kingdomsofrain | tfln open post

[ Oh thank Christ.

He relaxes visibly, accepting her helping and trying not to lean too hard on her but definitely, definitely leaning some, definitely pressing the side of his head against hers.]

Hey, you said something about whiskey?

[ Not that he wants to put off going back to bed much longer, but look, if it means getting just a drink, just one drink to start the day, he can wait another moment.

Also, those are... Those sure are Wallace's Swedish fish all over the bathroom floor. ]

You really did kill those fish, huh?

[ She should. Maybe redirect his attention away from the alcohol. Get him going with the day sober just for a little while, just a few hours.

Slow and steady. ]

Mmmm - I think bed, water, and aspirin first.

[ A glance back at the chaos of fish gummies, sad and scattered. ]

I got excited when I heard you and they fell to their deaths. It's probably the biggest tragedy since the Great Eggo Disaster. Their sacrifice won't be forgotten.

[ And she's going to try steering him away from the bathroom - and the whiskey - and toward the darkened bedroom now. ]

[ Hey, no... No, that wasn't what he asked. And no he doesn't need the whiskey, but he'd like it and it would help and why is she pretending he didn't say anything, or ignoring what he said?

He doesn't want to be difficult, he really doesn't - and his head would prefer very much to be back against a pillow - but he resists just a little, tries to stay right where he is. Not for long, just. Just. It wouldn't be so hard to grab the bottle, would it? ]

Shouldn't you at least take it with us?

[ ...idea! ]

In case Wallace tries to destroy it as revenge for the gummies.

[ She doesn't. Want to have a hard conversation with him right now. Not while she's in his home, wearing his shirt, with her arm snaked around his waist. Not after the messages he sent - the story he told.

But she also isn't going to help him start drinking at whatever early hour this is.

So she turns in towards him, pressed close, earnest and firm and utterly certain of her words. ]

No. You don't need it.

[ Isn't this her? Her style of writing, razor sharp clarity, the protagonist with words that can't be trusted, but possessed of complete conviction?

She has conviction. It might not be true, but she can make him believe it. She can try. ]

Trust me. I'm here, and Wallace is going to be here, and you don't need it.

[ He wants to trust her. She says 'Trust me,' and he always wants to trust her.

But he also wants a drink.

Now that the idea's in his head, now that he's thinking about the bottle and she wouldn't have lied about the bottle and it's true he has vague memories of sometimes leaving bottles in the bathroom for himself, he would very much like a drink. A drink would absolutely help his head. A drink would absolutely stabilize the world a little bit.

Why is she withholding that from him? He's... confused? Concerned. A little bit hurt.

There must be a reason. She wouldn't act without a reason. She loves her Fish, he knows this, but why deny something as simple as a drink?

Maybe she's worried he'll drink it all? ]

Just one. Just half of one. I promise. Hey. Hey, you can be keeper of the bottle.

[ Her heart clenches.

He didn't ask for her help. She doesn't get to unilaterally make this decision for him. If he wants to quit - not just the drinking, but the job, this fucking city - he needs to make the choice.

She's not Tricia. She's not his brothers, either. She's not going to force him to do this.

One hand strokes back through, over his hair, comforting while giving her a heartbeat to form a reply. ]

I'm not going to stop you. [ Tacitly, implicitly, neither is she going to help. ] But I don't think you need it. I think you can hold on for a little while without it.

[ Katrina pulls away a little, backing away from him towards the bedroom; there's an invitation, a welcome in that movement, without demand or reproach. It's his choice.

And she won't let herself be disappointed if he can't manage it. ]

[ Oh. That's distance between them now, just a little more. Is she—? No, she isn't disappointed. That's against the rules, and all right, maybe those rules sound silly, sound stupid, but the rules she makes matter and she means them. She can't be disappointed in him. Won't be disappointed. That isn't what this is.

But. But, something. But she'll be something.

She isn't going to help him, certainly; she's turning away. Why doesn't she...? She doesn't want him to have the whiskey. He still can't figure why.

He's left watching after her, mind on the bottle - it's in the bathroom, the bathroom isn't far, and if he can just make it there and back (it wouldn't even take a minute, not even if he has to dig for it) he can be in bed before the world turns intolerable. He should follow her, but what if. But what if, first, he went into the bathroom, got hold of the whiskey?

Yes, that's a fair idea. That's what he'll do. He'll just bring it. Just in case. Maybe he won't even drink any of it, but he's going to bring it, because he can't just leave it behind, leave no whiskey behind ever, shouldn't that also be a rule?

He's shuffling his way into the bathroom when he pauses, hand on the frame, and turns just enough to catch her eyes. Because there's something snagging him. Because there's a reason she didn't come with him or grab the bottle herself. ]

Why?

[ No disappointment. Resignation, perhaps: they tried. She tried, anyhow. Tomorrow will be another chance to try again, and the day after that. There's no shame or reproach in this. Still, her smile when she dips her chin, looks away, has some lingering sadness to it.

She does start to turn away then, mind already on going back to bed for a little while, useless bottle of aspirin in her hand and rattling as she fingers the cuff of the shirt she dragged on. Sleep a little longer, get up and start her day properly, maybe get some writing done. Hasn't she had an idea, something good that won't loosen its hold on the creative centers of her brain?

It's not giving up. She's not giving up on him. But -

A single word interrupts her, slices hope through her thoughts, and she fixes him with her full attention.

Why.

Because.

Because it's a step away from incoherence and disengagement. Because it means he can get out from under his brothers. Because she and Wallace can't do this every night for the rest of his life. Because they could get away from all of this, dependent on whether he can get this under control.

Because she loves the man who wrote her half a haunting story this morning. (And because she loves him no matter what he does.)

All of that. All of that, and - ]

Because I don't think you want to keep living this way.

[ There's a sharp thought, brief and fleeting: 'I don't think you should tell me how I want to live.'

The way it cuts, its very content surprises him, and he blinks, flinches minutely inward. That isn't fair. She isn't... She isn't imposing anything on him. Isn't doing anything beyond answering the question he'd asked.

But she doesn't know. Doesn't know how he wants that whiskey and maybe doesn't understand how much it helps him, how it'll ease the pain away and set him up to make it through another morning afternoon evening. That isn't on her. That's no mark against Katrina.

(Does he want to keep living this way? And he doesn't need to think far about what she means by that. Understands the implications and their scope, and he hasn't always lived like this, not exactly, but it's hard to mention living any other way.)

He lets the thought sit before responding, giving his head the ghost of a shake (even that fires the aching further, even that causes further pain). ]

I don't know.

[ There's another moment before he gives in to the pull, turning toward the bathroom and finding the whiskey readily enough. It feels like failing her, somehow, to wrap his fingers around the bottle's neck, to right himself and move back toward the bedroom carrying his, his... Prize, finding, life preserver, god knows what. But he can't leave it. He'll only keep thinking about it. One thought on top of another on top of a splitting headache.

So he takes the bottle and makes his way toward the bedroom, no precisely looking at anything, doing his best to avoid her gaze. ]

[ He's thinking it over. She can tell he's thinking it over, because he's not going straight for that bottle. She's careful not to push too hard, not to spark a fight here or say something to make him spiral. Careful to give him that moment of thought.

Because even if he considers it and still gives in to the desire, the need-want of it, it's a step in the right direction.

She can't ask anything more than that.

And 'I don't know' is a fair answer, isn't it? 'I don't know' isn't a refusal of her statement, a rebuff of her efforts. It's an open space in thought where her comment can settle and have some weight, and maybe tomorrow he'll think a little harder about it, and maybe the next day, and one of these days it won't be 'I don't know'.

As he passes her with that bottle - not looking at her, that's not all right, this isn't about shame or condemnation - she catches him gently, a hand flat to his chest. ]

I love you.

[ It's not an argument against his decision. There's no reproach in it. It's a still, it's a promise against disappointment. And an explanation for why she had to try. ]

It's all going to be okay.

[ There's a wash of warmth, and he's looking into her eyes before he can think to stop himself, her voice catches him so immediately, hooks him so down-deep. She's very good to him. She's better than anybody should be. (Better than he deserves, and yes he thinks she's telling him otherwise, but no he can't keep the thought entirely at bay, can't help himself from thinking how she hadn't wanted to help, how she never leaves him without reason, how what he's done must be against her wanting. How he's never made too many good decisions.

Except staying married to her. There's that, at least. There's that.)

He tries to smile. A little, just a little, and what he manages is the slightest upturn of his lips, a quirk that flutters quickly out. She's a very good wife. He's... Well. He's something. ]

Maybe we should go to bed.

[ That's also not fair, though. That's incomplete, and he stops himself from turning away, finds her eyes again. ]

I love you too, kid.

[ Maybe she's giving up on him too quickly. Maybe - maybe, she thinks, he's so accustomed to half-hearted protestations to his actions, to letting people down, and does anyone ever really fight him anymore?

Other than Tricia. For his good, rather than the good of someone else? Has anyone ever offered an alternative? (And how did he interpret that pulling away earlier, that attempt at come-with-me, when subtle romantic, tender efforts haven't worked before?)

Sure, they can go to bed. Sure, she can just let it go. Or she can try one more time.

So, for a moment, she holds his gaze if he lets her. She eases close, fingertips finding and dusting the back of his neck. Nuzzles closer, her cheek to his, speaking a language she thinks he understands.

Because he doesn't need it, and, separately but just as important, she loves him. ]

I'll get you out of this if you want me to. If you want to be rescued, I'll slay all your dragons. We'll go as far away as you want and start over. You can stop drowning and start looking forward to things. It doesn't have to be just talk; we can start right now, this minute.

But you have to want it more than you want a drink.

[ A beat. ]

I'm not going anywhere. Either way, I'll love you just the same. That doesn't change.

[ He tells himself not to look away. She's telling him something, quiet and sure, and she deserves to be heard. Yes he feels his focus pulling toward the floor, toward anything downward and away, but he doesn't want to drift, not here. So he looks at her, into her eyes and yes she's here with him, always here with him, and then she's up against him close and she hasn't left him, that's good, she hasn't left him alone.

He's still keenly aware of the bottle in his hand. As aware as he is of the smooth soft of her skin, the light trace of those fingers. The warmth of her voice known and welcome in his ears.

What she's saying...

There's a coil of hope and a sudden precipice, or awareness of a precipice that existed all along (is it, though, is it a steep drop, or just a downhill growing ever sharper?). She's gone to war for him before; he doesn't doubt he'd do it again. Is heartened by the thought of Katrina slicing through the crowd of all his terrors. Of her beside him, every step of the way...

Through what, and why? Why should he give up anything that works for him, keeps him floating even if it, maybe yes it, slowly drowns him down? (Because this isn't sustainable. Because even with her close and comforting, every morning's an agony of ache. Because with her, from time to time the future doesn't look so wretched, and wouldn't he like more of that?)

What would it be to start over. To really, actually move after those daydreams he's shared for so long with Wallace and now with Katrina? To live less afraid of the fangs borne by both past and present. ]

I look forward to things. Time with you. Shit with Wallace.

It's not that I don't want...

[ There aren't words to manage what he wants, or what he wants diverges in itself, is two-fold and contradictory in ways. Something regarding what she's said about freefall. Something about having few lifelines, three forces that get him through each day, and what would he do without one-third of that?

(He's got her now, doesn't he? It used to be alcohol and Wallace. So maybe. So maybe.)

But it's so much. ]

It's not.

[ He's trying. Trying for words, but his head aches and it's all... it's all bigger than he can capture, not right now.

He's listening to her. She's listening to him. But he can't just. But would it be so bad to. ]

What if.

What if we take it in. I take it in. And just keep it close, and I'll try to leave it for later.

[ She doesn't know whether he's bargaining because he's frightened of the vastness of what she's offering, or because he's frightened of telling her 'no'. Either way, she thinks fear is motivating him. Or demotivating him, as the case may be.

She stays close, not giving him an inch of space to think she's disappointed, or leaving, or retracting her offer. The brush of her fingers pauses only minutely as he speaks, and then resumes, as tender as before. That was true: nothing changes. She loves him just as much as she did a moment ago.

And she's going to keep trying. Her voice softens, turns soothing, opening a door for him to be comforted. ]

It's a lot to take in. I'm asking a lot from you, and offering change in return. That's terrifying. But I've got you, and I'm not giving up on you.

[ She knows how expanses can be frightening. She gets that. And she knows how badly his head aches, and how every nerve is screaming for whiskey, and right now it's not quite enough to offer indistinct and uncertain futures in exchange for alcohol. ]

Don't leave it for later. At least promise to start thinking it over. For me? Because I love you?

[ Again, again: she's still here. That matters. That matters a whole fucking lot.

And she's not... Fuck, she's not making light of things? Not making it all sound easy, like hey just put down the bottle Treavor hey just forget about drinking Treavor hey just have one glass maybe two glasses like everybody else Treavor why can't you just do that? She's right, something about this prospect scares the shit out of him, or he thinks it probably does; mostly, he cringes far from the idea and can feel only numb, not much, because it's not going to happen how could it ever happen it's not within the realm of possibility.

And what if it could be?

What if, at least, he started to think about the maybe-could-be what-if-real of it?

It doesn't hurt to entertain the idea. And maybe she can help him. Figure out how to do it. ]

No, hey, I will. I.

[ But. But. He draws back a little, just to watch her, try on the hint of an unsteady smile. ]

I was talking about the booze?

[ Quickly, quickly, before that phrase can settle: ]

But I like that. That you're here. That you'll be here.

What you're... What you said's a lot to think about. But I'll think about it. Because I love you. And because my wife is very, very smart, and very, very good.

[ He was talking about...?

Perplexed, she regards him with drawn brows, trying to sort out what he means - even if the compliments come in with his promises and lift her mouth into a pleased, if faint smile. (Even right now, with such a serious conversation happening, it thrills her deep to know he thinks so well of her.

It's easy to be good to him. He makes her feel welcome. He seems to want her. That means so much to her - means the world to her.)

But what did he mean there, what did he say before that would indicate the whiskey in his hand?

That he would-

Leave it for later.

Dawning comprehension softens her features, and her smile grows: he didn't have to admit that. He could have let her misunderstand, because she did just give him a release from any guilt, didn't she? He didn't have to correct her, but he did. And maybe he'll try, even if it's only fifteen, thirty minutes, but it's fifteen or thirty minutes he might not have otherwise given her.

Tomorrow, maybe, he'll leave it for longer. One little step at a time.

She takes a step back - though this time, to avoid his misunderstanding, she hooks a finger in the collar of his shirt and gives a tug. You're coming, too. ]

Do you want to try? Leaving it for later?

[ She has his aspirin. She has herself. She can hold him, hide him away from the things both physical and mental that drive him to the bottom of a bottle every day.

If he's willing. ]

It's up to you, Fish.

[ Being given the choice all over again is difficult. Because it'd be easy to shake his head no, just breathe the word and that would be that. She wouldn't be mad at him. She promised she wouldn't be disappointed. (Could she help being just a little disappointed, though? Or sad, at least. The thoughts tugs him down to inevitability. Is he always going to make sadness, make trouble for her? It's a hard thought to stomach. It's—) He can't fall into that. Hey, she's right here with him. Focus on her, instead. That little tug she's given him, so familiar so welcome in all her motions, moving but not leaving him. Still here with him. Always, always here.

All of this feels like a lot of responsibility. A lot of oncoming failure. This choice is... small, but it isn't.

He does want to try. (Hasn't he wanted to try before? Hasn't it all crashed. But maybe. Maybe with he and her and Wallace and this idea of a life elsewhere - distant, yes, but more stable that it was before - there's at least a better chance? Because last time it'd been. He hadn't seen the point, as far as he remembers. Because everything came back pressing hard and fast. But she'll slay his dragons. But he's certain Wallace would help. But what if, what if.

It isn't committing to anything. It's not so big as that, and if he thinks of it as something more like minor, maybe, maybe)

He can try. Even a few minutes, which. Isn't much, but it's something, right? His grip around the bottle's neck tightens just slightly, but his voice sounds firm enough. ]

I'll try.

Just... Sure. Yeah. I will. I want to.

Edited 2019-03-29 15:45 (UTC)

[ She has to take care here. They're still in the doorway, still trapped between the space of thought and deed, and he could reach the bed and change his mind. He could decide the ache of the morning (and all the other troubles that drag him down) is too much to bear, and she wouldn't blame him even a little.

His brothers are a consistent, ever-present weight, forcing him further into himself. Something has to give in his life; the drinking is an outlet. She doesn't need him to stop now, to give up this one escape from the pressure, but she needs to know he could. That he's willing to try.

Why bother going to war for him, why bother upending his world and giving him something new, if he's too deep in a bottle to notice the difference? If she's going to do this, she needs to know he wants it - and some shred of a guarantee that he's not going to drink himself to death.

And just now, just now she needs to contain the glow of pride she feels for him, because that could just as easily seem like a trap: a way to let her down if he can't make it to the bed. If he can't let go of the whiskey, turn aside for a while. Pride can come after. Mostly after. A little feeds into her smile, because even saying he wants to try -

That's something. It's enough.

Another step backwards. ]

Come back to bed, then.

[ There, a flicker of mischief, an offer of distraction. She hasn't released her hold on his shirt, though certainly he could pull out of that faint hook of her finger if he chose. ]

Help me think of an alibi for the massacre in the bathroom before Wallace gets here.

[ He doesn't break from her just yet. Lets her keep her Fish on a hook and draws after her, steps slow and a little staggered because fuck, fuck his head's just not feeling any better. (The whiskey would help that. But so would shoving his head against a pillow. So will the bedroom's darkness. So will - eventually - the aspirin in her hand.)

And she's back on Wallace's fish, which is a relief, because that's easier to think about, something else for his mind to wrap itself around, never mind the bottle in his hand or the thought or what it means, the thoughts that batter against his decision to try. She's a good wife. Best wife. Best Kat.

They're drawing into the bedroom now, and he pulls from her hook to shut the door, a soft soft slow motion, and that's a little better, at least, a little less like daggers in his eyes. It's a little easier to look at her now, easier to open his eyes now that the burn is gone.

The bed. He'd like to get to the bed, set the whiskey on the nightstand and wrap himself up secure, but he can manage a few thoughts, bat at the pain and search for a response to her very welcome suggestion. ]

It's performance art. Or a gallery piece? 'Bleached Tiles with Red Fish.'

[ There's something very lovely about how he shuts the door, how easy he manages the act. There's no rattling slam, no suggestion of shutting them in rather than shutting the world (and light, likely) out.

(Brom, grinning and hungry-eyed, used to kick the door closed with his heel, leave behind a shoeprint now and then. She hated that. She hated having to clean off the shoeprint in the morning.

And then he stopped shutting the bedroom door at all. Stopped smiling.

Look how miserable Treavor is, but still searching for her. She hates thinking of Brom, but every difference is illuminated so much brighter, every beautiful thing her husband does given so much more import. Like how he closes the door. Like how he doesn't lay his misery on her shoulders, but turns to her for comfort, instead.)

Without him in hand, she turns to settle back into bed, wriggling back into the fading body-heat warmth of the blankets, and thank you very much, stealing her pillow back. Once properly settled, she pops open the aspirin and produces a few. Holds them out to him in hopes that he'll choose the aspirin over the bottle that he is noticeably still clutching. ]

Wallace knows I don't have an artistic bone in my body. Bob Ross is a snitch. Can we claim self-defense?

[ Nooo, the pillow!

Well, all right, yes, it is her pillow and he did steal it from her (flirt criminal and thief of all things soft and light-blocking, aren't they well-matched?), but it's such a good pillow and his head is so very, very sore. So he pulls a minor pout at her, flickering and gone as he approaches the bed, takes the aspirin.

Which. He really should have done after putting the bottle down, because his brain's putting two and two together and wouldn't whiskey be an easy way of washing aspirin down? Quick gesture. It'd be such a quick set of gestures to toss back the aspirin, open the bottle, and swallow, and hey fuck there's the aspirin gone already and...

Okay. Okay. Not yet. He's here with it, thinking through the steps, and this once. This once. There's water already on the nightstand. He can put the bottle down, does put the bottle down. Takes a swallow of water and quickly, quickly retreats into bed, backing up against Katrina so there's distance between him and the bottle and you know he would like that drink but if it's far away and he's safe in blankets, maybe he can fend off the thought a little longer.

Also if he focuses on what Katrina's saying. It's a puzzle, and usually he doesn't care for puzzles but right now maybe he could use one, and, and... ]

Self-defense against what? The flirt police?

They did have you cornered.

Self-defense against the fish. They were definitely attacking me before the flirt police showed up.

[ This isn't a situation Katrina thinks she ought to be tackling on her own: he drinks heavily, and has admitted failure to stop several times. She'll need help, she and Wallace will both have to stop enabling. Eventually, professional help might be a subject for consideration. She knows this isn't something she can do all on her own with him. But right now, this small first step, this need for distance and distraction and comfort? She can help with that.

It's easy to offer those things to him. He receives them, is seemingly happy for her to be a comfort and distraction. When has she ever really experienced that from a man, ever been so welcome? The world is too full of other, and her partners suffering from the fear of missing out, or rarely of the personality that invites tenderness. But Treavor.

She thinks he might need care in a way most don't.

The tight wrap of a blanket about him as he presses back against her (and she presses closer.) The gentle trailing of her fingers through his hair. He's been given so little of these small acts of devotion, hasn't he? (And Wallace, for all that he offers to that end, can't be all things, at all times, to Treavor.)

She props her head on her hand, giving him affectionate regard as her fingertips trace down his neck. ]

I'm proud of you.

[ She lets that hang in the air on its own a moment; as infrequently as she thinks he receives comfort, she's certain it's more often than he's anything more than disappointing to others. They had that conversation, didn't they? He has been disappointing, and so there are punishments, indictments for his inability to meet expectations.)

But he isn't disappointing to her. He's trying right now, and she's certain that bottle of whiskey is an itch he can't scratch. It'll slowly eat at him. But he's trying, and that's anything but a disappointment.

All she ever asks is for the attempt. ]

I don't know what comes next, but I promise, I'll try to make it better than what you had before. The way you make my life better.

Edited 2019-04-01 16:21 (UTC)

[ He’s safe here with her. Holding as tight against her as he can.

And there’s a thought: Maybe nothing has to exist beyond this room. Maybe not even beyond the bed. Katrina and the blankets and pillows and himself; isn’t that all he needs? Isn’t that enough for a comfortable morning, enough for a good really good day?

He tries the thought on. Focuses on the steady lightness of her touch, how each brush could hold him captive, how she’s so careful, so gentle, and this minor minor pressure swings focus away from his aching head. It doesn’t take much with her. Doesn’t take so very much to draw his attention, keep him from drifting off into pain, into worries.

’I’m proud of you.’ How how good does that fucking feel? Jesus, all these years on earth, and how many people before her have ever been proud? Wallace, though those moments rarely reached speech. A… couple of professors at Davis, sure. His advisor, that one time. Beyond that, it was mostly disappointed gestures, words leveled to wound. Half-held wonderings over what it would feel like, to receive such praise and fondness. And here she is, supporting him even in his minor moments.

And she is proud. And he believes it. And sometime - sometime soon - he’s going to have to break that trust, betray that pride. Because yes he’s focused on her and yes this bed’s an entire world, but he knows what’s just beyond, waiting on the nightstand. Because the itch is driving deeper, because he’s awake and doesn’t being awake mean having a drink and isn’t there a drink available so close, just right beyond the bed’s edge?

Not yet. Not yet. He can wait a little longer. Swallows hard. And. And. He’ll…

Grasp for her wrist, her hand. Just wants to make contact with her, give her a moment’s pressure, a quiet thanks. ]

Hey. My life’s already worlds better.

[ He raises his head a little, thinks he might try to sit up but you know what? He’s just going to drop down again, dig back against the mattress. ]

Even with this headache. I’ll take life with you and a perpetual headache over life with no wife, no headache. I’m not interested in that.

Mm, and don’t worry, the flirt police’ll testify to what they saw: the fish taking little fish bites out of you, ganging up and swarming after you.

[ Katrina would have to be completely oblivious not to notice he's struggling. It doesn't help that the alcohol's in his line of sight, that he's probably feeling worse for the wear and the whiskey would definitely solve that problem. It probably doesn't help that she added to the pressure by playing the 'do this for me' card.

It's not about the drinking. It's about knowing he has it in him to stop. Some spark of something keeping him alive, or wanting to be alive, which she knows isn't at all the same thing.

He's surviving, not going mechanically through the motions and passively killing himself. That's important. That's worth the effort of dragging him out of this situation - cold as the thought strikes her, that she could ever consider leaving him like this. (Would she, even if he didn't care at all? If the offer of a new start didn't phase him at all, would she have given up, and simply taken what time he had left to give?

It's possible.)

She stills when he moves, then coos in sympathy at the aborted attempt to raise himself up. Aspirin isn't the same quick relief, and certainly not the warm and welcome embrace of intoxication. Leaning down, she grazes a lingering kiss against his temple, then eases down to curl her body around his, holding him close and protected for as long as she can. ]

The headache will pass, and then you'll just have your wife. And Wallace, if he ever gets here.

[ There's another kiss, brushed against the back of his neck, and another to his shoulder: she is proud of him. Even if - when - he gives up, he tried. ]

We can stay in bed all day. You can tell me the rest of that story, when you feel up to it. Or you two can tell me about Davis. I bet you were the deviant to end all deviants.

[ A hint of mischief returns to her tone, creeping around the edges of her smile, though her voice comes muffled from against his shoulder. ]

Before you got old.

[ The headache will pass, true. And then there’ll be another. And another. Which isn’t anything he’s eager for. Which is only life, isn’t it? (Maybe; maybe it doesn’t have to be. Hey, the whiskey’s right there and he hasn’t had a drink yet. That’s something. Maybe not a big something, but more than he usually manages. With Katrina, even these minor victories feel worthwhile, feel like they count toward something greater.) It’s nothing he can’t survive. Especially not if he’s got Katrina and Wallace.

Especially not if Katrina’s going to gather him so close to herself, grace him with kisses and leave him feeling almost okay, like yes there’s still something he wants yes it’s a drink and yes he’s still aching, yes he could always extricate himself and then return (or could he? or would he feel too low for that, more inclined to sequester himself to the other side of the bed? he shouldn’t leave her for a drink, doesn’t and does want to and that—)

Wait. Wait, what was that she said?

Hey.

For that one, he’s willing to risk the pain of looking backward, nose scrunched and face creased with an exaggerated frown (and, yes, that’s a wince at his own sudden movement, but whatever, maybe it adds to the performance of oh no that hurt oh wow got me right in the soul). He’s not going to think about how nice it is to crane his neck and find her so close. Isn’t going to think about how much he appreciates, enjoys, flat-out adores the sight of her, those lively blue eyes. No, he’s going to focus on how outraged, yes, how offended and outraged he is, hmpH. ]

Rude, kid. Rude and uncalled for.

If you’ve got the right mindset, you can be a deviant at any age.

[ He's pretty sure that's true. Or it's a nice idea. And if there is an age limit, a time where deviant behaviors translate to something else, what would that be, and what would that make Treavor? If the edge of deviance wears away and becomes, what, something pitiable? Something only sad and easily dismissed. That’s not a great thought. That’s potentially a very bad thought, and he’s going to shove it aside, thank you very much. ]

Just ask Wallace.

[ Yes, ask Wallace Higgins, known deviant expert. He’s got a degree and everything, and if he were here right now, Treavor would call for him, shout if he has to, just to prove how deviant he is. ]

tfln open post

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