the_gene_genie | (no subject)

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Hours later, he couldn't honestly say if he's had any sleep or not. It's like hovering on the edge of consciousness, one foot in the land of the awake and lucid, the other firmly planted in the realm of nightmares. He jerks from images of blood and that gun, and his family, to Alex lying on his chest, comfortingly warm in the crook of his arm. Never awake, never asleep, and it gets to a point he can't stand anymore. During one of the more aware stretches, he jabs himself with a fingernail to make it stop, using the pain to bring himself back. He extracts himself from her, and heads to the bathroom. It's probably a good thing he destroyed the mirror. He doesn't want to see what he looks like at the moment.

The idea of lying down again is unbearable. He needs to move, but he's still too tired. Should go for a walk or something, but he can't contemplate dragging himself all the way downstairs and outside. He pulls his dressing gown from the wardrobe and lights a fag instead, pacing around the other end of the room a bit. Eventually, he sits down and sticks the TV on, flicking through endless channels (one of which, he notes vaguely, seems to be aimed at squid) until he finds football. England even. Euro 2012.

It'll do. He mutes the sound so she isn't disturbed, folds himself up in one corner of the sofa, and stares blankly at the screen. By the time the game's up, the night should be over. It feels like the first step on a long road, getting through this endless night. If he can do that, everything else should be a doddle.

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Sam. Chris. Ray. Bammo. All of them. All lost little sheep, under his crook. All coming to terms with the means of their passing.

And him. Her gaze plays over his face. His skin looks thinner, more fragile, and she can't help but note the lines of his jaw, his cheek, his temple. Whole and unmarred by violence.

'And Keats?'

The muscles around his eyes tense. He stares at his tea, and then drinks, only instead of it being a slow, tired movement, it's quick and tight.

'What about him?'

'Where does he fit in to all of this? I mean, he wasn't -- you didn't imagine him, did you?'

If he doesn't remember sending his ghost to spur her on, would he even know if Keats was a manifestation of his own subconscious mind?

He snorts, and gets up to find his fags. They're on the arm of the sofa, and he's glad of the pause.

'Are you serious?'

How can she not know?

'No, I didn' bloody imagine him.'

She sits back, still holding her mug in both hands.

'I have no way of knowing, Gene. If the world is yours, and the people in it... He was some sort of -- outside adversary.'

Her thoughts drift back to the prison riot, and her dark eyes search his face.

'He stole Viv from us, didn't he?'

Viv was family. Viv was a good man, who made a stupid mistake. And he tried to tell them.

He's nodding - outside adversary, yeah - and then she mentions Viv, and he stops, and sags, like she'd just stood up and walked over and punched him in the gut.

Even before the end came, he'd gone over and over those last few minutes of Viv's life. Because he knew then that something had gone badly wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on what.

'Yeah.'

'No. I dunno that stole is the right word.'

He's pacing again, fag in his hand perilously close to his hair as he rubs the heel of his hand to his forehead.

'Just got there before me at the end. I couldn' get his hands off in time.'

She sets her mug down, because her hands are shaking.

'No. He stole him. You saved Summers, and he was -- he wasn't even one of us.' She remembers now, in those moments before she was hit. He held Summers while he died, spoke to him, reminded him of who he was.

Her eyes close and she pinches the bridge of her nose.

'Louise wasn't... She chose her path.'

That much is obvious now.

Not to him. He shakes his head.

'No, luv.'

He hasn't got the energy to stand. Viv bears down on his shoulders like the weight of the world, and he has to sit down again.

'Viv did somethin' wr...stupid. He was a target. I could've...'

He ashes his fag, and takes a deep breath.

'If I'd got there first, it would've been OK. Like with SuperMac.'

Mac was a wrong 'un of the first order - but he got there in time. Viv would've been alright too, if he'd just been a bit quicker.

'Louise was different, 'cos she didn' want...she thought she deserved it. I think.'

Not positive.

She nods, blinking a few times to stem the tears.

'So Keats...' She shakes her head, dismissive. He doesn't deserve another thought, in her book.

Again, her gaze returns to his face.

'You should sleep.' Her tone is gentle, and not a little concerned. 'I can ask the Bar if she has anything that could help?'

He shakes his head a little, and attempts a small smile as he then nods towards the TV.

'Footy's on.'

Though this might be the first time that sleep actually seems like a possibility.

'S'there any food left?'

'Yes, now that you mention it.'

She returns to the trolley parked just inside the door, and freshens her tea. And then pulls the dome off a huge serving platter piled high with biscuits.

'Garibaldis?'

And that gets the first genuine grin since - well, since long before this all happened, actually. Not the sight of the biscuits, so much as her thought for ordering them.

'Go on, then.'

There's no situation where Garibaldi's aren't appropriate.

He stands with the intention of going to the sofa. But on a whim, he steps over to her instead.

Maybe it's not a whim. Maybe it's, partly, taking control back. When he puts his hand on her hip, leans in and kisses her - briefly, and not as soft as before - he's reminded of that first day in the equipment room. When she touched him, so he touched her back. She's kissed him a couple of times now, and he's not going to just stand around and be the dithering boy who can't handle it. Maybe it comes, a bit, from anger. He can still hear her words before he went into the bathroom.

Still. He straightens, steps back and looks at his feet. Then catches her eye with a hint of a lip curled upwards, takes a biscuit off the top, and moves away.

'Ta.'

It's over before she can react, though she does press back, a quiet exhalation of breath giving her away. Her eyes close and she turns back to the trolley, faffing about with her tea and the cloth napkins and the pyramid of biscuits.

'I thought we could, um, use some comfort food.'

She takes a handful and stacks them on a plate, balancing the plate on top of her mug. There's a flush of colour in her cheeks that wasn't there a moment ago, just the barest hint of roses.

And then she joins him, taking up a position opposite his end, her feet curled beneath her.

He collapses into his now usual slump, tea resting on his stomach. He tries to focus on the football, and notes vaguely that the game has gone to extra time. Prolonging the inevitable.

'Gonna lose,' he mumbles, aware of the fact that she knows nothing about football. Maybe it would be polite to switch over, but he can't bring himself to move.

She's watching, or trying to anyway. It's not her thing, but it's movement and quiet noise. So she watches, absentmindedly at her stack of Garibaldis.

Every once in awhile, she steals a glance at him.

'You would have liked her.' It's just as quiet an admission as his own.

His eyelids are drooping, but he's fighting it. It sort of feels like everything's draining out of him, into the sofa cushions, leaving him as lead.

'Mmm?'

He turns his head towards her, without lifting it.

'Who?'

'Molly. She was a Manchester United fan, but I suspect that was because she thought, oh what was his name... Christiano Ronaldo was dreamy.' She remembers her daughter and Evan nattering on about it at the breakfast table, names and numbers and all sorts of talk she didn't understand.

'It's 2012. She'll be sixteen this year.'

Her eyes fall closed and her chin trembles, though it's obvious she's trying to keep it together.

'We were going to go to the Olympics.'

Edited 2012-06-26 21:18 (UTC)

'Christi...who?'

But he's already shaking his head. He doesn't care, and doesn't need, or what, to know. If it'd been a City player, though...

'The Olympics gonna be in Europe? England?'

His heart feels heavy. 2012. He'd be...eighty-one.

She nods. 'London.'

Another sip of tea. Another breath farther away from her bright laughter. She finishes the last Garibaldi, and sets her mug aside, sinking down a bit farther into the sofa until she can rest her head against the back.

'She'd have adored you.'

There's nothing he can say to that. It seems cruel to point out there was no way, ever, they'd have been able to meet. And he doesn't want to touch what the thought of kids does to him.

'S'pect she adored you.'

How could she not, when her mother obviously loves her so much.

The whistle goes for the half-time, extra-time changeover. His eyes fall closed. For a moment, he can't pull them open but then he jerks awake.

'You know she'll be alright, Alex. Really.'

After last night, she thought she had no tears left in her. At his words, she finds out she was wrong. She nods, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her shoulders ride high, her hands rubbing her upper arms as if she were cold.

She was all right, wasn't she? After the explosion? She had Evan, and he's there for her now.

'Sorry,' she murmurs, swiping at her eyes.

'Don' be daft.'

He'd invite her to lean on him, but he can't lift his arm. It's all he can do to grip his tea, and stop it tipping over on his shirt.

'No need for sorry.'

For this, at least.

Edited 2012-06-26 21:52 (UTC)

She gives him a weak smile, eying his mug as it wobbles a bit. It's as good an excuse as anything. She uncurls, and takes it from him, setting it on the small coffee table.

And then she sneaks under his arm, and rests her head against his chest again, nestling close.

'I'm glad you're here.'

'Mmmy'too.'

It's all he can manage this time. She settles on him, and he's already gone, finally giving in to exhaustion.

She closes her eyes and listens to the sound of his breathing. Slow and steady, and most importantly deep. Listening to the sound of his heartbeat, she soon drifts off herself.