the_gene_genie | OOM: Room 6620, #3

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OOM: Room 6620, #3

The evening did pass smoothly, and it's been a long time since he's been so grateful for anything. OK, there was the inevitable drifting of his thoughts back to recent - and not so recent - events, but it helped to have a distraction. He forced himself to concentrate on what happened with her today, and it gave him some respite. In hindsight, maybe he shouldn't have picked up The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly - he's seen it too many times to get fully lost in it.

Still. As things stand, he's got no complaints. But now it's over, and they do have to make an attempt at sleeping again. So he's in the bathroom, freshly out of the shower, newly shaved, and telling himself firmly that restraint is the order of the day, here.

Definitely a tad nervous when he emerges into the room, though.

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'...no?'

What?

'Why, s'that what it did with you?'

She fits comfortably against his side. He reckons he could get used to that.

She nods, curling her feet beneath her. She leans her head back against his shoulder, her hand lightly resting on his side.

'All sorts of bizarre things. Images. Little skits from children's programmes. Snippets of the original Top Gear.'

She turns her head to look at him.

'That's where you heard about the Quattro, isn't it? On Top Gear?'

'Don' know. Probably.'

He tries to think, but things aren't all that clear.

'Might have been here, actually. But I wouldn' remember that. I saw it here ten year ago.'

He sounds sad. He's really going to miss that car.

'You saw it here?'

Her brow furrows.

'What, on the lawn by the lake?'

Knowing the way he drives? It's really not that much of a stretch.

'Nah, in the garage. I went down to take the Cortina out an' saw it. I didn' know it'd end up mine, but I knew I fancied it as soon as I saw it.'

He picks the remote up, and starts to flick through channels. Maybe he's looking for cars.

'Didn' wake you up, did I?'

She didn't know this place had a garage. How interesting.

'No.' Her voice is quiet, drowsy.

Her eyes track the motion on the screen, and somewhere, there's the niggling thought that he might remember her here as well. And that's not the best memory, she thinks.

'I rarely sleep through the night in one go, even after I've shared a few bottles of wine with you. Still having the dreams?'

It's a gentle question, but one she can't avoid asking.

There's a long hesitation, and the hand not resting on her hip fiddles with his lighter, sitting on the arm of the sofa.

'Dunno,' he says, at last.

'Wasn' going to give them the chance.'

He knows he has to give in eventually, but it doesn't have to be now.

She hums, and nods again. Her eyes close, and she just drifts for a bit, listening to the sound of his breath and the lid of his lighter clicking open and shut, open and shut.

'Wouldn't it be lovely if we could say to them -- the dreams or the subconscious or what have you -- if we could say, "Thank you ever so much for the instant replay. I wasn't sure I got all the tiny details about the -- that moment -- the first hundred or so times, but I think I've got it now. Thanks ever so, please just stop."'

She doesn't raise her voice, but there's a certain bitter determination beneath the surface.

'I mean, it's not like it's helping, not in the least.'

She has all the clinical explanations for it, but they seem pale and thin in light of the truth.

He chuffs quietly and sets the lighter down, though his fingers stay on it.

'Yeah, that'd be nice.'

Another hesitation, because he doesn't want to talk about this and he doesn't want to look weak, but he does want to know.

'They don' go away, then? I mean...they went away for the others, if they had 'em at all. Have you seen it since...y'know.'

Actually dying.

She looks at him, one eyebrow raised.

'What, since I've been here?' A frown forms as she considers it. 'No? But then, it was tapering off since I got back from...' She waves a hand dismissively, not wanting to bring up the shooting again. 'I don't know if they ever go away entirely, but either you accept it, or it drives you right out of your mind.'

There were days at Fenchurch East when she felt mad as a bag of bees. She's still not one hundred percent certain she's not.

'I think it helps to know you're not mad, that something terrible really did happen. I think, going through almost losing Shaz, I think that helped me. Because while she was lying there in hospital, I talked to her. I told her everything. All of it.'

'Differen' though, isn' it?'

He shifts uncomfortably, but this isn't something that should be avoided.

'Bein' reminded when you were in my place, an' here where stuff's...normal.'

Here, it's just trauma. Not a fight to remember an awful truth.

'It don' matter.'

'It does matter, because it's not different. Not in the slightest. Your mind is your own, regardless of where you are.' She's not nearly drunk enough to discuss the nature of reality and perception, but this is familiar territory for her.

'I don't think I've had the most vivid of memories of that day recently because I've been more focused on you. But it's still there. I can feel it, like a toothache, only in the back of my thoughts. It's a part of me that will always be there.'

'I didn't mean it didn't matter you were seein' stuff.'

He picks the lighter up, and snaps it open. And shut.

And open. His voice is quiet when he adds,

'You don' have to focus on me. I'll be fine once I've gone home. It's you that has t'live with it, if you stay here.'

Choosing that is far braver than any option he's facing, he reckons.

She's quiet for a long moment, just looking at him.

'You'll forget again, won't you?'

All of it. The shallow grave. The farmhouse.

But he remembered Sam. He never forgot Sam. That one truth shines like a ray of sunlight in the darkness.

'But what about when you're here with me?'

How it is she finds the strength to hope after all she's been through, she hasn't a clue.

'Yeah, I'll forget.'

He'll be bloody glad to.

'But I don' know about when I'm here. An' I don' know how much it'll change out there, either. None of this has happened before. Not on this scale.'

He really doesn't have any answers. He's almost as clueless as she is.

'I won' forget you were there, or anythin' like that. You'll probably have transferred out or, if I'm feeling tough on myself, run off with a posh twat.'

'I wouldn't ...'

She cuts herself off, shaking her head and smiling, a sad smile. Hope is a cruel mistress.

'When you're here, with me, I think we should work on finding some sort of -- equilibrium for you. If you're amenable, of course.'

He's immediately suspicious, but he'll hear her out. She let him snog her face off for a bit. That buys her plenty of leeway with saying things like that.

'What d'you mean?'

Edited 2012-07-04 00:07 (UTC)

'I mean -- talk about it. Nothing more, just talk.'

She shifts a little to better face him, resting her cheek on his arm, and letting one leg drape over his knee. One arm crosses her chest, her hand hooked over her shoulder. The other is curled over her stomach.

'Just you and me.'

He looks away.

It's hard for him to see her logic here. She knows him better than just about anyone at the moment. She must know how much talking about things is anathema to him. Plus, there's one significant sticking point.

'Thing is...you said you wanted us to be...you an' me.'

He sounds a bit embarrassed when he says it, like he might have misconstrued what she said, or she might have changed her mind in the last few hours and be about to laugh at him.

'An' I don't think we can be that, an' you be my psychiatrist as well.'

Because that's sure as hell what it sounds like to him.

'No, that would be unethical. And stupid.'

She frees the hand at her shoulder, and rests it on his chest again.

'But lovers talk to one another. They share secrets, fears, memories. They share both triumphs and defeats. That's only normal, isn't it?'

He looks at her sideways.

Internally, he shrivels up a bit. But on the outside, there's just an expression of tired incredulity. She's seen it before, a few times.

'Only if you're married to a poof?'

He's teasing, and it should be obvious in his tone. But the statement stands.

She raises an eyebrow at him. Married. Interesting word choice.

'No.' There's a lilt in her voice that he'll recognise just as well.

'It's normal in couples who love each other enough to be honest with one another, even about the ugly parts of their lives.'

Surely even he can see how a modicum of honesty would have spared them both a world of hurt these last few months?

He raises an eyebrow right back. Love. Interesting word choice.

'It's not about stuff bein' ugly, Bols.'

It's about stuff that hurts.

And honesty, he would think, comes when you can trust. Trust would have been nice, these last few months. But neither honesty nor trust would have got them a result, most likely.

'Ugly, painful, confusing, traumatic.'

She meets his gaze, her expression soft and open.

'Things you can't talk about to anyone else.'

He's already told her he trusts her. And she trusts him. She doesn't know how to prove that to him, but she does.

He looks down. He hates the idea of being that dependant. At the same time, being able to have that sort of relationship with her...well. He's wanted to. Maybe not so much with the talking, but with the unspoken bond they used to share. He'd like that back.

'Maybe,' he mutters.

'We'll have to see how it goes, I 'spect.'

After a pause, he turns his head and smiles, undeniably cheeky.

'Or we could hold the talking an' just shag all the time.'

Another option.

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