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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'What? I thought we were being honest with one another.'

She may be trying on her best innocent face right now.

'Did I spoil the surprise?'

'Were we?'

He doesn't remember agreeing to that, but that's OK. His mouth opens, then shuts again.

'...actually yeah, a bit. Now I'll be stressed in case I don' make you...y'know.'

How's that for honesty? He's already wishing be hadn't said it, so it must have hit the target.

'Although, y'know. S'never been a problem before, so I'm not worried.'

Not even a little bit. At all.

>_>

She smiles, and chuckles under her breath.

'We'll sort it out, one way or another. All things considered, that is the least of my worries.'

'...yeah.'

She's right, of course. His amusement dies away, and he goes back to playing with his lighter.

'Anythin' I can do?'

'Well,' she takes a deep breath, obviously giving the question some thought.

'Tonight, you could take something to help you sleep. I'm sure the Bar will have something exotic that would fit the bill. Or you could try talking to me about it.'

'...how's that going to help you.'

Though as he says it, it seems an obvious question. And he sighs, and wonders which the lesser of two evils would be.

'What, help me sleep?' The question stumps her. 'I don't know. It's been like this so long....'

So long she'd given up even trying to sleep in the bed, because she always ended up on the sofa in front of the television. She snuggles against him, resting her head on his chest.

'Should try something new,' she murmurs, half to herself.

'I wasn'...'

He breaks off, and tries to tamp down the irritation that's flared.

'Don' matter. What d'you wanna talk about?'

Because he wouldn't even know where to begin, and he's not touching drugs if he can help it.

Alex has spent the last three years surviving by reading the subtle shifts in his moods.

She lifts her head, frowning at her miscommunication. 'I'm sorry, what did I miss?'

He considers not answering. But the fact is, he does want to be with her. And he gets the impression that a constant 'don't want to talk about it' isn't going to go down very well. It hasn't for the last three years, come to that.

Again with the lighter.

'Jus'...stop telling me to get sleeping pills from the bar. Please. My brother died from drugs. I don' take anythin' that isn't medicinal for a hangover.'

That is a significant amount of new information for such a simple sentence.

She opens her mouth and then closes it again, hesitating while it sinks in.

'I'm sorry, I didn't know.'

She remembers the room she stayed in when they spent Christmas in Manchester. She remembers the other face in the pictures on the mantle, and she searches her memory for his name.

Stuart. This explains why he wasn't around or even mentioned. Her face falls at the thought of Betty losing a child.

'I... I won't suggest it again.'

'He told me it wasn' my fault.'

He is resolutely not looking at her, his jaw fixed, gaze steady on the wall behind the beds.

'I don' think he's right.'

More revelations.

'Why?'

Her question is quiet, her palm flat over his heart.

'He started usin' in...oh, I dunno. Fifty-one? Hard to say. He was pretty good at hidin' it at first. Probably before that.'

He picks his smokes up, but puts them straight back down again. And now he can't sit still. He always thinks better moving about anyway, and it's just...easier.

'I last saw him in 'sixty-three, when I identified his body.'

He paces, and then does light up, not looking at her, anywhere but at her.

'If stuff...where I live now, mirrors the real world - well, you tell me, Bols. You're the expert. What would turn a lad who does it for a bit of fun on weekends into a skeleton on a slab, a hundred miles from home?'

She watches as he gets up, uncrossing her long legs and reaching to pour him a glass of Scotch as he talks. He's blaming his own death for his brother's decline.

'Here.'

She holds the glass up for him, not rising from her place on the couch, knowing that the answer she's going to give him is not the one he wants to hear.

'It's not your fault. Anymore than it would be my fault if something were to happen to Molly ten years after...' Her mouth goes dry, because she would feel responsible, nonetheless. 'It's not your fault, Gene.'

He's shaking his head long before she finishes talking. He takes the drink though. It lasts about two seconds, and he goes to get himself a refill.

'Our old man had died, thankfully. Just him an' our mam, and he was already on drugs. Me in some...bloody field, somewhere.'

He's choking up a bit now, and doesn't care.

'An' they never knew. You're tellin' me that wouldn't...'

He takes a breath, and drags on his cigarette fiercely.

'We were always close. It was me an' him. He looked after me, an'...'

He looks down. If he thinks about his mother left on her own, never knowing what happened to either one of her boys...it's just not fair.

None of it is fair.

She sits, silent, watching him, her heart in her throat. There's nothing more she wants to do than to wrap him up in her arms, to ease his suffering.

But it's the truth, and the truth deserves to be honored.

So she gives him his space, waiting for him to come back to her.

He puts his hand over his eyes, and wills himself to have control. Falling apart is not going to help anything. It'll just make him feel weak, and he is done with feeling weak.

So, eventually, he takes a deep breath and has another drink. Stubs his fag out.

'That the sort of thing you want me to talk about? What good's it goin' to do, Alex? I can't change any of it. It's too late to fix it for any of us. Only the people who come after, an' - well, they fix it for themselves if they want to.'

They do it for themselves. He does it for himself. That's what he's used to. This, here, this is abnormal. Unnatural, even, for him.

'That's precisely the sort of thing you should be talking about, love.'

She stands and gets herself a glass, more for something to do with her hands than anything.

'And the good it does, well... Emotions are a sense, like sight or touch. They let you know where you are in relation to other people, in relation to yourself. Just as a burn lets you know where the fire is, that pain is necessary to orient yourself in the world. Without it, you're blind and deaf. You're numb.'

Idly, she looks down into the glass, swirling it about.

'I was only twelve years old when my parents died. Their deaths haunted me every day of my life. And well into the afterlife, it seems. Even now, knowing what I know...' She shakes her head, and takes a sip of the whiskey.

'We can't fix any of it.' That statement seems to bear her down under a heavy weight. 'But we can honor it. We can accept that it's a part of us, and that it's made us who we are.'

'I don' want to accept it.'

It doesn't come out as petulant, or defiant. More like a quiet, please don't make me accept it.

'An' at home, I don't have to.'

He puts his glass down, and fills it again but leaves it where it is.

'Does it make it easier for you, knowing your dad tried to kill you?'

'No, of course not.' She hears the edge in her voice and closes her eyes. He doesn't deserve the brunt of her anger.

'It does let me understand what happened. It wasn't random. It was very specific, and as bizarre as it sounds, it made a certain kind of sense. It doesn't change what happened. It doesn't mean I forgive him for what he did, to my mother, to himself, to me.'

'But it answers so many questions, Gene. It's like -- there's been this invisible force, this dark current running through my life. I could either let it drag me under, or I could find a way to -- work with it. It defines me, yes, but it doesn't rule me.'

He nods a bit because OK, that does make some sense. Knowing helps understanding, so it's possible to cope with it. He does laugh a little, without humour, at her choice of words.

'Define you. Keats said somethin' like that to me, the first time he showed his hand. 'This place defines you' he said. He wasn't wrong.'

He drinks his drink.

'I'm defined by a place that works because I don't remember, or understand. What am I supposed to do, Alex?'

'I don't know. But I do know Keats almost won the day because you had forgotten so much, so going back to the way it was entirely... I don't think that's an option.'

She's leaning against the table beside him, and it strikes her how much their posture reminds her of the conversations in his office.

'I do know one thing, though. You don't need to forget who you were in order to do what needs to be done. You aren't twenty-two years old, anymore.'

'You think that's why he nearly won?'

He snorts quietly, and drinks his drink.

'After you left, he told me we'd meet again. Me an' him. I don' doubt it. So I think you might be proved wrong.'

But he'll deal with how things are there once he gets back. He's more concerned with what's going to happen in the meantime.

The defiance in his voice is good to hear, even if it comes with the pigheaded stubbornness she knows so well.

'So if he's coming back, what can we do to protect them?'

Them being the other poor lost souls who end up on his patch.

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