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.
( 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. )
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«
( part of him wishes she'd be rougher about it. it feels like the blood's in every line and crease and whorl of his fingerprints, even though he knows it isn't. christ, he feels like a walking cliche, that unhinged parable of a soul that's scrubbing their hands bloody in a sink after some traumatic event.
he closes his eyes. deep breath. five things. fridge, stove, knife rack, window, flora. )
The cabin. (four things. countertop. glass. towel. flora. ) It's out of the way.
βͺ pain grounds, not words she'd ever thought, but actions she'd taken. digging until her paws hurt just because it's easier than thinking, and dealing. she wonders if that is what he'd done, why his hands look this way right now. not digging, but something repetitive to focus on. β«
It's a lovely place.
βͺ it's much more to him than that, and her words sound empty even to herself. his eyes are closed, this is costing him much more than he's saying, much more than he is trying to show.
his hands look less awful now that she's done, but there's little she can do against the blisters. perhaps it helps if all he has to do for a moment is to sit and breathe. β«
Not to hype it up too much, but I'm going to mix some cinnamon into the pancake batter, 'cause it's Christmas.
βͺ flora, it's november. early november.
she's back on her feet, though, and back by the stove. now, she wouldn't say that food is going to fix it, but she's had enough dark days to know that no food is usually worse, and there's something soothing in knowing that, even if he might not have an appetite, he's at least willing to give eating a try. pancake number two already spreads in the pan, and this is one's going to turn out perfect, she feels it. β«
( he repeats that like he's trying to grasp the passage of time, and glances out a window. no, can't be december yet, the house next door always puts up their lights on the first of the year. hyperbole. right, that's a thing that exists and that flora uses sometimes. he lets out his breath in a huff. )
It was always hard to tell on deployment. Hundred and twenty degrees never really felt like the holiday spirit, you know?
βͺ with holidays, it's not so much hyperbole and more of a... habit she's picked up ever since she managed to scrape her way off the streets. holidays are hard to miss, and that's just about the worst thing about them β nothing like a thirty-odd days-long stretch of reminders that this must be just about the loneliest time of an already lonely year. now that she has people to spend these times with, her enthusiasm is...
well. hard to rein in. but she hears his hesitation, catches the glance. he must have lost track of time, and hard, on his timeout. β«
No, I guess not. βͺ can an unexpected turn still be expected? she flips a pancake, fetches a plate so it's ready to go. β« The whole of it doesn't sound too much like it'd be feeling like any kind of cheer, to be honest.
( he pulls the plate towards himself when she puts it down. normally he'd insist that they eat together once there's enough, but he really is famished and knows she won't mind. he leans across the island so he can grab cutlery out of the drawer, butter's already on the countertop in a little dish. syrup... shit. cupboard?
honestly he doesn't even care. butter's enough for now. he's slathering it up as he continues; )
Hoi was a fucking Buddhist, but he — you know, he always found a way to decorate for the rest of us. We used to do this thing with ammo boxes. They were already green, so... you know. A couple strands of lights from back home, some kitschy candy canes, Jefferson's fucking... Harry Potter scarf. Gaudiest thing I've ever seen, I think his girlfriend made it or something. But we made it work.
( he doesn't talk about his team. but he always does swear more when he mentions anything military. call it a tic. )
βͺ they're not names she's heard before, hoi and jefferson. 'course, she knows where the syrup is, she bought the stuff in variations, and she sets the bottle of it down in front of him, even though he's already chosen butter. seeing him eat, and eagerly so, is as much of a relief as she thought it'd be, and she's not about to waste time watching when she could instead make some more pancakes. looks like he needs them.
and it keeps her hands busy while she wonders if hoi and jefferson are out there somewhere, too. jefferson with his girlfriend and (what she suspects might be his own, enthusiastically-purchased) harry potter mugs β they make mugs, right β having coffee in the morning. hoi, elsewhere, turning over for an extra five minutes. better that way than to think of the alternative.
she knows she's being overly optimistic. he's talked of the desert, even if it hadn't been much. β«
Somehow the only stockings I can picture got holes where the toes should be.
I will have you know, Kurik was an expert tailor. We used to pay him with smokes for all obligatory uniform mending.
( something about being raised by his grandma. he wishes he'd paid more attention. if he'd known how much those men would come to mean to him, he'd have listened more and talked less in those early days. and now the door is closed, no going back. )
βͺ there's the 'was' again, right by the image of a guy who was, what? maybe twenty? calling sam 'crowe' and wrangling his entire hand in the gash of a uniform shirt, incredulous or amused, but with a cigarette between his lips for sure.
she wonders how many things sam sees on the day to day that remind him of those friends. β«
Oh, I never really smoked. Cherry cigarillos a couple times a year.
( he was a highschool athlete with scholarship prospects. somebody would've killed him. whether it was his parents, or bill and hers, or his coach remains to be seen. plenty of rangers smoked, but sam'd learned by then to value his lungs. which is probably a good thing, now that he's missing part of one. )
But they were good currency. Kinda like prison that way.
βͺ flora's never had the money to waste on cigarettes, and really... most else had felt like a slope to fall down on. hell knows she's not drinking anything at all these days for good reason. β«
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no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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«
no subject
he closes his eyes. deep breath. five things. fridge, stove, knife rack, window, flora. )
The cabin. ( four things. countertop. glass. towel. flora. ) It's out of the way.
no subject
It's a lovely place.
βͺ it's much more to him than that, and her words sound empty even to herself. his eyes are closed, this is costing him much more than he's saying, much more than he is trying to show.
his hands look less awful now that she's done, but there's little she can do against the blisters. perhaps it helps if all he has to do for a moment is to sit and breathe. β«
Sam? Do you want to lie down?
βͺ or would breakfast be better? β«
You look like you need it.
no subject
( believe it or not, the easy slang is actually better than sharp, truncated enunciation. nah means he's doing better than no. )
If I went to bed and missed out on a patented Flora Hansard breakfast I'd really be in it.
no subject
βͺ flora, it's november. early november.
she's back on her feet, though, and back by the stove. now, she wouldn't say that food is going to fix it, but she's had enough dark days to know that no food is usually worse, and there's something soothing in knowing that, even if he might not have an appetite, he's at least willing to give eating a try. pancake number two already spreads in the pan, and this is one's going to turn out perfect, she feels it. β«
no subject
( he repeats that like he's trying to grasp the passage of time, and glances out a window. no, can't be december yet, the house next door always puts up their lights on the first of the year. hyperbole. right, that's a thing that exists and that flora uses sometimes. he lets out his breath in a huff. )
It was always hard to tell on deployment. Hundred and twenty degrees never really felt like the holiday spirit, you know?
no subject
well. hard to rein in. but she hears his hesitation, catches the glance. he must have lost track of time, and hard, on his timeout. β«
No, I guess not. βͺ can an unexpected turn still be expected? she flips a pancake, fetches a plate so it's ready to go. β« The whole of it doesn't sound too much like it'd be feeling like any kind of cheer, to be honest.
no subject
( he pulls the plate towards himself when she puts it down. normally he'd insist that they eat together once there's enough, but he really is famished and knows she won't mind. he leans across the island so he can grab cutlery out of the drawer, butter's already on the countertop in a little dish. syrup... shit. cupboard?
honestly he doesn't even care. butter's enough for now. he's slathering it up as he continues; )
Hoi was a fucking Buddhist, but he — you know, he always found a way to decorate for the rest of us. We used to do this thing with ammo boxes. They were already green, so... you know. A couple strands of lights from back home, some kitschy candy canes, Jefferson's fucking... Harry Potter scarf. Gaudiest thing I've ever seen, I think his girlfriend made it or something. But we made it work.
( he doesn't talk about his team. but he always does swear more when he mentions anything military. call it a tic. )
no subject
and it keeps her hands busy while she wonders if hoi and jefferson are out there somewhere, too. jefferson with his girlfriend and (what she suspects might be his own, enthusiastically-purchased) harry potter mugs β they make mugs, right β having coffee in the morning. hoi, elsewhere, turning over for an extra five minutes. better that way than to think of the alternative.
she knows she's being overly optimistic. he's talked of the desert, even if it hadn't been much. β«
Somehow the only stockings I can picture got holes where the toes should be.
no subject
( something about being raised by his grandma. he wishes he'd paid more attention. if he'd known how much those men would come to mean to him, he'd have listened more and talked less in those early days. and now the door is closed, no going back. )
no subject
she wonders how many things sam sees on the day to day that remind him of those friends. β«
Kinda hard to picture you with cigarettes.
no subject
( he was a highschool athlete with scholarship prospects. somebody would've killed him. whether it was his parents, or bill and hers, or his coach remains to be seen. plenty of rangers smoked, but sam'd learned by then to value his lungs. which is probably a good thing, now that he's missing part of one. )
But they were good currency. Kinda like prison that way.
no subject
Probably more brotherly than straight up cash.