[ Is it her imagination, or did something in him soften?
Did she reach him? For just a moment, did he comprehend something other than misrepresentations of desire? Was there, please, let there have been, some spark of connection. Some fragment of understanding.
Let it sink in profoundly that she doesn't mean him misery. She doesn't want this for anyone, much less for someone so utterly severed from his life, his friends (had he any?), his family. If he could just see how she takes no pleasure in his suffering - and oh, he must be, for nothing ever came of this house or her existence but suffering.
(Once, she didn't believe that.
Once, before men died because of her.
Once, when she was far from kind.)
Van Brunt, he calls her, and it stings deep, a familiar pain. If it had been 'Crane', neither of them would be here now. Neither of them would be so unhappily wed.
But it wasn't 'Crane', and isn't 'Van Brunt' now, and she can let the pain ease away.
He gave her that: his name. Never forget that all of this was his sacrifice. Never forget how much she owes him. The weight of that debt heavy in the air, and her rejection of this perfectly acceptable man, and still, still, how decent he's been.
She presses his hand, gentle acknowledgement of his words. ]
I hardly understand myself.
[ Maybe, they could be friends. Maybe she could do better than avoid him day by day; was it wrong to let him have his solitude? How lonely this place is, though she has family, has a lifetime of neighbors and friends. Who does he have but Wallace?
She must try harder.
Tomorrow. When the day isn't nearly gone, and he is somewhat sober.
For now - perhaps he'll accept her touch. Perhaps he'll let her try to soothe him, and help him to his rest. Incomprehension is better than anger. Safer than anger.
So she tries again, testing him like a wounded animal: the light brush of the backs of her fingers against his cheek. The cup of her palm, if he allows it, and slow sweep of her thumb. ]
no subject
Did she reach him? For just a moment, did he comprehend something other than misrepresentations of desire? Was there, please, let there have been, some spark of connection. Some fragment of understanding.
Let it sink in profoundly that she doesn't mean him misery. She doesn't want this for anyone, much less for someone so utterly severed from his life, his friends (had he any?), his family. If he could just see how she takes no pleasure in his suffering - and oh, he must be, for nothing ever came of this house or her existence but suffering.
(Once, she didn't believe that.
Once, before men died because of her.
Once, when she was far from kind.)
Van Brunt, he calls her, and it stings deep, a familiar pain. If it had been 'Crane', neither of them would be here now. Neither of them would be so unhappily wed.
But it wasn't 'Crane', and isn't 'Van Brunt' now, and she can let the pain ease away.
He gave her that: his name. Never forget that all of this was his sacrifice. Never forget how much she owes him. The weight of that debt heavy in the air, and her rejection of this perfectly acceptable man, and still, still, how decent he's been.
She presses his hand, gentle acknowledgement of his words. ]
I hardly understand myself.
[ Maybe, they could be friends. Maybe she could do better than avoid him day by day; was it wrong to let him have his solitude? How lonely this place is, though she has family, has a lifetime of neighbors and friends. Who does he have but Wallace?
She must try harder.
Tomorrow. When the day isn't nearly gone, and he is somewhat sober.
For now - perhaps he'll accept her touch. Perhaps he'll let her try to soothe him, and help him to his rest. Incomprehension is better than anger. Safer than anger.
So she tries again, testing him like a wounded animal: the light brush of the backs of her fingers against his cheek. The cup of her palm, if he allows it, and slow sweep of her thumb. ]
Please. It will all be well.
[ Somehow. ]