.

Vanessa grimaced.

— Anje… shit, Rob, — her voice dropped lower, sharper. She put her hand on her hip, feeling how her breasts in the bra shifted slightly, responding with heavy presence to every movement. — How long are we gonna do this? Why is the coat where it doesn’t belong?

He stopped on the stairs, one hand resting on the railing.

— I’m just tired, Van… so much work today… — he threw back, and without waiting for an answer, slowly went upstairs.

The house filled with his steps creaking on the carpet runner. Vanessa stayed frozen in the middle of the living room, her figure like a painting: the green blouse tracing the curve of her breasts, her breathing too vivid, and the hand on her hip giving her an air of authority edged with irritation.

— Of course, — she said quietly, staring at the crumpled coat. — You’re tired. And I’m just relaxing, huh? In this stupid bra that pinches and cuts, with this hairstyle I still set up by instructions from some women’s magazine, and these earrings that…

She fell silent. A memory flared — that moment when Robert, still Angela then, jumped with joy in front of the mirror on one of their anniversaries, years ago. For some reason those earrings were what Angela wanted to keep, when they agreed to the witness protection program, to new bodies. And it wasn’t easy, though it seemed like such a small thing — but no, the bureaucratic machine by law had to cross out everything tied to the past. And yet they managed it, only… now Vanessa was the one wearing them.

She reached her hand to her earlobes. They still ached from the piercing done a week ago, but it was bearable. As their therapist — the one the government had thrown in as a “bonus” after their bodies got swapped — would have said: “That’s progress, Mrs. Kramer.” But thank God they never talked about such details. And definitely not about who they used to be, leaving the doctor blissfully unaware.

Vanessa sighed and stood still for a few seconds, fidgeting with the earring between her fingers. Then she drew in a sharp breath and headed for the kitchen. The fridge door opened with a soft thump. White light hit her eyes, and for a second she felt the cold air caress the skin of her collarbones beneath the thin fabric of her blouse. Vanessa blinked and started pulling out groceries — tomatoes, cucumbers, a bunch of greens. She set everything on the table, pressed the oven button: inside, a chicken already waited, rubbed thick with spices, sprigs of rosemary filling the air with their sharp scent.

— Well, since I’m the “housewife”… — muttered Vanessa, placing the vegetables on the table. — The great Mrs. Kramer, cutting veggies is her new calling.

The knife slid softly through the firm flesh of the tomatoes, red slices falling onto the plate, cucumber pieces landing beside them. She listened to the sound of the herbs being chopped, the wooden board creaking under the blade, and with every minute her irritation was turning into something almost routine.

Her hands worked steadily, but her thoughts kept circling tighter and tighter:

'Fuck, I really am stuck in this… role. Salads, cooking, cleaning, earrings in my ears. And Rob busting his ass somewhere on a construction site, a man among men. And I’m here, with boobs getting in the way every time I lean over the table, with this stupid bra, with skirts and high heels. And now cooking too… And the worst part? I used to love cooking!'

She threw the knife into the sink a little harder than she should have, wiped her hands on a towel, and set the table. Salad, chicken, bread, a bottle of white wine — it all looked like the lady of the house had put effort into creating a cozy evening. Only the lady wasn’t the one she was supposed to be. But according to all the FBI paperwork and their new cover, Vanessa Kramer was listed as a housewife, and Robert Kramer as a construction worker at a contracting company, where he’d been “placed” through FBI connections.

As part of the witness protection program, she and Robert had been given new biographies, with one condition: for the first month they had to “settle in,” go through adaptation, family therapy, and blend into their new roles. So, officially, to everyone around them, there was nothing unusual about them. On the contrary, this was exactly the kind of behavior expected from Vanessa.

She clenched her palms, feeling the ring on her finger dig into her skin, then took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. Immediately the weight of her breasts shifted, reminding her of themselves.

— Robert! — she called out loudly. — Dinner’s ready!

Her voice sounded firm, with a note of authority, but inside everything twisted with contradictions and with how much it reminded her of her mother. She looked at the neatly set table and realized: it looked way too natural. As if it wasn’t a former husband and wife trapped in each other’s places, but the real Mrs. Kramer waiting for her Mr. Kramer to come home from work.

And that thought made her feel especially uneasy.