e_delmar | (no subject)

(no subject)

It's cold, and the wind's howling out there like a sumbitch, and Ennis Del Mar finds himself caught up in the thin sheet, tossing and turning until he's wrapped like a mummy and panicking, a thin sheen of sweat on his face. He cries out and manages to free an arm, punching into the air-

not the air. A person.

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"Fuck," Jack hisses. "The hell was that for? Calm down, Ennis."

He grips Ennis' shoulders, tight, and ducks his head to look at him, frowning and annoyed.

Ennis pulls and writhes in his arms, muttering something unintelligable until he opens his eyes and damn near freezes where he is.

"Shit."

The frown gets a little deeper.

"You okay, there, Ennis? Ain't like you, tossin around like that."

His hand on Ennis' shoulder squeezes slightly, and then Jack sits back.

Takes him a minute to get his breath back, and when he does, he squeezes his eyes shut.

"Had a real shit storm of a dream."

"Anythin in parti'clar?"

The wind whines outside, and Jack glances out towards the sound, distracted.

"Feels like a storm's headin this way, too. Guess you ain't just dreamed it."

"You."

He shakes his head, wanting to laugh but all he can see is the red, red everywhere. He tilts his head and listens to the wind howling.

"Soon enough."

"Too soon for my liking, anyway."

But Jack grins a little, settles back, lights a cigarette. His next words float out of a cloud of smoke, as he still smiles.

"Me, huh? Hell, that don't sound so good. Don't think no one ever had a nightmare with me in it before, less it were my daddy dreamin he'd have to raise me all over again."

Ennis reaches up and takes the cigarette from him, a puff, two, ten calming his nerves.

"Dreamt you was dead."

Jack's laugh is sudden, rusty and low, and he shakes his head with an easy grin.

"Damn. You dream up some fuckin weird shit, Ennis."

Taking back the cigarette, his hand trails down Ennis' shoulder, his chest, and Jack's blue eyes are amused.

"Guess this ain't your lucky day. 'm still right here."

"Guess so."

But his eyes're still confused and his pulse is still pounding in his ears and his knuckles are clenched white.

"Hey."

Amusement turns to concern, and Jack shifts closer, moves the hand that's cigarette-free down to grasp Ennis', squeezes it, tries to unclench the fingers.

"Shit, you're cold. Hey, wake up, Ennis. Just a dream, bud."

He leans away, puts the cigarette out, and moves back to lay that hand at the side of Ennis' neck, warm and comforting.

Ennis leans in to the touch -- can't help but. He's cold and shaking and his breath is short, and Jack is warm and still and calming, and Ennis squeezes his eyes shut, as if closing them will stop the images in his head, the phantom memories of red and a place he ain't never been.

"C'mere."

And Jack lays down there beside him, and does what he ain't done since that first night, when Ennis was shaky and nervous and wanting--he pulls Ennis over to himself, slips an arm under his back and rests Ennis' head there on his own shoulder.

His mouth moves gentle against Ennis' forehead, and he talks low and continual, like he would to a spooked horse, saying nonsense things about the weather and the horses and what it was like, being a kid in Lightning Flat. Joking quiet and calming, while his hand smoothes gentle over Ennis' chest, his shoulder, brushes over his hair.

And it ain't so much the heat or the fire as the slow warmth and the comfort and the feel of Jack's hands, Jack's skin against his. He closes his eyes, trying to slow his panicked breath only to have it speed up again for different reasons altogether, leans into Jack's touch, reaches up to kiss Jack as he ignores the wet feeling on his cheeks.

Jack tastes a little like salt and a little like whiskey and a little like smoke, but mostly he just tastes like Jack, kissing Ennis back and holding him close. He says nothing about the dampness on Ennis' cheeks, but his thumb smoothes over it, tries to wipe it away, or at least make it not matter so much anymore.

Somewhere, the wind picks up, and cools the air, and rain begins to fall.

There's a leak in the tent, or must be somethin' like that, 'cause the water on Ennis' cheeks ain't going away, but's coming fast and hard now. He reaches out for Jack as a chill comes through his bones with the wind, trying for some of that warmth, some of that comfort.

Jack says something, could be calm down or could be miss you or could be nothing at all. He pulls away, looking at Ennis and he's intent and he's sad and he's confused all at the same time, and the rain drowns out whatever it is he might be saying.

"Ennis?" he says (and that comes out clear), bewildered, as the shadows start creeping in further. He doesn't seem to notice them, and somehow Jack's dry, despite the rain and the leak--or no leak, though the tent's a pretty cheap canvas number (Fuckin cheap Aguirre, Jack would say).

"Jack," he says but he can't hardly hear his own voice, and it's almost like Jack's see-through, 'cause hell if he can't see the floor of the tent where Jack was laying.

Jack's there and not and the mountain is cold--easy to forget just how cold, how lonesome the camp could get. There's the clip-clop of hooves outside, or maybe it's the banging of metal on...something, or the branches of the trees knocking into each other.

"Fucked up dream," Jack says, like the last few minutes never happened, like he isn't shadowy and blurred around the edges and hard to grab hold of, as if he were nothing more than a thick cloud of smoke.

Fucked up dream is all Ennis hears as he twists in his bed, blankets tangled around him, and his eyes open only once before he falls back asleep.

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