⟪ little trips were among the things they talked about while she stayed at his place, and... it's a topic they circled back to even after flora's apartment had piping again and he'd driven her (and all her stuff) back home. the herb plants, she'd ended up leaving behind. his kitchen is nicer to cook in, and there is economic value in cooking together – even if it mostly means sam offering her company while she does most of the kitchen work. she likes it like that, likes talking to him, eating with him, perhaps watching a movie after, listening to him share some stories of his work with the kids. there's a kindness to his voice and a warmth in his eyes when he does, and none of the care leaves him even if a story turns out more frustrating than happy.
and yet, there's numbers written on his arm, and she can't make sense of them. her phone may be ancient, but in the end, she finds her opportunity to jot them down, to look them up online.
to wind up with images of a strange desert.
she didn't think she would wind up with more questions.
but she let it rest, it's none of her business, and instead, somehow, they planned a short trip. he's got time off, so does she, and she'd excitedly shown him her fresh-off-the-press diploma, another stepping stone back into the real, human world. nature is what they wanted for the trip, nothing too far, or too high-tech. a cabin would be nice, and they found something that lacked tv and internet, but came with a nice selection of hiking trails –– and a hot tub.
so far, though, it's not been tall trees and a quaint lake that sold her, though. what really got her was hearing him hum along to a song while she was nearly asleep in the car beside him, and the look in his eye as his car practically flew across the highway.
all the same, it's night now, it's late, it's quiet, and the hot tub beckoned. her bikini is a green that bites with her red hair, and he can see the shitty cat-esque stick n poke tattoo she got when she was seventeen. his tattoos, they've spoken of plenty. they're covering what she's not usually mentioning. mostly covering. ⟫
I don't think the jets work. I guess I'll DIY the massage function.
⟪ she's already motioning for him to shift and scoot so she can give him a backrub. ⟫
( he doesn't often take his shirt off. it's not that he's self-conscious about the scars, it's just that bullet holes leave distinct marks, and he doesn't like fielding questions about them. people can't help themselves, they stare.
flora's seen him shirtless, and despite her naturally curious nature she didn't press the issue. it's probably the only reason he didn't mind the idea of the hot tub. it's cold enough out that the air's crisp, and the heat from the tub is creating a mistbank in the air.
he tries not to look too closely at the way she fills out that bikini, though he swears she's put on weight since she started staying at his house. regular meals have done her good. and he'd be a fool if he hadn't noticed the tension between them, but. it's nice to just let it be. not feel like it needs acting on right away. like what they have to start is enough of a foundation that they can build on it in their own time.
she gestures for him to move and he does, though he's hyperconscious of the fact that the exit wounds spattered across his back are worse than the entry wounds on his chest. armour piercing rounds. went straight through his fucking goverment issue body armour. he's probably lucky they were all through-and-through shots, because if any of them had hit the bone hard enough to shatter and ricochet it would've cut his survivability down by that much more. and it had already been pretty grim.
still. his shoulders are just the slightest bit drawn up. not quite tense but. wary, certainly. )
I'm definitely asking for a discount. No jets? Highway robbery.
⟪ in her life before, everything was a race. there are no second chances, no thinking-about-its, when opportunity comes, she had had to grab it – if it means a few extra dollars, some food, a gap in a window that would mean a warm, dry place to sleep at night. this is how she had approached relationships, too. who knows who'll make it through the next month? all the worse during those times when she had tried to sort her life out, stumbling into closeness at the same time as she's trying to handle bills and appointments and shitty jobs.
part of it is simple personal growth, of course, and learning from past mistakes. part of it is the fact that she knows he'll be there tomorrow. and the day after. and next month. she doesn't have to rush through each step – with him, she can savour the hours they have, talking about everything and nothing, getting to know him. there's no attempt to stomp a future out of the ground with a near-stranger. it's more setting down each stone for a foundation, letting something grow from the tension and the warmth.
in the here and now, she's a civilian, of course. this is the moment when she learns that exit wounds look worse than entry wounds, and that, this close, to know how close he must have been to death almost physically hurts her. but his shoulders are tense, too, and she rests her hands gently against them, hot as they are from the water that's steaming all around them. ⟫
I think it's just what they meant when they said it's 'rustic'.
⟪ her voice is warm, she's... focusing back on what she meant to do. take care of him a little, after all, he did all the driving and some of the wood-chopping necessary for the oven-heater later. he can't be downright accused to not taking care of himself, but she sometimes wonders what he's keeping at bay by always being on the go. when he's not at work, he's at the youth centre, and when he's not at the youth centre, he's making plans for it, or bonding and mediating and community-building with the shifters at the bar. it's the way he engages with the world she admires, it's how much his heart's blood runs through the spaces he makes for others. she just wants to make sure his heart's taken care of as well. she wants to make sure that. now and again, he rests, breathes, takes space for himself, not for others. ⟫
You got a nice singing voice.
⟪ it's a light, but genuine teasing, to distract him from the way she'd noticed the scars as she begins to massage his shoulders. ⟫
( and just like that, the wariness dissipates. like sunlight coming to the ground through a gap in the trees, flora always seems to know just the right thing to say. he rolls his shoulder, laughs a bit. )
You were awake for that, huh?
( just him and whiskey in a jar. when i was going over the cork and kerry mountains... ironic, that as a cop he'd love songs about career criminals so much. maybe it's the rebel in him. )
Well... thank you. Just don't tell anybody, you might ruin my street cred. Tough guys and singing... ehhh...
⟪ it's a bit ironic, she's not going to lie. then again, she wonders how many people picture their cops with tattoos, a beloved car, a passion for photography.
and that's ignoring the fact that most people from flora's circumstances don't necessarily picture cops as the kind of people who spend most their free time trying to help. ⟫
I won't tell, no worries.
⟪ she says it with a laugh, but she means it. nice for the atmosphere, anyway. tracing circles where he seems most tense -- ⟫
I don't think you have to worry about your cred. Unless you're secretly knitting.
( he leans a little, into the warm pressure of her hands. christ, when was the last time anyone touched him like this? he's not even sure he and bill had time for it, their marriage happened mostly while he was overseas and she was in school and then it was over. they'd been closer, somehow, in high school when everything had seemed so simple, before the world changed. working with kids now, looking at sixteen year olds who've been on the street or in the system, sam wonders sometimes how he was ever that young.
idly, he reaches to tie his hair up. he's always got a band around his wrist for just that purpose. )
No. But I'll confess, I do kind of know how to do some beadwork, though.
( a woman's work, traditionally. the peril of growing up with more women than men, though his grandfather had tried to teach him to work leather he's not sure how much of it he's truly retained. )
⟪ she's fond of his hair, but it's true that it's a little in the way of the massage, especially if he wishes to keep it mostly dry. it's so good to feel him relax, leaning into her hands as she works. there's a calmness and a trust she feels around him, and in moments like this one, it seems so good and mutual. ⟫
Oh! ⟪ while she'd been teasing before, she sounds truly genuine now that she continues, and while he can't see her smile, he can definitely hear the warmth of it in her voice. ⟫ Your grandmother must have been so proud.
⟪ it's another good picture, the idea of a young sam learning from her or someone else in his life back then. ⟫
( the grief is still a jagged, grasping thing. the only good he's ever taken away from the timing of his grandmother's passing is that she didn't have to hear that he was missing in action. that alone might have killed her.
instead: )
No, she'd — passed on by then. I learned from my older sister. She was always more into that whole cultural preservation thing than me. She's the one I'm learning Lakota from, too.
( plus, she's nearly fifteen years older than he is. she just... had more time with their grandparents. )
⟪ 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 – 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 –– 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? ⟫
[ 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. ]
⟪ 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.
[ 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? ]
⟪ 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?' ⟫
[ She is new. The city hasn't sunk into her yet, with its proverbial claws, but Billie, most days, thinks more kindly of Chicago. She snorts at the nugget — it's a reasonable offering, but she's not about to take food from something (someone) that may be starving. Often, it's easier to be homeless, to eat, as an animal than as a human being. People are more likely to feed a stray dog or ignore a raccoon than they are to stop and comfort another human being sleeping on a park bench. ]
[ She pushes the box towards Flora with her nose, and sits, glancing around, ears primed for noise. Eat in peace, stranger. ]
⟪ 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 ––
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 – because that is simply the kind of man that he is. in the meantime, she keeps to her routine – 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. ⟫
Hey! You up for breakfast?
⟪ 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. ⟫
( 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. )
Don't know about horses – I'm thinking pancakes. And bacon, there's still some in the fridge if I'm not fully wrong.
⟪ 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. ⟫
You know, your timing's pretty great. ⟪ 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. ⟫ One of the guys on Jace's team cracked his ankle, so he's off the bench and playing on Saturday.
⟪ 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. ⟫ 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. )
⟪ she knows him –– this part of him. he'll vent about the kids sometimes, and god, so does she – 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: ⟫
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: )
⟪ 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. ⟫
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.
⟪ the pan's heated now, sizzling away, and she pours the first ladle-full of pancake batter in. ⟫
It wasn't great, for me. 'Course I'd have liked to know. ⟪ she shoots him a glance, trying to read him. ⟫ 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. )
There is plenty of time left before the bar officially opens, and even though it already looks as if Santa's workshop exploded all over the interior, Flora would immediately assure Ginia that no, she definitely has more decorating to do. In fact, she'd do that right away, but unfortunately, she's busy with three things: one, balancing on a stepping stool, two, fastening a mistletoe to the doorframe leading into the kitchen, and three, singing along loudly, enthusiastically, and with very little regard for the actual lyrics, to Last Christmas.
It isn't that she has always been a holiday person. They are hard to ignore on the streets, it's true, the decorations are everywhere, songs blasting from every shop, the overwhelming sense of loneliness that gnawed on her because there's no family to spend it with, and no friends either. It... didn't much endear her to seasonal things.
And yet, now that she's got a place to call 'home', even if it's a tiny shoebox of a studio and this bar right there... Suddenly, she can't seem to contain her excitement. There's cookies for the rest of the staff in the oven, she's wearing the world's ugliest christmas sweater, and just when she thought things couldn't get better, she turns to spot Ginia. "Can you give me a hand?"
She's really, really struggling with that mistletoe. It just won't stay put.
It's bewildering how many decorations can fit into a single space. Every time Ginia reenters the bar from the kitchen, there's another garland arching across the wall, or ornaments dangling from the ceiling. It's bright and festive and though Ginia looks a bit overwhelmed, a bit of a smile plays on her face.
Holidays were never really her thing. They're an inescapable reminder of what she doesn't have and how much she's lost. She never grudges anyone else for their happiness. Her circumstances are her own. And while things are a bit different now, she wouldn't say her opinion have entirely slid toward the positive either.
But Flora is happy and enjoying herself and Ginia isn't going to say anything that would quash that.
She gamely comes over as Flora asks for help. Careful not to topple Flora from the stool, Ginia cranes her head around the frame to see where the mistletoe is. Effortlessly, she reaches up and holds it in place.
It's a novel thing; standing on the stool, Flora is taller now. Ginia bites back an amused huff at the thought.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
and yet, there's numbers written on his arm, and she can't make sense of them. her phone may be ancient, but in the end, she finds her opportunity to jot them down, to look them up online.
to wind up with images of a strange desert.
she didn't think she would wind up with more questions.
but she let it rest, it's none of her business, and instead, somehow, they planned a short trip. he's got time off, so does she, and she'd excitedly shown him her fresh-off-the-press diploma, another stepping stone back into the real, human world. nature is what they wanted for the trip, nothing too far, or too high-tech. a cabin would be nice, and they found something that lacked tv and internet, but came with a nice selection of hiking trails –– and a hot tub.
so far, though, it's not been tall trees and a quaint lake that sold her, though. what really got her was hearing him hum along to a song while she was nearly asleep in the car beside him, and the look in his eye as his car practically flew across the highway.
all the same, it's night now, it's late, it's quiet, and the hot tub beckoned. her bikini is a green that bites with her red hair, and he can see the shitty cat-esque stick n poke tattoo she got when she was seventeen. his tattoos, they've spoken of plenty. they're covering what she's not usually mentioning. mostly covering. ⟫
I don't think the jets work. I guess I'll DIY the massage function.
⟪ she's already motioning for him to shift and scoot so she can give him a backrub. ⟫
no subject
flora's seen him shirtless, and despite her naturally curious nature she didn't press the issue. it's probably the only reason he didn't mind the idea of the hot tub. it's cold enough out that the air's crisp, and the heat from the tub is creating a mistbank in the air.
he tries not to look too closely at the way she fills out that bikini, though he swears she's put on weight since she started staying at his house. regular meals have done her good. and he'd be a fool if he hadn't noticed the tension between them, but. it's nice to just let it be. not feel like it needs acting on right away. like what they have to start is enough of a foundation that they can build on it in their own time.
she gestures for him to move and he does, though he's hyperconscious of the fact that the exit wounds spattered across his back are worse than the entry wounds on his chest. armour piercing rounds. went straight through his fucking goverment issue body armour. he's probably lucky they were all through-and-through shots, because if any of them had hit the bone hard enough to shatter and ricochet it would've cut his survivability down by that much more. and it had already been pretty grim.
still. his shoulders are just the slightest bit drawn up. not quite tense but. wary, certainly. )
I'm definitely asking for a discount. No jets? Highway robbery.
no subject
part of it is simple personal growth, of course, and learning from past mistakes. part of it is the fact that she knows he'll be there tomorrow. and the day after. and next month. she doesn't have to rush through each step – with him, she can savour the hours they have, talking about everything and nothing, getting to know him. there's no attempt to stomp a future out of the ground with a near-stranger. it's more setting down each stone for a foundation, letting something grow from the tension and the warmth.
in the here and now, she's a civilian, of course. this is the moment when she learns that exit wounds look worse than entry wounds, and that, this close, to know how close he must have been to death almost physically hurts her. but his shoulders are tense, too, and she rests her hands gently against them, hot as they are from the water that's steaming all around them. ⟫
I think it's just what they meant when they said it's 'rustic'.
⟪ her voice is warm, she's... focusing back on what she meant to do. take care of him a little, after all, he did all the driving and some of the wood-chopping necessary for the oven-heater later. he can't be downright accused to not taking care of himself, but she sometimes wonders what he's keeping at bay by always being on the go. when he's not at work, he's at the youth centre, and when he's not at the youth centre, he's making plans for it, or bonding and mediating and community-building with the shifters at the bar. it's the way he engages with the world she admires, it's how much his heart's blood runs through the spaces he makes for others. she just wants to make sure his heart's taken care of as well. she wants to make sure that. now and again, he rests, breathes, takes space for himself, not for others. ⟫
You got a nice singing voice.
⟪ it's a light, but genuine teasing, to distract him from the way she'd noticed the scars as she begins to massage his shoulders. ⟫
no subject
You were awake for that, huh?
( just him and whiskey in a jar. when i was going over the cork and kerry mountains... ironic, that as a cop he'd love songs about career criminals so much. maybe it's the rebel in him. )
Well... thank you. Just don't tell anybody, you might ruin my street cred. Tough guys and singing... ehhh...
no subject
⟪ it's a bit ironic, she's not going to lie. then again, she wonders how many people picture their cops with tattoos, a beloved car, a passion for photography.
and that's ignoring the fact that most people from flora's circumstances don't necessarily picture cops as the kind of people who spend most their free time trying to help. ⟫
I won't tell, no worries.
⟪ she says it with a laugh, but she means it. nice for the atmosphere, anyway. tracing circles where he seems most tense -- ⟫
I don't think you have to worry about your cred. Unless you're secretly knitting.
no subject
idly, he reaches to tie his hair up. he's always got a band around his wrist for just that purpose. )
No. But I'll confess, I do kind of know how to do some beadwork, though.
( a woman's work, traditionally. the peril of growing up with more women than men, though his grandfather had tried to teach him to work leather he's not sure how much of it he's truly retained. )
no subject
Oh! ⟪ while she'd been teasing before, she sounds truly genuine now that she continues, and while he can't see her smile, he can definitely hear the warmth of it in her voice. ⟫ Your grandmother must have been so proud.
⟪ it's another good picture, the idea of a young sam learning from her or someone else in his life back then. ⟫
no subject
instead: )
No, she'd — passed on by then. I learned from my older sister. She was always more into that whole cultural preservation thing than me. She's the one I'm learning Lakota from, too.
( plus, she's nearly fifteen years older than he is. she just... had more time with their grandparents. )
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
no subject
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 –– 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? ⟫
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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'. ⟫
no subject
[ She too leans in, to nose at one of Flora's ears. Hello, what are you doing out here? ]
no subject
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?' ⟫
no subject
[ She pushes the box towards Flora with her nose, and sits, glancing around, ears primed for noise. Eat in peace, stranger. ]
no subject
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 – because that is simply the kind of man that he is. in the meantime, she keeps to her routine – 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. ⟫
Hey! You up for breakfast?
⟪ 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. ⟫
no subject
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.
no subject
⟪ 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. ⟫
You know, your timing's pretty great. ⟪ 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. ⟫ One of the guys on Jace's team cracked his ankle, so he's off the bench and playing on Saturday.
⟪ 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. ⟫ If you're up for it, we should go see him play.
no subject
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. )
no subject
⟪ she knows him –– this part of him. he'll vent about the kids sometimes, and god, so does she – 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: ⟫
You know I'm not... upset about you taking time and space when you need it, right?
no subject
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 subject
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.
⟪ the pan's heated now, sizzling away, and she pours the first ladle-full of pancake batter in. ⟫
It wasn't great, for me. 'Course I'd have liked to know. ⟪ she shoots him a glance, trying to read him. ⟫ 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?
cw suicidal ideation;
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. )
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
for ginia – seasonal greetings;
It isn't that she has always been a holiday person. They are hard to ignore on the streets, it's true, the decorations are everywhere, songs blasting from every shop, the overwhelming sense of loneliness that gnawed on her because there's no family to spend it with, and no friends either. It... didn't much endear her to seasonal things.
And yet, now that she's got a place to call 'home', even if it's a tiny shoebox of a studio and this bar right there... Suddenly, she can't seem to contain her excitement. There's cookies for the rest of the staff in the oven, she's wearing the world's ugliest christmas sweater, and just when she thought things couldn't get better, she turns to spot Ginia. "Can you give me a hand?"
She's really, really struggling with that mistletoe. It just won't stay put.
no subject
Holidays were never really her thing. They're an inescapable reminder of what she doesn't have and how much she's lost. She never grudges anyone else for their happiness. Her circumstances are her own. And while things are a bit different now, she wouldn't say her opinion have entirely slid toward the positive either.
But Flora is happy and enjoying herself and Ginia isn't going to say anything that would quash that.
She gamely comes over as Flora asks for help. Careful not to topple Flora from the stool, Ginia cranes her head around the frame to see where the mistletoe is. Effortlessly, she reaches up and holds it in place.
It's a novel thing; standing on the stool, Flora is taller now. Ginia bites back an amused huff at the thought.