e_delmar | (no subject)

(no subject)

Something feels off lately, though Ennis can't place what. Feels better outside, away from the bar, though that ain't nothing different, really.

There's something, though, and Ennis sits near the lake, up on a big rock, smoking and trying to think of anything but.

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"I know."

He says it soft and quiet, voice rumbling, and the smile falls.

"Same grass."

He don't sound too certain of that, though.

River glances at him again, head still bent.

Tries a smile. It's not faked; it is hesitant.

His fingers clench, and maybe if she was one of his girls, he'd reach out and squeeze her arm, but she ain't, and he doesn't, and he can't help remembering that.

"Same water, same sky."

Ain't really obvious who he's trying to convince.

She's not his, and she's not one of his either. They both know it. But he's Ennis, and she's River, and that's something, anyway.

River pulls a knee up to her chest, curling her toes against stone, and wraps her arms loosely around it.

Softly, "So close your eyes."

He looks at her, not a little skeptical, not a little angry and upset. But he breathes, gotta remember to breathe, and closes his eyes.

Ennis is like Mal, sometimes.

And Mal's kind of like this, right now.

"Let the clouds change," she whispers.

"Storm's gonna pass."

"Ain't no storm" is what he says, but it's stubborn, mostly, he knows what she means. He leans back, his face looking up into the sun with his eyes clenched shut.

"Sick of this fucking place," is the other thing he says, even more quiet, even more rough, but that one ain't the whole truth, it ain't the whole truth by a mile.

River breathes in, and out.

"I know it," she says, very soft.

"It's a common symptom."

"You got your ship."

And it's the closest, really, he's come to an accusation with her.

River's gaze on him goes flat and faintly irritated, just for a moment. It fades.

"I'm not sick." Of the bar, that is.

"Course not."

And it all makes sense, really, in Ennis' head. You got some place to go, you don't get quite so anxious to leave.

Silence.

If Ennis's eyes were open, he'd be able to see River's face: troubled, inward-turned, wistful. They're not, and he can't.

"Everybody leaves," she whispers after a long, long moment, and it's just a statement of fact. "Doors in his head and where the veins go under the zippers. Just got now."

He can't see her, but he turns towards her anyway, instinct, call it, and breathes.

"Can't hold on to nobody for too long."

River's silent.

This is not disagreement. On the contrary.

In the background comes the staccato cry of a thrush, and the dopplered buzz of a passing bee, and always the steady sound of lake water lapping on the shore.

Silence, silence, everfucking silence everywhere but in his head, and then even that is silent, too, and his eyes open.

"Can't blame 'm."

He doesn't say who he's talking about, and maybe it don't matter none, anyway.

A tiny, sad smile. No, it says.

"It's inevitable."

"Can't change some things."

And the look behind his eyes, then, is calm. Peaceful. And then he does something he don't much often do, and pulls River into a hug.

River stiffens for an instant, startled.
Omnia
And then she slumps against his shoulder, and lets herself be hugged. Her cheek is pressed against the tough brown cloth of his jacket; it smells of old tobacco, and horses, and leather. No gun oil.
mutantur
"Ka," she whispers. Her eyes are too bright, but the monosyllable's too short to sound choked.
nihil
"I know it."
interit
And then, softer, "Gonna be okay."

"Ka."

He says it and, unlike before, it ain't a question. All those times she tried to explain it, he's pretty sure he'd got it down now.

Pretty damn sure.

But when he lets go, it's like he can breathe again, and the sun's a little too bright and grass is a little too green and the sky's a little too blue. And he gives River a wry smile, saying the only endearment he knows and nodding at her in thanks.

River's head is bowed and her shoulders are too, her hair tumbling forward, and the smile she gives him from under that hair may be crooked and sad -- but it's real, too.

And there's grass, and blue sky, and Boukephalos cropping clover a few yards away. And there's the two of them, sitting on this rock in the sunshine. And the lake washes the shore, low and constant.

And it's okay.

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