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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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.

There's no time when you're this deep asleep. There's just nothing, which would be scary enough if he were able to realise what it could mean. But no. There's just nothing.

It's only later, when his brain has had enough to get by on, that images start to filter back through. Always the same. Faces, and people he loved, and blood and that gun. He can smell the grass so strongly, he might as well be standing outside. Less like dreams, and more like he's there again, only he's running from it, and trying, desperately trying, to not let it end the same way this time.

He's falling, watching an eye swivel towards him as it fills up with blood, starting to choke before he hits the floor. And then he jerks, gasping for breath...and he's on a sofa, in a magic bar, and there's a cold sweat on his face and...and it's OK. Only it's not, at all. But - it's better than it was.

He has no idea of the time. It feels later, but it wasn't quite dawn when he dropped off. He stares, and blinks at the TV screen, trying to work some moisture back into his dry mouth. His stomach hurts from hunger, and he needs a drink, and a fag. And...for this to go away, only that's not an option.

'Alex?'

She was awake the moment he gasped, her hands holding firm to him, anchoring him to the moment.

'Shh, it's all right. I'm right here.'

She's stiff from having dozed while sitting up, but none of the complaints of her body matter compared to the sheen of sweat on his brow and the hammering of his heart under her palm. She keeps her voice pitched low, trying to calm him.

'You're having flashbacks. But it's okay, you're safe.'

He shakes his head, more to rid it of pictures than to dispute her words.

'Need a fag.'

He's trying to get up, to move, while her hands are still on him. He's not good at sitting still, but his legs and arms aren't properly awake yet, and he's sluggish.

'Let me up.'

She does so, shifting back out of the way, dragging a hand through her hair.

'Hold on.'

He left them on the table, and it takes her a moment to orient herself. The display on the side table reads 2 o'clock.

'We missed lunch time.'

She returns and places his cigarettes and lighter on the arm of the sofa, and then gently touches his arm again.

'You should drink something other than Scotch, at least until you get something in your stomach.'

He grabs for them, and then hauls himself up, pacing around a bit while he sucks smoke back. Despite what she says, he drinks straight from the nearest bottle. But only a bit.

'Yeah.'

She's probably not wrong, though nothing appeals.

'I'm hungry.'

Without adding more, he heads for the bathroom. Cold water, and clean teeth, and a slash - he's calmer when he emerges, like nothing happened. Because he can't keep being this weak, not in front of her, and not every time he closes his damn eyes. The only way he knows to deal with stuff is by pretending it didn't happen.

'Wanna go downstairs?'

She's going through the wardrobe when he emerges, a handful of clothes draped over her arm, waiting for her turn.

'Sure. Let me get cleaned up first. I'll only be a moment.'

She disappears into the bath, taking a few minutes to change, brush her hair, and take a flannel to her face. The bath kit he brought back the night before has enough of her things to allow her to put on eyeliner and mascara, though it's much more subdued than the style she wore in 1983.

When she emerges, she's wearing a silk tunic over faded jeans. The wardrobe gives her a pair of flats, and one last check in the mirror proves her ready to go.

'Lead on, Mac Duff.'

She looks different. She looks good. Not that she doesn't always, to him, but this is something new. He gives her the once over from where he's been pulling his boots on, and then averts his eyes.

'Need t'get her to give me my proper clothes back,' he grumbles, but really only for something inane to say. He wears jeans on his days off back home. The rugby shirt is just insulting though, even though it is just all black.

Out in the corridor, he shoves his hands in his pockets, as if all this were normal.

'That what you wear in...2008?'

He cannot comprehend her being from any time other than the 80s. It's just wrong.

'Sort of. Mostly on my days off, or if I'm working in the garden. Why?'

It's been so long since she's even had a choice in the matter, it's a little disconcerting to her as well.

That said, he looks good in jeans. But she knew that. And she's totally not checking him out. No, she would never do that.