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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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.