[ She’s smiling. She speaks and he looks at her, finds his focus tuned upon her face. Doesn’t think the smile was there before, and notes it now as not-mockery, as something other than her usual gloom, as strange, as something not-unwelcome.
There’s no sharpness in that smile.
Wouldn’t it be kind, if she meant it? (Has she ever smiled before, or no, it doesn’t matter.)
(She lived some life before he was forced on her. A thought he’s never entertained. A thought that sinks back swiftly into liquor’s worn-out haze.)
He can’t think about what she’s saying. The words are - everything has become - too much to process, and anyway he can’t tell what to trust and what’s a farce. She’s thrown his compass awry, or the drink did that, thank fuck there’s wine and whiskey to be had here, thank fuck his family hadn’t consigned him to a land of only swill.
Her hand is before him.
Her hand hasn’t left him; he still feels, thinks he feels soft pressure at his cheek, and when he tilts his head sideways - an involuntary inspection - he finds her there still.
She’s offered him two hands, then. Very good of her. Pragmatic of her? She wants something. Wants to get rid of him, maybe. Can’t do that if he’s slung over the chair.
Well. He doesn’t want to be in this chair much longer. Sees the world darken, reappear, darken, as his eyelids attempt to sink shut. She said— He said? He’s tired. It’s time to end this night, to shake off this could-be-dream and prepare for the next wretched day.
Is he supposed to reach for her? It’s an awful lot to ask.
He tries. Bats a hand out and misses. Shifts course and this time, this time might just find her. ]
no subject
There’s no sharpness in that smile.
Wouldn’t it be kind, if she meant it? (Has she ever smiled before, or no, it doesn’t matter.)
(She lived some life before he was forced on her. A thought he’s never entertained. A thought that sinks back swiftly into liquor’s worn-out haze.)
He can’t think about what she’s saying. The words are - everything has become - too much to process, and anyway he can’t tell what to trust and what’s a farce. She’s thrown his compass awry, or the drink did that, thank fuck there’s wine and whiskey to be had here, thank fuck his family hadn’t consigned him to a land of only swill.
Her hand is before him.
Her hand hasn’t left him; he still feels, thinks he feels soft pressure at his cheek, and when he tilts his head sideways - an involuntary inspection - he finds her there still.
She’s offered him two hands, then. Very good of her. Pragmatic of her? She wants something. Wants to get rid of him, maybe. Can’t do that if he’s slung over the chair.
Well. He doesn’t want to be in this chair much longer. Sees the world darken, reappear, darken, as his eyelids attempt to sink shut. She said— He said? He’s tired. It’s time to end this night, to shake off this could-be-dream and prepare for the next wretched day.
Is he supposed to reach for her? It’s an awful lot to ask.
He tries. Bats a hand out and misses. Shifts course and this time, this time might just find her. ]