e_delmar | (no subject)

(no subject)

Ain't nothin' but a normal room. Pretty one, too, if'n you don't think too hard on what's goin' on in there. Ennis' sleeping more now, at least -- the drugs help with that -- but he's still awake a lot (and damn grumpy about it, too. But he ain't no less grumpy about the sleep, neither).

But he's there, and at least that's something.

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Mary approaches, each step carefully measured and placed one after the other, until she's standing next to the bed.

She doesn't wonder if she's going to get sick, too, or at least not for more than a moment; after all, she didn't catch the cholera, did she?

"Are you going to become a ghost?" she asks, abruptly.

If she asked, he'd explain it weren't something she could catch, but she don't, and it ain't something he'd think of, even not drugged.

"Don't know 'bout that. But I won't be old no more."

Old and sick.

Mary stares at him.

"Old is better than dead."

"Sometimes."

It's simple, and it's easy to say, 'cause he believes it.

Mary shakes her head, stubbornly, thin hair flying into her face.

"Alive is better. Even if you are sick - you can still, still see flowers, and learn things, and do things - alive is better!"

Ennis frowns, 'cause most of them things he can't do.

"Gets a point, you get tired."

"Then you can sleep.

People do die; Mary knows that perfectly well. It's just -

- well. Mary's spent her whole life being contrary. It's what she knows best. And if there's anything to be contrary about . . . Mary feels that death is it.

Ennis looks up at her, and there ain't no fear there, no anger, no upset. No nothing but peace.

"Ain't that kinda tired."

Stubbornly: "I do not know what other kind of tired there is."

Her fists are tight at her sides.

"Even when I had nothing to care about I did not want to die. And you have got things to care about - so it is only stupid!"

Then Ennis is stupid, he ain't fightin' back, not at this point. Instead, he reaches out a hand, it's slow and it's shaky, and he puts it on Mary's shoulder.

Mary stares at him for another moment, her eyes full of accusation.

And then squinches them shut, but it's not much good; she's crying anyways.

"Gonna be alright."

He says it, and he believes it, even if he worries sometimes.

"It is not all right," Mary says, blinking her way furiously through tears.

"Being dead is not all right. Everyone died in India, and that was not all right, I had to go fix it; and Wellard being dead is not all right, and they all say it is but it is not!"

Ennis just nods, and squeezes some more. Ain't too tight, ain't like he can squeeze too tight, but it's there.

Mary raises her free hand, still fisted up, to rub the water from her eyes - it leaves them red-rimmed, and leaking, still.

It didn't matter when she didn't care.

"Oh - I wish I could take you to the garden!" she cries, suddenly. "It would make you better, it would - only you would not come."

He'd say sorry again, but he don't figure that would go over too well. Instead, he turns to her and gives her a sad smile and says,

"Tell me 'bout it?"

"It is Magic," Mary says, and sniffles; her nose is running.

"It makes things better. It is the most beautiful place in the world; there are lilies and snowdrops and daffydowndillies, and roses - fountains of them. And everything works by Magic, but not the kind that is cheating. The real kind."

Her voice has been dropping into a calmer, storytelling cadence, but now it jerks up again, sharply.

"It does make things better - it does!"

"I believe you."

The words are quiet and kind, even if they're raspy and hard at the same time.

"What're them flowers again?"

He closes his eyes, like he's tryin' to picture it in his head.

"Snowdrops," Mary says, "and crocuses.

"And daffydowndillys. And - and white poppy and blue larkspur, that I planted; Dickon's mother gave them to me."

"Said there were roses, too."

It's almost a question, almost an acusation.

"Yes - roses everywhere," Mary says, and then, "I will bring you some."

Her voice dares him to contradict her.

His eyes open, and could be they're shining a little bit, through the haze of the drugs

(and the pain).

"Be nice."

"I will fetch you the nicest ones," Mary announces, the last few drops of water smudging their way down her cheeks.

And maybe she's thinking that if he sees, smells the roses, a little of the Magic of the garden might be able to make it here, to this dark sickroom in space with no Magic in it that she can see - none at all.

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