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open post.
hmm gonna make this pretty soon
( he tugs her down without a word, the weight of her barely enough to register. he wraps both arms around her and does nothing else so much than just lean in against her, his forehead pressed against her shoulder. breathing her in. )
βͺ nothing else as easy in this world as being in his arms is, one hand resting on his thigh, the other tracing patterns against his neck. her heart's racing, though. not in a bad way, she's pretty sure it's just doing overtime to contain all that happiness.
his scent has become familiar by now, she and it always comes with an odd sensation of home, even though she'd only stayed at his place for a couple of weeks.
eventually, might be a small eternity, she shifts, so their foreheads are pressed against each other. β«
his scent has become familiar by now, she and it always comes with an odd sensation of home, even though she'd only stayed at his place for a couple of weeks.
eventually, might be a small eternity, she shifts, so their foreheads are pressed against each other. β«
( some things, when they happen, you take as irreversible. he got shot in a desert, once. married, divorced. the last thing he said to his father was that he hoped he died alone. the difference between irreversible and unforgivable is what settles in the frost in the hush that follows.
(some things are a prophecy.)
his eyes are closed. still (always) listening for wolves. but the crack of the fire and the drum of her heart drowns out the outside world.
tomorrow, everything and nothing will be different.
he threads his fingers in her hair, knocking it askew from where she'd pulled it up. then, thumbing at the line of her jaw, he kisses her. it's soft. sweet. a gentle press of his mouth at the corner of hers, more a question than a statement. )
(some things are a prophecy.)
his eyes are closed. still (always) listening for wolves. but the crack of the fire and the drum of her heart drowns out the outside world.
tomorrow, everything and nothing will be different.
he threads his fingers in her hair, knocking it askew from where she'd pulled it up. then, thumbing at the line of her jaw, he kisses her. it's soft. sweet. a gentle press of his mouth at the corner of hers, more a question than a statement. )
βͺ if his kiss is a question, hers is an answer, warm, gentle, but open, happy and eager, her hand, too, burying itself in his hair let it down. her other hand moves from his thigh, his side, then to his chest, steadying herself against the headrush.
some first kisses had felt like an escape to her, but this... this is a homecoming, more than anything. for once, she isn't running away from something, but letting something happen, something good. she's excited, that's why her heart is racing, but she's calm, too. β«
some first kisses had felt like an escape to her, but this... this is a homecoming, more than anything. for once, she isn't running away from something, but letting something happen, something good. she's excited, that's why her heart is racing, but she's calm, too. β«
βͺ late night, shifting time, when people are more likely to run from a wild animal in their park than they are to take out a camera and get a picture. flora had been sneaking out and about in a mcdonald's lot, and once again, she'd gotten lucky β nothing like a gaggle of drunks to delight in the sight of a fox just long enough for said fox to grab the biggest box of nuggets held by one of the bunch and make a run for it.
altogether, she's happy with her catch, red and bushy tail trailing behind her as she struts between two bushes, aiming for a nice clearing in the park where her she likes to devour her treasures. her nostrils are filled with the promising scent of chicken, her little fox stomach is rumbling, and in her mind, she's already eating ββ and that's how she comes face to face, well, snout to snout, with the biggest dog she's ever seen.
fox eyes go wide in shock, fur stands and fluffs up in an instinctive attempt to look bigger than she is. and her box of nuggets? that gets dropped. that dog is big enough to be a proper wolf, and she's not about to play here. instead, she noses the box open, and takes a few careful steps backwards. peace offering? β«
altogether, she's happy with her catch, red and bushy tail trailing behind her as she struts between two bushes, aiming for a nice clearing in the park where her she likes to devour her treasures. her nostrils are filled with the promising scent of chicken, her little fox stomach is rumbling, and in her mind, she's already eating ββ and that's how she comes face to face, well, snout to snout, with the biggest dog she's ever seen.
fox eyes go wide in shock, fur stands and fluffs up in an instinctive attempt to look bigger than she is. and her box of nuggets? that gets dropped. that dog is big enough to be a proper wolf, and she's not about to play here. instead, she noses the box open, and takes a few careful steps backwards. peace offering? β«
[ Wolves can get easily mistaken for very big dogs — but still, Billie also keeps her shifting to the later hours, when she feels like roaming around without running into anyone. There are roads drifters use, those coming in and out of the city, and there's no better way to know new scents. All manner of creatures pass, and she prefers to keep trouble to a minimum. ]
[ There's a new scent, a fox. She picks it up and follows it to the parking lot, watching the theft with some amusement. Far be it for her to immediately reach for the other tools wolves have: their teeth, their claws, their size. Snout to snout, she then sniffs at the chicken nuggets. Suitable. But she wants to see the fox, and pads closer, sniffing at Flora curiously. ]
[ There's a new scent, a fox. She picks it up and follows it to the parking lot, watching the theft with some amusement. Far be it for her to immediately reach for the other tools wolves have: their teeth, their claws, their size. Snout to snout, she then sniffs at the chicken nuggets. Suitable. But she wants to see the fox, and pads closer, sniffing at Flora curiously. ]
βͺ her ears fold as far back as they can, but... there's nothing threatening about the gigantic wolf-dog. well, beyond sheer appearance, that is. there's no growling, no teeth-bared.
slowly, flora's fur settles, and while she seems to keep desperately low to the ground out of sheer instinct, she edges a tiny bit closer. gives one of the paws a curious sniff.
when she's still not being attacked, she'll take a few more steps forward, bolder now, rubbing her small fox head against the much bigger wolf snout.
guess she's saying 'hi'. β«
slowly, flora's fur settles, and while she seems to keep desperately low to the ground out of sheer instinct, she edges a tiny bit closer. gives one of the paws a curious sniff.
when she's still not being attacked, she'll take a few more steps forward, bolder now, rubbing her small fox head against the much bigger wolf snout.
guess she's saying 'hi'. β«
[ No growling. No teeth-bared. She answers threats, but she knows even by appearance alone she can be discouraging. But she also likes curiosity that meets hers in kind, and lets the fox sniff at her paw. Lets it greet her in its own way. ]
[ She too leans in, to nose at one of Flora's ears. Hello, what are you doing out here? ]
[ She too leans in, to nose at one of Flora's ears. Hello, what are you doing out here? ]
βͺ what is she doing? her tail twitches, a little nervous, a little shamed. she's just started to work for boris, he's teaching her the ins and outs of his most common recipes before her real start at the bar next week, he's given her a headstart on her wage so she's got a tiny place to sleep in, a real proper home, and here she is, same as always, stealing food from drunk people heading home from clubbing.
even if she'd like to dress it up as a 'fox tax', where drunk people get to see one hella good fox and then pay for the distracting sighting with nuggets.
she sniffs, and moves back to fetch one of the nuggets for herself. down the hatch it goes. maybe her new wolf acquaintance hadn't seen how ill-begotten they were. 'having dinner' is the answer, and the way she noses the box towards bill indicates a 'would you like some?' β«
even if she'd like to dress it up as a 'fox tax', where drunk people get to see one hella good fox and then pay for the distracting sighting with nuggets.
she sniffs, and moves back to fetch one of the nuggets for herself. down the hatch it goes. maybe her new wolf acquaintance hadn't seen how ill-begotten they were. 'having dinner' is the answer, and the way she noses the box towards bill indicates a 'would you like some?' β«
βͺ here's the thing: when someone you care for as deeply as she cares for sam spontaneously takes off one day and seemingly vanishes off the face of the earth for a week, it's impossible not to worry. of course she worries. she worries about him resting and eating and about whatever's affected him so much that he needs to take time and space away from seemingly everything. there's the nagging, thought, too, that he... has been through things in his life not everyone survives, and though he's told her he's sought help in the past ββ
actually, that is what she focuses on.
he has sought help in the past. he needs space to himself. that's all too relatable a thing. when he's ready, he'll be back, that, too, she knows β because that is simply the kind of man that he is. in the meantime, she keeps to her routine β she goes to work, she goes to class, she waters the plants she's begun to set out in his garden, as she always does. that's why she's there when he's back, standing in his doorway with a cup of something as he often does during her morning visits. β«
Hey! You up for breakfast?
βͺ another tradition, that. she comes to take care of the garden, but usually, it ends with her making breakfast for them both. seeing how is night went, if he worked, or how his day'd been, if they hadn't seen each other for a day or two. talking about ordinary things. and she's smiling, too, same as always. perhaps there's a hint more relief in it now, but that doesn't make it less genuine.
she even walks up to him just the same, and if he lets her, she'll go up on her tip-toes to sneak a kiss in greeting. β«
actually, that is what she focuses on.
he has sought help in the past. he needs space to himself. that's all too relatable a thing. when he's ready, he'll be back, that, too, she knows β because that is simply the kind of man that he is. in the meantime, she keeps to her routine β she goes to work, she goes to class, she waters the plants she's begun to set out in his garden, as she always does. that's why she's there when he's back, standing in his doorway with a cup of something as he often does during her morning visits. β«
Hey! You up for breakfast?
βͺ another tradition, that. she comes to take care of the garden, but usually, it ends with her making breakfast for them both. seeing how is night went, if he worked, or how his day'd been, if they hadn't seen each other for a day or two. talking about ordinary things. and she's smiling, too, same as always. perhaps there's a hint more relief in it now, but that doesn't make it less genuine.
she even walks up to him just the same, and if he lets her, she'll go up on her tip-toes to sneak a kiss in greeting. β«
( word blows into town. it's all very old west — sam has his fingers in more pies than just chicago pd. he hears something from a local jaguar that, like him, did too many tours overseas that a member of anvil is in town. enough to make something clench unpleasantly in his gut, but not yet defcon fuck-it-all.
he does his own surveillance, because who better suited than a crow? and it's perched on a railing, looking at the guy through a shitty set of motel blinds that he realizes he's seen him before.
(not the one that put a knife through his hand. the one he shot, who'd been pissing on jefferson's body while it was still fucking bloody and warm—)
the one who'd stood over him and murmured something about shame.
it's been a long time since iraq. a long time since europe. but old habits are habitual because there's safety in them, the ease of experience. sam drops off the grid. a terse e-mail to his team-lead, a text to bill, and then he's in the wind. he doesn't go to his father's house, just fucks off clean to saskatchewan.
he splits wood until his hands are bloody, blisters raised across his skin. it's methodical. there's a rhythm to it. there's no one in this old house to have need of the warmth wood provides, but he and the pack come here often enough someone will make use of it.
the haft of the axe has a bear's head carved into its end. unfinished, but he knows his grandfather's hand.
he doesn't eat anything he can't catch as a crow. doesn't really sleep. honestly, if anyone were to ask him later what he did in that week he probably couldn't give them a clear answer — time just passes. he pays it no mind.
and then, because responsibility is the one thing he can't ever fully shirk, he slinks back to civilization one bright, crisp morning. he fully intends to just pick up where he left off with no sign he was ever gone, but he hadn't counted on flora.
he probably should have. she's like that.
his expression shutters when he sees her — not angry, not hurt, just blank guarded nothingness. she drops a kiss against the corner of his mouth and wow, he really feels like an asshole now, huh? his hand goes to the curve of her hip automatically, though he's mindful of the places still healing on his hands. )
Sure. I could eat a horse.
he does his own surveillance, because who better suited than a crow? and it's perched on a railing, looking at the guy through a shitty set of motel blinds that he realizes he's seen him before.
(not the one that put a knife through his hand. the one he shot, who'd been pissing on jefferson's body while it was still fucking bloody and warm—)
the one who'd stood over him and murmured something about shame.
it's been a long time since iraq. a long time since europe. but old habits are habitual because there's safety in them, the ease of experience. sam drops off the grid. a terse e-mail to his team-lead, a text to bill, and then he's in the wind. he doesn't go to his father's house, just fucks off clean to saskatchewan.
he splits wood until his hands are bloody, blisters raised across his skin. it's methodical. there's a rhythm to it. there's no one in this old house to have need of the warmth wood provides, but he and the pack come here often enough someone will make use of it.
the haft of the axe has a bear's head carved into its end. unfinished, but he knows his grandfather's hand.
he doesn't eat anything he can't catch as a crow. doesn't really sleep. honestly, if anyone were to ask him later what he did in that week he probably couldn't give them a clear answer — time just passes. he pays it no mind.
and then, because responsibility is the one thing he can't ever fully shirk, he slinks back to civilization one bright, crisp morning. he fully intends to just pick up where he left off with no sign he was ever gone, but he hadn't counted on flora.
he probably should have. she's like that.
his expression shutters when he sees her — not angry, not hurt, just blank guarded nothingness. she drops a kiss against the corner of his mouth and wow, he really feels like an asshole now, huh? his hand goes to the curve of her hip automatically, though he's mindful of the places still healing on his hands. )
Sure. I could eat a horse.
Edited 2019-11-07 21:01 (UTC)
Don't know about horses β I'm thinking pancakes. And bacon, there's still some in the fridge if I'm not fully wrong.
βͺ she'd been mulling over asking bill, when bill had made the choice for her. sent her a clean, quick text, letting her know that sam needs a few days. clear his head. she thanks her for telling her, and... and that was that. there's no need to prod, she's got the answer she wants from anyone not sam: that he's... if not okay, at least trying to do some form of taking care of himself. space is good sometimes, she's not begrudging him that. much as she wants to help him, much as she'd like to be able to ease his mind always, she knows that's not realistic, and it's not how these things work.
what she has accepted a while ago, about sam and about people in general, is that the past does and doesn't matter, both at once.
it doesn't matter when she kisses him, when she feels his morning's stubble against her cheek, when his hand's on her hip and she's thinking of the breakfast she'll make, of going on just from where they'd left of. doesn't matter what he's been through. doesn't matter that breakfast, for years, was something she had to dig out of dumpsters in her fox form, mindful of bleach and glass and all the other shit people tossed in there.
but she sees the sores on his hand. sees the way his expression closed, just for a moment, when he saw her. the past is part of the sum of their parts. β«
You know, your timing's pretty great. βͺ she says it with a warm smile, as she steps on over and into the kitchen, much as she'd rather stay tucked close against him. β« One of the guys on Jace's team cracked his ankle, so he's off the bench and playing on Saturday.
βͺ this feels like the kind of news he'd want to hear first. after all, the fact that jace is back in school at all, never even mind playing sports, is in part all due to sam. β« If you're up for it, we should go see him play.
βͺ she'd been mulling over asking bill, when bill had made the choice for her. sent her a clean, quick text, letting her know that sam needs a few days. clear his head. she thanks her for telling her, and... and that was that. there's no need to prod, she's got the answer she wants from anyone not sam: that he's... if not okay, at least trying to do some form of taking care of himself. space is good sometimes, she's not begrudging him that. much as she wants to help him, much as she'd like to be able to ease his mind always, she knows that's not realistic, and it's not how these things work.
what she has accepted a while ago, about sam and about people in general, is that the past does and doesn't matter, both at once.
it doesn't matter when she kisses him, when she feels his morning's stubble against her cheek, when his hand's on her hip and she's thinking of the breakfast she'll make, of going on just from where they'd left of. doesn't matter what he's been through. doesn't matter that breakfast, for years, was something she had to dig out of dumpsters in her fox form, mindful of bleach and glass and all the other shit people tossed in there.
but she sees the sores on his hand. sees the way his expression closed, just for a moment, when he saw her. the past is part of the sum of their parts. β«
You know, your timing's pretty great. βͺ she says it with a warm smile, as she steps on over and into the kitchen, much as she'd rather stay tucked close against him. β« One of the guys on Jace's team cracked his ankle, so he's off the bench and playing on Saturday.
βͺ this feels like the kind of news he'd want to hear first. after all, the fact that jace is back in school at all, never even mind playing sports, is in part all due to sam. β« If you're up for it, we should go see him play.
( it's both welcome and unwelcome. the chatter. the calm. the normalcy. he thinks he'd actually prefer it if she'd yell at him. ask him where he was. maybe throw in an accusation of cheating somewhere in the mix (amber used to do that all the fucking time) and call it a day. it feels like his bones itch beneath his skin, like there's something unsettled making its slow unhurried pace across the sun-surface of his soul.
he sits at the expansive island at the edge of the kitchen. traces veins of good marble with his fingertips, though they ache. he's glad to hear about jace, but by the same stroke he wants to close his eyes and ask, beg her to be quiet. he's too new to himself all over again, scraped raw by a sirocco storm. words are like sand in a wound.
he knows something of deserts, after all.
he's only sitting a moment or two, and then he's up. getting himself a glass. he's got oj in the fridge and he could probably use a gallon or two, seeing as how he has no honest memory of drinking anything while he was up north.
(he must have. he knows his limits. learned them hard. he's thirsty but not desperate.)
he chugs one glass, and then nurses a second. comes back around to his spot and sits down. when he speaks again his voice is even, if a little rough. citric acid's a bitch. )
Little punk really thinks he's QB material, huh?
( however deprecatingly it's said, his tone's fond. an act of will. )
he sits at the expansive island at the edge of the kitchen. traces veins of good marble with his fingertips, though they ache. he's glad to hear about jace, but by the same stroke he wants to close his eyes and ask, beg her to be quiet. he's too new to himself all over again, scraped raw by a sirocco storm. words are like sand in a wound.
he knows something of deserts, after all.
he's only sitting a moment or two, and then he's up. getting himself a glass. he's got oj in the fridge and he could probably use a gallon or two, seeing as how he has no honest memory of drinking anything while he was up north.
(he must have. he knows his limits. learned them hard. he's thirsty but not desperate.)
he chugs one glass, and then nurses a second. comes back around to his spot and sits down. when he speaks again his voice is even, if a little rough. citric acid's a bitch. )
Little punk really thinks he's QB material, huh?
( however deprecatingly it's said, his tone's fond. an act of will. )
Guess we'll have to watch him play to find out.
βͺ she knows him ββ this part of him. he'll vent about the kids sometimes, and god, so does she β they're a handful, each and every one of them. but it's venting, and under all that is a deep, genuine love for each of the youths that pass through the doors of the centre, no matter how fucked up (or eager to fuck someone else up) they might be.
all that said, though, she can take a hint. there's a considerable silence between her words and his, and while she's not pretending that everything's fine, she wonders if she's really bringing that across by not addressing any of it at all. does she want to address it? the wish to leave him privacy, to give him time and space and whatever else he needs, is battling with her own wish to know. perhaps it's a need, even, the necessity of communication between two people who... who'll be like this, for a while. maybe for all the while she possibly has to give, if anyone asked her how she feels about him.
she doesn't want to prod, hell knows she'd needed her own sweet time before she could talk to boris about some of her life. pushing doesn't build trust. but leaving him sitting there, maybe feeling as if she's feigning normalcy, probably doesn't build much of anything, either.
that, she dwells on, as she mixes together the batter for the pancakes in silence. then: β«
You know I'm not... upset about you taking time and space when you need it, right?
βͺ she knows him ββ this part of him. he'll vent about the kids sometimes, and god, so does she β they're a handful, each and every one of them. but it's venting, and under all that is a deep, genuine love for each of the youths that pass through the doors of the centre, no matter how fucked up (or eager to fuck someone else up) they might be.
all that said, though, she can take a hint. there's a considerable silence between her words and his, and while she's not pretending that everything's fine, she wonders if she's really bringing that across by not addressing any of it at all. does she want to address it? the wish to leave him privacy, to give him time and space and whatever else he needs, is battling with her own wish to know. perhaps it's a need, even, the necessity of communication between two people who... who'll be like this, for a while. maybe for all the while she possibly has to give, if anyone asked her how she feels about him.
she doesn't want to prod, hell knows she'd needed her own sweet time before she could talk to boris about some of her life. pushing doesn't build trust. but leaving him sitting there, maybe feeling as if she's feigning normalcy, probably doesn't build much of anything, either.
that, she dwells on, as she mixes together the batter for the pancakes in silence. then: β«
You know I'm not... upset about you taking time and space when you need it, right?
( he blinks, as if he'd checked out of the conversation at some point and had only just now found some errant thread to bring him back to it. he wets his lips, his fingers tighten on his glass. there are smudges in the condensation. )
No. I know.
( two distinct, separate clauses. he sort of tips his head off to one side. he doesn't really want to keep on. talking about it. but the thing is — he likes flora, wants to make things work with her. and he's been trying to put some of the tools he's picked up in therapy into action.
his expression cycles through several different emotions. annoyance, disgust. shame. it settles on something like resignation, and then: )
It'd probably be easier if you were.
No. I know.
( two distinct, separate clauses. he sort of tips his head off to one side. he doesn't really want to keep on. talking about it. but the thing is — he likes flora, wants to make things work with her. and he's been trying to put some of the tools he's picked up in therapy into action.
his expression cycles through several different emotions. annoyance, disgust. shame. it settles on something like resignation, and then: )
It'd probably be easier if you were.
βͺ in a way, she's grateful to be cooking right now. talks are always easiest when she has a task on her hands, something to do so she doesn't go picking at her cuticles or start biting her nails, or any of the other habit she's been mostly successfully kicking the past year and change. β«
I don't think it would do much. Except maybe make you feel bad, and that's not really what I'm about. That's not helping anything.
βͺ the pan's heated now, sizzling away, and she pours the first ladle-full of pancake batter in. β«
It wasn't great, for me. 'Course I'd have liked to know. βͺ she shoots him a glance, trying to read him. β« But I think this is something you did because it brought you... some kind of relief. And I'm not going to shame you for trying to do something to help yourself, you know?
I don't think it would do much. Except maybe make you feel bad, and that's not really what I'm about. That's not helping anything.
βͺ the pan's heated now, sizzling away, and she pours the first ladle-full of pancake batter in. β«
It wasn't great, for me. 'Course I'd have liked to know. βͺ she shoots him a glance, trying to read him. β« But I think this is something you did because it brought you... some kind of relief. And I'm not going to shame you for trying to do something to help yourself, you know?
( he makes a sound that's sort of like a harsh bark of laughter. you know, she has a point and he knows it. it doesn't last, and then he takes another somber drink of his orange juice. )
Sorry.
( he says it more out of reflex than sincerity. truth is, he's not entirely sure how he feels. badly, sure, but not... entirely apologetic. because she's right, he needed to do it for himself. he can feel bad for how he did it but not the doing itself.
he stretches his legs out, pushes the stool back away from the island. looks down at his hands briefly, flexes them. there's bruises beneath the skin across his knuckles. dead blood pulled up to the surface, yellowing with the age of the injuries.
more than anything, he's fighting the urge to. stop. stop talking, stop this. get up and walk out. it's what he always does with women when things get in too deep. without even realizing it, his breathing's ticked up. the slightest, faintest bit uneven. )
I know it's not the best, uh. You know. Coping method.
( but it's what he's got. he used to run himself down for it. sorry i'm a shitty person. he's mostly worked that out with himself. in the most awkwardly stilted tone she's probably ever heard out of him: )
I'll try and give you a heads up next time.
( because he can't promise there won't be one. he's not there yet. might not ever be. but, you know. he's not dead, and that's something. he left his gun in the lockbox under his bed when he left, that's something too. not that there wouldn't have been ways to orchestrate his death without it, but. it's the quickest, surest method, and it's the one he's sat up long nights with, letting the weight of it drag in his palm.
the truth was, he didn't really think of flora when he did it. he told bill, because she's been such a cornerstone of his life for more than half of it now. they've known each other twenty years, dated and married for ten. she's still the one he reaches for.
he does love flora, but she's part of his new life. not the old one that's ruled and ruined in equal measure by what the desert wrought in him. and when his past crept in and threw out all the progress he thought he'd made, he'd gone to ground.
it's funny. he doesn't really panic. anxiety has always been easy to keep at bay. but he can't get his breathing under control. can't even it out. can't regulate. christ, he wants to sink right into the floor. )
Sorry.
( he says it more out of reflex than sincerity. truth is, he's not entirely sure how he feels. badly, sure, but not... entirely apologetic. because she's right, he needed to do it for himself. he can feel bad for how he did it but not the doing itself.
he stretches his legs out, pushes the stool back away from the island. looks down at his hands briefly, flexes them. there's bruises beneath the skin across his knuckles. dead blood pulled up to the surface, yellowing with the age of the injuries.
more than anything, he's fighting the urge to. stop. stop talking, stop this. get up and walk out. it's what he always does with women when things get in too deep. without even realizing it, his breathing's ticked up. the slightest, faintest bit uneven. )
I know it's not the best, uh. You know. Coping method.
( but it's what he's got. he used to run himself down for it. sorry i'm a shitty person. he's mostly worked that out with himself. in the most awkwardly stilted tone she's probably ever heard out of him: )
I'll try and give you a heads up next time.
( because he can't promise there won't be one. he's not there yet. might not ever be. but, you know. he's not dead, and that's something. he left his gun in the lockbox under his bed when he left, that's something too. not that there wouldn't have been ways to orchestrate his death without it, but. it's the quickest, surest method, and it's the one he's sat up long nights with, letting the weight of it drag in his palm.
the truth was, he didn't really think of flora when he did it. he told bill, because she's been such a cornerstone of his life for more than half of it now. they've known each other twenty years, dated and married for ten. she's still the one he reaches for.
he does love flora, but she's part of his new life. not the old one that's ruled and ruined in equal measure by what the desert wrought in him. and when his past crept in and threw out all the progress he thought he'd made, he'd gone to ground.
it's funny. he doesn't really panic. anxiety has always been easy to keep at bay. but he can't get his breathing under control. can't even it out. can't regulate. christ, he wants to sink right into the floor. )
Edited 2019-11-08 04:53 (UTC)
βͺ she flips the pancake, but she's losing focus on her task. this isn't the first time he's spoken of something that very, very clearly troubles and haunts him, this isn't the first time she has seen him in a difficult situation. but this is the first time it seems almost as if he is losing a fight with himself. there's a tension to him she hasn't seen in that fashion, has only gotten hints of when he'd spoken of the war. her hearing's fine, finer than most humans, it's one of the perks ββ but it means she can hear the unevenness in his breathing. β«
If it's an option. If not... I'm not gonna get mad, either. You said it yourself, you're coping. I wanna make it easier for you, not harder.
βͺ and if easier means hearing it from bill rather than from sam himself, then that's alright with her. this isn't some kind of game of closeness she's trying to win. it's important to her that he knows that she would want to know, it's more important that he knows she's got his back no matter what.
still, she pushes the pan back on the stovetop. the first one's never much good, anyway, and the batter can wait. β«
Is it okay for you if I take a look at your hands?
βͺ she doesn't say: it hurts just to see them like this. it's true though, seeing him as he is right now is painful, and in no pitying way. β«
You can say 'no'.
βͺ there are a lot of implied questions in it, after all: is it okay if she gets closer, is it okay if she sits down with him? she's not asking if it would help β she's not sure he'd have an answer for that one in the first place. much as she wants to help, this is new for her, and she's got no manual to go by. what she has is so much love for him that she wants to find out what works, step by step, for today and any other day that's as hard on him as this time. β«
If it's an option. If not... I'm not gonna get mad, either. You said it yourself, you're coping. I wanna make it easier for you, not harder.
βͺ and if easier means hearing it from bill rather than from sam himself, then that's alright with her. this isn't some kind of game of closeness she's trying to win. it's important to her that he knows that she would want to know, it's more important that he knows she's got his back no matter what.
still, she pushes the pan back on the stovetop. the first one's never much good, anyway, and the batter can wait. β«
Is it okay for you if I take a look at your hands?
βͺ she doesn't say: it hurts just to see them like this. it's true though, seeing him as he is right now is painful, and in no pitying way. β«
You can say 'no'.
βͺ there are a lot of implied questions in it, after all: is it okay if she gets closer, is it okay if she sits down with him? she's not asking if it would help β she's not sure he'd have an answer for that one in the first place. much as she wants to help, this is new for her, and she's got no manual to go by. what she has is so much love for him that she wants to find out what works, step by step, for today and any other day that's as hard on him as this time. β«
( wordless, he holds them out. split knuckles, blistered palms. nothing seems infected, at least, which is miraculous considering how little care he'd shown himself in that missing week. )
βͺ she gives his hands a quick look, before picking out a bowl to fill with lukewarm water. dried blood, angry, red blisters. it looks as if he did some hard labour of a sort, but she bites the question back. once the water's ready, she picks a clean towel ββ kitchen towels have been moved into one of the drawers there, as by her request ββ and sits herself down by his side, guiding his hands into the water so they can soak a bit. works best with dried blood. β«
Bill told me.
βͺ she guesses that won't stay a secret long, or that it might not have been one in the first place. β«
That you just need space like that sometimes. So you... don't have to talk about it anymore than you want to. I mean, of course I'd like to know, I care about you. But if you can't, or if you just don't want to β
βͺ she's rambling, she knows. β«
I need you to know that this is okay.
Bill told me.
βͺ she guesses that won't stay a secret long, or that it might not have been one in the first place. β«
That you just need space like that sometimes. So you... don't have to talk about it anymore than you want to. I mean, of course I'd like to know, I care about you. But if you can't, or if you just don't want to β
βͺ she's rambling, she knows. β«
I need you to know that this is okay.
( he lets her move around him however she wants, resists nothing. but when she goes on with reassuring him that it's okay, something tightens in his jaw. )
Flora. Hey.
( he shakes the water off, and reaches for her hands. just holding them for now. )
That's the thing. It's not. I know it's shitty. I'm not looking for you to excuse my behaviour because I know it's not. Right, or healthy, or whatever the fuck else you want to call it. Stop it. Just... stop it.
Flora. Hey.
( he shakes the water off, and reaches for her hands. just holding them for now. )
That's the thing. It's not. I know it's shitty. I'm not looking for you to excuse my behaviour because I know it's not. Right, or healthy, or whatever the fuck else you want to call it. Stop it. Just... stop it.
βͺ she looks at their hands, intertwined for a moment. hers have never looked more nicely cared for, his, she's never seen looking worse. β«
Okay.
βͺ it is, at least, a valid point she can recognise ββΒ in the long run, it won't do for her to just nod and justify everything. and if he can work on this, if he can let her know, if they can maybe a reach a point where he won't have to run and vanish for a week, that would be better. healthier, if that's what they're going to try and call it. he can probably sense the 'but' before she opens her mouth again. β«
I think what I'm trying most to say is you get to be unhealthy, and unwell, and not perfectly together. And that I'm going to be here for you through that. I don't want to put the pressure of a miracle solution on you and you alone.
Okay.
βͺ it is, at least, a valid point she can recognise ββΒ in the long run, it won't do for her to just nod and justify everything. and if he can work on this, if he can let her know, if they can maybe a reach a point where he won't have to run and vanish for a week, that would be better. healthier, if that's what they're going to try and call it. he can probably sense the 'but' before she opens her mouth again. β«
I think what I'm trying most to say is you get to be unhealthy, and unwell, and not perfectly together. And that I'm going to be here for you through that. I don't want to put the pressure of a miracle solution on you and you alone.
( he needed those words most when he was young. knowing that it was okay to be vulnerable, to hurt, to be fucked up beyond all reasoning, that came later. he still struggles with it, maybe because it wasn't a formative part of his experience. ptsd? he still grew up in a time when the prevailing attitude towards it was, you pussy, what's wrong with you? he's lost more comrades to suicide than combat, that should fucking tell him something.
he's the first one who assures other people it's okay to be not okay. the kids he works with, fellow front-line workers in cpd, the few friends he's got left from the rangers. it's okay for them. it's never been so for him. it's nothing but a stupid, self-imposed ultimatum.
his hands flex. the contrast to hers hardly goes unnoticed. )
I know.
( rationally, intellectually. he knows. but he's just not there yet. setbacks happen.
his hand aches, where the knife went through. it seems like it gets worse every year. )
Please stop trying to reassure me.
he's the first one who assures other people it's okay to be not okay. the kids he works with, fellow front-line workers in cpd, the few friends he's got left from the rangers. it's okay for them. it's never been so for him. it's nothing but a stupid, self-imposed ultimatum.
his hands flex. the contrast to hers hardly goes unnoticed. )
I know.
( rationally, intellectually. he knows. but he's just not there yet. setbacks happen.
his hand aches, where the knife went through. it seems like it gets worse every year. )
Please stop trying to reassure me.
Okay.
βͺ there isn't any use in ignoring a direct request, even if she... even if she thinks that reassurance might be among the things he needs right now. it's less her agreeing with him, then, and more her saying that it's perhaps just not the time for reassurance, yet. like putting together a puzzle of a kind, some pieces need finding first. β«
Where did you go?
βͺ she... has an idea, but she'd like to hear it from him. likewise, she is picking up the towel, gently dabbing at his hands to remove the blood, see the truth of the damage. β«
βͺ there isn't any use in ignoring a direct request, even if she... even if she thinks that reassurance might be among the things he needs right now. it's less her agreeing with him, then, and more her saying that it's perhaps just not the time for reassurance, yet. like putting together a puzzle of a kind, some pieces need finding first. β«
Where did you go?
βͺ she... has an idea, but she'd like to hear it from him. likewise, she is picking up the towel, gently dabbing at his hands to remove the blood, see the truth of the damage. β«
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