[ That’s familiar. That’s Wallace, and this is the practiced rhythm of walking, trying to walk when the floor shifts and the walls don’t cohere and Treavor really only wants to sink down to the ground. When he leans against Wallace, a practiced bolstering, and finds himself moved toward the safety of his bed.
What’s changed is the pressure at his other arm, presence of a stranger. Not-quite-stranger, because when he manages to look, a delayed and wobbled process, he recognizes the woman. Mournful woman. Distanced woman, not so distant now, and, and, doesn’t it seem she’s been beside him all this night? Much of this night. Odd sensation, that. A feeling of comfort at her hold.
She’s touched him. She’s close to him again.
Ought to be repelled; what a foolish woman.
Her hand against him. (She’d brushed his… cheek. He can imagine her fingers in his hair. (Dangerous to permit such notions.))
Interrupting his routine.
(He doesn’t hate it.)
And they’ve reached the room. And she’s speaking, she hasn’t departed, she’s speaking to… him? Well of course she ought to. It’s his room. It’s his routine.
Would he care for—? Who bothers to ask. Who bothers to know. He tries watching her, squinting at her. ]
If Wallace says.
[ Wallace knows what’s right. Always knows, dependable Wallace, he’ll do what Treavor says, he’ll say what Treavor needs. Will spare Treavor any burden of deciding. Treavor is very tired. He’d like to sleep right now, jars toward the bed (his bed now, how did this strange room become his own?), feels the well-known strengthening of Wallace’s hold and then the mattress sinking beneath him.
When he speaks again he’s watching Wallace, speaking not to Wallace, now aware and not wholly aware of the woman, feeling some shimmer of her presence but it’s difficult, isn’t it, to hold anything for long. ]
Maybe.
All right.
[ ’No toying,’ he starts to add, but the words slip away and anyhow that goes without saying or probably he already said it, really she should know.
He’s watching his hand against his knee now. Grateful for Wallace’s hand still against him. (Grateful for the thought of any touch against him, granted without pain.) ]
no subject
What’s changed is the pressure at his other arm, presence of a stranger. Not-quite-stranger, because when he manages to look, a delayed and wobbled process, he recognizes the woman. Mournful woman. Distanced woman, not so distant now, and, and, doesn’t it seem she’s been beside him all this night? Much of this night. Odd sensation, that. A feeling of comfort at her hold.
She’s touched him. She’s close to him again.
Ought to be repelled; what a foolish woman.
Her hand against him. (She’d brushed his… cheek. He can imagine her fingers in his hair. (Dangerous to permit such notions.))
Interrupting his routine.
(He doesn’t hate it.)
And they’ve reached the room. And she’s speaking, she hasn’t departed, she’s speaking to… him? Well of course she ought to. It’s his room. It’s his routine.
Would he care for—? Who bothers to ask. Who bothers to know. He tries watching her, squinting at her. ]
If Wallace says.
[ Wallace knows what’s right. Always knows, dependable Wallace, he’ll do what Treavor says, he’ll say what Treavor needs. Will spare Treavor any burden of deciding. Treavor is very tired. He’d like to sleep right now, jars toward the bed (his bed now, how did this strange room become his own?), feels the well-known strengthening of Wallace’s hold and then the mattress sinking beneath him.
When he speaks again he’s watching Wallace, speaking not to Wallace, now aware and not wholly aware of the woman, feeling some shimmer of her presence but it’s difficult, isn’t it, to hold anything for long. ]
Maybe.
All right.
[ ’No toying,’ he starts to add, but the words slip away and anyhow that goes without saying or probably he already said it, really she should know.
He’s watching his hand against his knee now. Grateful for Wallace’s hand still against him. (Grateful for the thought of any touch against him, granted without pain.) ]