the_gene_genie | (no subject)

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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His eyebrows go up at once.

'Why? What's wrong?'

'Nothing, I just -- I have questions. And I'd like to see if there's something they can give you to help you sleep.'

She's giving him the serious Look. The Look that says she's concerned, and if he has any sense, he should be concerned, too.

'I know, you'd rather crawl into a bottle of Scotch. But I'm worried, about both of us. The stress alone...'

'No,' he says, and it's firm.

'If you wanna talk about your stuff, that's up t'you. But I'm not...'

He sighs, and attacks his steak.

'Guppy's always in the infirmary. He's a mate, an' I told him...well, he saw me the other day. I'm not bloody goin' back in there, like a bloody nonce. And you don't tell 'em anythin' about me an' sleep.'

If there was ever a nancy problem to have, that's got to be number one.

'You told him, what precisely?'

She eats as well, finding a certain familiarity in this dance of advance and retreat. Getting information out of him has always been a challenge.

He looks at the chip on his fork. Still not appealing.

'I told him what happened. Back then.'

He looks uncomfortable about it.

'He's a mate. Didn't seem right not to.'

She pauses to take a drink, eyes fixed on his face.

'How much did you tell him?'

She seems to be getting at something. He sets his fork down, and eyes her.

'I told him I got killed, Alex.'

His tone is hard again.

'Why?'

She takes a deep breath, wiping her mouth with her napkin and tucking it under the edge of her plate. Her chin is set, taking the brunt of his anger and setting it aside.

'I've spent the last three years, off and on, remembering -- my final moments. The first year, I couldn't close my eyes without seeing that bullet hovering in front of my eyes. The last year, well... I can honestly say that last night was the first time in months I have slept in a bed. Usually I fell asleep on the couch in front of the television. It's a wonder I didn't experience a full on psychotic break, considering how sleep deprived I was. But I was managing to sleep, even if it was catching cat naps in the front seat of your car, or at my desk.'

'My point, Gene, is that sleep is important for the health of the brain. Lack of sleep is indicative of a serious problem. The same way that lack of appetite, for food or sex, is an indicator of a serious problem. Now, sometimes it can work itself out on its own. But if it goes on for any longer than a few days, I'm going to insist that you get checked out.'

'You're goin' to insist.'

His tone is deadpan.

'Because I'm just the stupid boy who doesn' know how t'look after himself, yeah? Because I need you to do it for me, like you're me mam.'

Yeah. Not impressed.

'I've had one bad night. I reckon I'm bloody entitled to that. So, leave it.'

Her eyes narrow, but she's too tired to get properly angry at him. Though he's really pushing it.

'Yes, you're entitled to one bad night, but passing out from exhaustion does not equal a even a bad night's sleep. And much as you'd like to believe otherwise, there is a vast difference between being a stupid boy who needs a mother to look after him, and a grown man who's so blind to his own injuries that he's lashing out at the people who care about him.'

Her jaw is set by the end of it, but there's a softness around her eyes. She's really worried about him.

'I'm not injured. I bloody don' get injured.'

Not physically, hardly ever. And other kinds of injury - he doesn't understand them, despite three years in her company. A strong bloke turns in for work, or life, or whatever, and puts a brave face on. That's just what happens. And now isn't really the best time for him to try and embrace the notion that he's not as strong as he thought. Or isn't currently, at least.

'I said, leave it.'

She holds his gaze, and exhales, shaking her head.

'Fine.'

He'll see, one way or the other. It's not like she's not used to watching him run full force into brick walls.

'Pig-headed git.'

Despite her mood, it comes out as an term of affection, somehow.

He doesn't take it as affectionate really. Hard to, when she knows he doesn't like hearing stuff like that, and still says it anyway.

He chews a bit of his steak, but he's lost the desire for it. This is so typical of them. One minute, they're talking about seeing where the two of them can go; the next, there's this.

'I'm goin' outside for a smoke,' he mutters, and stands up.

'Back in a minute.'

She watches him go, and then flags down a wait rat.

Time for that bottle of wine.