e_delmar | (no subject)

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It's nice on Shadow, quiet. Work's good, even if he ain't sleeping much.

But not sleeping's better'n what happens when he sleeps.

He don't need anything more'n what he's got there, but sometimes when he stares at the ceiling - or the night sky - he can't help but think about a thing or two left behind that maybe he don't want got rid of.

So it could be that it's late one night (on Shadow, anyway, who ever knows how times match up) Ennis sneaks into the bar, headed back towards his (their) room.

He's quick, and he's quiet, but could be you could catch him.

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He moves, finally, towards the bed. Slow and quiet, and the floor doesn't even creak under his large frame, and he sits softly on the bed. Slowly, he reaches out for the piece of metal, his hand wrapping around it, and with his other hand he turns and punches the wall.

There's a loud, dull thud that seems even louder in the muffled stillness of the too-empty room, and River jumps a little, shoulders hunching.

Followed by another, and one more, and then his head's up against the wall, not moving, not thudding, just Ennis, hunched down against the wall.

River waits, still.

And then -- nearly silent footsteps, and the whisper of coattails against skirts, getting nearer.

He doesn't notice her now, not curled in on himself like he is now, not until she's just a few feet closer, and his head whips around, his face full of anger and confusion and upset.

River's face is lined with a sober, weary compassion, and her eyes are large and dark and sad. She looks much too young; she looks impossibly old.

She doesn't say anything. Just reaches out -- slowly -- as if to touch his shoulder with her fingertips.

He pulls back as if he hand was fire, his own hands clenching, white-knuckled.

River flinches back, too, but her hands fall loose and empty at her sides. Her fingers stiffen and slide unevenly, as if pushing at something invisible and viscous.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, after a minute.

It sounds more like apology than sympathy; maybe it's both.

The apology might not be for touching him, though.

Might not be, and could be he knows it, and nods, his hands clenched tight.

River's hand lifts a little, again, maybe beginning to reach for him again and maybe just an uncertain gesture, and then her attention is caught sharply by something just beside and above him. A moment of startlement; then her face twists, and her hand drops as her arm wraps around her stomach.

"Okay," she says softly and miserably to the empty air above him, starting to turn away. "Inherent in the brickwork."

He looks up at her, red, lined eyes confused now.

River's head turns slowly, just enough for her to look at him over her shoulder. She meets his eyes for a long moment, silent and slim and tangled, before her gaze drops.

She doesn't look nineteen right now, let alone less. Her eyes shine with unshed tears, and her small young face is pale and drawn.

"I know."

Ennis' own eyes are bright, but his tears aren't unshed. He doesn't even realize that his shirt is wet, and he turns his face down, swallowing, looking at the glinting piece of metal in his hand.

"I'm sorry."

And it might be to River, and it might be to Jack, and it might be to neither.

River's lips press together, quivering slightly.

And then -- moving slowly, as if Ennis is a wild horse that might startle at any moment -- she turns back.

Lifts her hand, hesitates, and then touches his arm. Very lightly.

He wants to pull back, he wants to run, hit, yell, something, but instead he finds himself still, or even slightly leaning into her touch.

Her fingers shift, ever so slightly, and then settle. Slowly, slowly, her hand spreads until her palm rests against his bicep, fingers spreading over worn cotton.

The tighter her fingers get, the more his muscles seem to relax until he's almost slumped over, and he falls, curling onto his side on the bed.

River perches on the very edge of the bed, as Simon has perched on her bed a hundred times, and strokes his arm gently.

"Hurts." It's barely a breath. "I know it."

He shakes his head, not 'cause it don't hurt, but 'cause it hurts too much. He don't know how to say it, though, don't even know how this goes, this hurt lying on the bed and crying.

You figure it out as you go along.

She always has.

"Shhhhh." Like Simon to her; like herself to a frightened animal. She's rubbing his arm, slow and steady, and her own tears are spilling now, but they don't choke her voice. "Shhhhh."</font.

Maybe if he could remember his momma better, this is what he'd remember. Layin' in bed like this, hurting over something big or small, and the soft skin sweet smell soothing voice that lets you know everything's gonna be okay, even when you know it just can't be true.

River as a maternal figure to Ennis; there's an irony, here.

But sometimes everything's all topsy-turvy anyway, and everything's too big and too much, and should and was and could be and even is (and isn't) don't matter so much as this, here, now:

A room, and the rough texture of wool blankets, and the salty choking taste of your own tears and someone's voice low and wordless. And the rest of the world outside.

And if he could, if he knew how, he'd keep the rest of the world outside. Keep time from passing, keep people from seeing him, keep anybody from knowing. But instead, he's here, and he's got this, and he's got now, and he reaches out and silently takes River's hand in his own.

His palm is larger than hers, callused to leather by sun and cold and work. That's familiar too.
And if the darkness is to keep us apart
River curls her hand around his in silence, and tears fall onto the backs of their hands.
And if the daylight feels like it's a long way off

Somewhere on the bed is a rough blanket, and Ennis' cheek rubs against it, rough and smelling of smoke 'n worse, and he tugs on it, pulling it from wherever it's stuck.

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river_meimei - 2006-06-07 03:28 (UTC) - Expand

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e_delmar - 2006-06-07 03:32 (UTC) - Expand

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