And he remembers her hand and her wish and her promise, and he remembers her sibling, sitting there at the food of his bed, tellingpromisingthreatening and he struggles against the pull of sleep.
There's limits. There're rules. It's all in the playbook.
But the thing is, you can't put all of life in the book. She thinks. She thinks that's the secret she knows, that there are things you can't write down and can't be understood except by experiencing, and she thinks a lot of things and smooths his hair, gently.
"I'll offer him a hand, too. I can do that. I can't--Desire is a bitch, y'see? Always has been, always will be. World without end amen, as they say. But I can offer Jack a hand. I'll do that, if you want."
It's more than a lot get. Death waits for everyone, and you can't escape her. She's not like Death. It's entirely possible to avoid her, if you want to, and she's the kind you find half by accident and half by seeking out and half because you're blessed.
Too many halves, she thinks, and starts to fracture again, and makes herself not.
And maybe that makes him feel better, maybe he'd laugh if he could. Maybe it's that he's half asleep, or maybe it don't matter none 'cause maybe he's already asleep and this is all a dream anyway.
And in the end, none of it matters anyway, 'cause in the end, it's all sleep.
And when he does sleep, maybe no one else can see her sitting next to his bed--or maybe there's one girl around who could, if she looked close--but there's a damp cloth on his forehead that wasn't earlier, and the room still smells like grass and cool air from the mountains.
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Instead she sits and the room is cool and comfortable, and you can almost hear someone singing.
"I wish we'd known each other longer, Ennis del Mar. I truly do. But, you know."
And she's always Del, so she looks over at him and her smile's a little secret.
"You know. Like what I said. Remember?"
"And my hand's here as long as you want to hold it."
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And he remembers her hand and her wish and her promise, and he remembers her sibling, sitting there at the food of his bed, tellingpromisingthreatening and he struggles against the pull of sleep.
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There's limits. There're rules. It's all in the playbook.
But the thing is, you can't put all of life in the book. She thinks. She thinks that's the secret she knows, that there are things you can't write down and can't be understood except by experiencing, and she thinks a lot of things and smooths his hair, gently.
"I'll offer him a hand, too. I can do that. I can't--Desire is a bitch, y'see? Always has been, always will be. World without end amen, as they say. But I can offer Jack a hand. I'll do that, if you want."
It's more than a lot get. Death waits for everyone, and you can't escape her. She's not like Death. It's entirely possible to avoid her, if you want to, and she's the kind you find half by accident and half by seeking out and half because you're blessed.
Too many halves, she thinks, and starts to fracture again, and makes herself not.
"...And I'll steal Desire's cigarettes."
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And in the end, none of it matters anyway, 'cause in the end, it's all sleep.
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But you can think that if you want.
And when he does sleep, maybe no one else can see her sitting next to his bed--or maybe there's one girl around who could, if she looked close--but there's a damp cloth on his forehead that wasn't earlier, and the room still smells like grass and cool air from the mountains.
For a little while, anyway.