e_delmar | (no subject)

(no subject)

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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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.

"Shhhh," River whispers again, barely audible.
Walk on, walk on
She touches an edge of the blanket with her free hand, rolling the wool between her fingertips, feeling the boundary.
Stay safe tonight.
After a minute, she pulls on it gently; another exploration, and one that pulls it a little closer around Ennis.

He closes his eyes, finally, breathing in the comforting smell of

Jack

home, and sleeps, River's hand in his.

And this time, maybe he doesn't dream.

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