Mickey Doyle (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
byanyname) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kingdomsofrain2016-12-01 03:31 am
byanyname) wrote in kingdomsofrain2016-12-01 03:31 am
tfln open post
***
either leave a message (or set of muses) for one of my assholes, or request a message from one of them. choose messages from the classic source, from your own skull, or whatever you may please.
no subject
He doesn’t draw away.
He should, he’s certain he should. But those words…
’I hardly understand myself.’ He hadn’t, precisely, expected a response. Had almost forgotten his own statement, and it’s odd, isn’t it, that he should hold her words now? Most often, his drinking turns meaning into nothing (into absence) (into fear). Phrases fail to cohere, words lose their attachment to sense.
This, though… This clings to him. Sinks down inward, spinning a recognition he can’t quite grasp. Something familiar in this cadence. Something in this admission he knows. Something that halts his sinking for one moment, then another.
The pressure at his hand.
The softness in her voice.
(She hasn’t struck him. Shouldn’t she have struck at him by now?)
(When will the blow fall? (Why, for this moment, this moment and the next, could he nearly believe there won’t be any blow, no fatality tonight?))
And her hand at his cheek.
And her thumb soft against him.
She doesn’t want to fuck.
She might not mean him only ruin.
(She hasn’t chided him. Hasn’t run him from this room or had him murdered in the moonlight. That might mean something.
Hasn’t even tried to take his wine.
…She came to him. He doesn’t understand. (And neither does she.))
He keeps his eyes on her, questioning still and trying to discern… something, anything coherent. Trying to remind himself keep safe and hold himself protected, but it’s hard not to sit right where he is, let hr stay right where she is.
He doesn’t hate the things she’s said. Wouldn’t it be good for something to turn out well? Even one thing only. It’s impossible, a foolish idea from a… Well, she is young, as well as farm-grown. Hasn’t learned enough yet, that’s so.
(He wants to… tilt his head against her hand.
He doesn’t do that. Jolts his head slightly aside, though not wholly away from her touch.
(He doesn’t hate her touch. This touch. Any touch, well, of course, it’s cold here, that’s the cause of his own, ha, temperature.)
Well. If she’s going to make a fool of him in the morning, he might as well… Not enjoy this, no, but let this happen. Allow a little of her warmth to glance upon him.)
Again there’s confusion when he speaks, an edge of derision, and a trace of something other, something like a ghost-end of his own plea. ]
You can’t believe that.
no subject
She knows that. She knows that fear of relenting. She knows how armor wears thin. She knows what it is to hope so badly, so painfully, it destroys defense.
Just for everything to turn out well. Just for some ease, some peace.
She knows because there in him, she sees her own self, fragmented and wretched.
(She knows, too, that it takes time to reach this state. More than a handful of miserable weeks.
Has he been hurt, too? Has he been hurting, too?)
The smile she offers is a sorrowful thing, an attempt, but not half so warm as her hand still in a caress against him.
There, the familiar salt-sting of tears, but oh, she is trying; she can be comforting, and kind, and for once maybe someone needs it more than she does. ]
I don't.
[ She didn't mean to say that, so brokenly, sounding so regretful, so pleading. But the words are out, and he's listening, so she presses ahead, anyhow. ]
Not for myself. But I would like it to be true for you.
[ That, yes: there's truth in that. She would like him to survive her, and this miserable state of affairs. She would like him to find happiness. He deserves that, after all he's given, and all that she thinks he may have endured before she came into his life. ]
no subject
Wouldn’t we all like everything.
[ Foolish. He feels foolish, the words ill-matched to whatever he’d intended to mean, himself unable to rise to the occasion of… of… something.
He slumps. Would sink back against the chair if it weren’t for her hand. An odd anchor. A must-become-damage cloaked as gift. Why would she touch him? Why on earth would anybody touch him?
(How it rends his heart, sets his hollows to constriction.)
How he feels warm and distant and certain and sad all at once, and how he wants— Something.
Better not to want.
Better not to hope.
For fuck’s sake, it’s only the press of her hand. It’s only that she’s come so close to him. He’s a fool. He’s drunk, and he’s a damned fool.
A careful sniff, and he’s watching her still. Never did learn to look away, never learned to keep himself from staring. Only he feels as if he can’t quite see her. Can’t see right, certainly, because she wavers, she melts, and doesn’t she look blurred around the eyes?
(Blue eyes. He sees that about her.) ]
Not ’s if you know me.
[ He might almost envy her, ha ha. ]
Lucky, lucky girl.
[ Except she’s still bound to live beside him. Bound to exist near a husband-not-husband-yes-husband she doesn’t care to fuck and nobody should care to fuck. Bound to live her days out mournful, alone and unknown, fuck’s sake who knows a farm girl.
(But she’s kept her touch against him.
It could mean anything at all.)
Now he glances away, frowning and drifting an open hand to his neck, scratching absently. ]
Or not, mm.
no subject
Or is she only imposing on him what she wishes to see? Has she become so miserable a woman that she finds comfort only in the misery of someone else? This poor man, isolated and snarling. Maybe his life wasn't lamentable, before she came -
No, no, look how he responds to her touch. Look how he watches her through the drunken haze, as though seeing her (or anyone) for the first time. Remember the hope leeching into his voice.
Oh, what cold comfort it would have been, had she relented and let him bed her. Even reaching out for someone hated and unwanted has its merits for driving back unhappiness. For forgetting, just for a little while. (Nevermind the sick shame when morning comes. Nevermind the bitter aftertaste.) But this is better: innocent compassion. A touch without expectation.
He doesn't bristle at this.
And she?
It feels merciful, to touch someone this way. It feels like long-forgotten compassion, this recognition of a soul just as lost and wounded as her own. To approach someone seeking friendship, after months - years, even - of being maneuvered. Guided from one hour to the next by someone else's intentions. Unfeeling.
She feels for him. Pity, for the most - but what more is there to offer him when, as he says, she doesn't know him? ]
No, I don't know you.
[ Gentle, gentle agreement. Let the rest slip by unacknowledged: she isn't lucky. She thought once that she might be, that she had been born fortunate and would end her days blissful.
She knows better now.
Ha; he knows better. His correction earns a sad huff, almost a laugh. Not quite a laugh.
And her hand draws back, fingers through his hair, testing how much of this familiarity he'll allow. How much she cares to give. ]
It need not be that way. Must we be strangers?
[ An echo, vague, of a voice that might have been her own. Five years past, how flirtatiously she might have offered that query: wouldn't you like to be more familiar with me? Such a chasm between then and tonight, when the words come full of despondency. A plea for warmth instead of - oh, whatever she wanted of men, when she was still so free.
It occurs to Katrina then that this is not merely an effort to extend consolation to her odd, isolated husband: how direly she would like a friend. Someone who hasn't known her so intimately, who might think they comprehend every facet of her existence, and still somehow achieves utter misunderstanding. Here is someone who might like to know her cleanly, and allow her to be only her present and future - what little there is of either - instead of her history.
And even if only this, it would be welcome: how comforting it would be to find him in a room and not skirt him, but rather to feel at ease in his company. ]
no subject
How could she?
A question he can’t entertain, because the whole of him is sinking, feelings like sinking in against this grace of presence. He ought to be wary. He ought to keep watching her, in case she’s planning something.
In case she means him harm.
(He doesn’t think she means him harm.
But don’t they always? Don’t they all?
But. But.)
He’s watching her until he isn’t watching anything at all, his eyes slipped into closing, to a moment’s peace, quiet and a subtle warmth of solace.
He could be at ease here. In this.
(Once. Years ago, decades ago, Waverly ran lithe fingers light against his head this way, a seeming fondness that crowded his knowing for months.
He thinks of it still, sometimes. Remembers her touch and tries to rend it from the betrayal that followed, the farce that it was from the start.
It doesn’t matter, really.
Touch doesn’t mean so much, anymore. (He tells him. He feigns to and tries to believe.))
The moment passes, and he remembers he doesn’t know her and doesn’t know what she wants and maybe he’s defenseless, and his eyes open again, flash panic as he draws back tentative, cautious (reluctant?). Not far from her. Only briefly looking away from her.
It isn’t her fault. He let his guard down.
It could be her fault. What is she aiming for.
He doesn’t understand this. Her.
She said something. He doesn’t entirely remember. (At all remember.) (Knows only that… that… brushing of her fingers. Why would she bother?) ]
Please.
[ A little lost, a little annoyed. A little guarded, and his head’s beginning to hurt, isn’t it? And he feels confounded and a little, just a little less at sea now. And he shifts back against the chair, an ungainly slump. ]
I’m not—
Take care.
no subject
And of course, it would follow that he panics, if that kindness heralded only pain. It doesn't surprise her at all to see him recoil - but oh, how sad she feels for him.
How sorry she is for what life he must have known. And - as ever, as always - for the life he knows now.
And she starts to speak, to shush him or soothe him, and reach for him again, but his own words fill the silence and rend her heart.
Doesn't she know that wanting-not-wanting? Hasn't she, for months, for years, jerked away from even the most innocent touch? Any hand on her own, any brush against her cheek, until -
Well, no one touches her now. She reaches out, she offers a hand or a caress, a pat on the arm, but they've all learned now that the current flows only one way. And she can understand his softening, and the bite that follows, and - that plea.
That horrible plea.
Be careful with me, isn't that what he means?
She doesn't bother to brush away the wetness on her cheeks. Poor her. Poor him. ]
How much you've sacrificed for the sake of a stranger. Of course I'll take care with you. How could I live with myself, if I ever wounded you?
[ There, a plea of her own: understand, won't you? Believe me. Just believe, even without trust.
She keeps her hand near his cheek - near enough that he could, if he relented, if he wanted, lean into her touch. But no longer forcing him. Let him decide now. ]
No, no - oh, dear one. I swear on my soul, even if I am a heartless creature: I will never do you harm.
no subject
He meant that (mostly? he thinks, probably) as a warning. But her response makes no sense. Undoes his sense. She speaks, and everything shifts unstable. She speaks, and his thoughts collide, then dissipate to nothing.
His fingers turn to clenching, clamminess across his skin.
A certainty: she’s speaking nonsense.
A question: What does she want, what is she doing to him?
A lack: He can’t make sense of her words, can’t draw them back.
He doesn’t comprehend any of it.
What he understands is her hand held close; not touching, only hovering some… mockery? Some promise? (False promise.) (But hadn’t he felt. Almost. For a moment or two. Eased by her touch? A sense of that; he knows he felt that.)
It doesn’t matter what she said. Her presence is extraneous. They don’t and they shouldn’t have anything to do with one another. (Why is she here?)
And still he finds himself stumbling in a search for recollection, as if what she said mattered in some way. As if he gave a damn, and as if that hand (why is she so close to him (why won’t (why won’t she touch him again))) drew his focus toward her. As if that hand demanded he heed her words.
Words filter back slow and hazy, echoes of a… What was it. A feeling; a bristling and a shock. Words that didn’t make an ounce of sense. Words misapplied, or… He feels. He thinks. She’d been mocking
Speaking of sacrifice (daggered fucking word, isn’t it always?). Stranger.
And. Dearest? Dearly…? Dear. Dear… Dear, sweet little Treavor?
His jaw draws tense, and he’s pushing further back against the chair, eyes fixed on her own, not daring to look at (don’t let her think he’d care to feel) her hand. ]
Is this it?
[ He doesn’t feel right. Rubs his thumb fretfully again his forefinger. Feels the pressure of his teeth clamping. He’d. He could use. He’d like a drink.
There’s a glass nearby. But he can’t afford to stop watching her. ]
Mock me all you’ll like.
You aren't the first.
no subject
How he presses back against the chair, snarling like a caged animal. How he won't look away from her. How his eyes look half-wild.
You aren't the first, he says. What was done to him, to turn him this way? (Oh, how he eased with her touch, as though succumbing to some half-remembered dream. He wasn't always like this.)
She knows what she would do with a beaten dog: day by day, leave scraps for it. Day by day, return, coming nearer until she's certain it won't bite.
But dogs can exist on their own, and people can't. Give Treavor space, and he'll continue to sink ever deeper into this wretchedness, because that is what people do. (She knows. She has been given so much space.)
He isn't an animal.
Perhaps he needs reminding.
And if he bites? Well, who better to receive that wound than Katrina, who feels so little? Whose skin could be a shell, and whose heart is already so shattered that one more wound is nothing - just another pain, another shout in a cacophony. It's kind, and generous, and merciful, to accept the pain if it means she soothes him.
Someone should have given him that much long ago, before he turned this way. (Someone should have given her that much long ago. She doesn't let herself think of that.)
One last effort, perhaps. After that...well. She can summon his manservant; there, a trusted face, and he'll be led off to sleep. But just this. Once more.
So, she shushes softly, and a gentle 'no' follows, no, no one is mocking, no, this isn't what he thinks, and her touch is against his cheek once more. Her voice is scarcely a whisper, comforting, earnest, and careful. ]
I won't mock you. You'll see, in time; I will never mock you. I will always be kind. I will. I swear it.
[ Oh, 'always' and 'never'; and what of when he goes? Back to Manhattan, or simply away - when his presence is no longer needed?
Well.
Don't they all go?
She pushes these wretched thoughts aside. ]
Please. Treavor, please. It's all right.
no subject
Her hand reached for him or it appeared against his cheek once more. A lightness that doesn’t burn him; an unsought assurance that he might almost (he doesn’t) (he couldn’t possibly) ease himself against.
And her voice against his ears. And her voice wrapping tenderness around his name.
’Please,’ she said. A word that unbinds his tangled nerves. A words that blooms his chest with weighted warmth.
Wouldn’t he like to believe that something, everything, if only for this night, could be well. Could be all right.
Impossible, isn’t it? He’s dreaming. That fits into sense. Fell asleep without knowing it, and this is a pleasant dream, never mind that his dreams are never kind, never mind that night brings unease and terrors only. Never mind that he would never dream of her, or of this Christ-forsaken farm.
He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t move. It doesn’t matter.
He lets time pass. He doesn’t protest. He thinks her hand is awfully close, thinks she’s playing a dangerous, dangerous game, ha ha.
(She ran her fingers through his hair. He thinks. He remembers that, or he’s envisioned that, as well.)
If only anything could be like this.
She wants something.
He has nothing to give.
The nights here, the days here, are far too long. And at least he sighs, doesn’t mean to speak but finds himself flatly announcing— ]
I’m tired.
no subject
The whole world gone still.
Even she feels tendrils of something not unlike calm creeping through her, settling her myriad agitations. The brush of her thumb is entrancing - almost hypnotic, rhythmic in its slow motion.
From the first day she set foot in this house, this is the first time she has felt anything other than unsettled here in the study.
Another reason to be grateful to him, then. In distracting her, in seeming to require her to rise above herself and be for him a source of something other than misery, he made this room's memories so much less fraught. Her smile is weak, a small, broken and watery thing, but genuine.
Perhaps she even begins to part her lips to speak, to thank him or offer some further softly crafted words, but his voice cuts the stillness.
Well. Of course. Of course he's tired. It's late, and he's been drinking, and he was so very upset a moment ago.
Katrina's smile falters, then returns - now with a glimmer of fondness. Now with patience, now with welcome. (Perhaps they're friends now. Or perhaps they can try.) ]
I know. How late it is - how much you've endured.
[ Tonight, yes, and so many nights before; it no longer seems like guesswork now, to suppose he has lived a harrowing life. ]
You've earned your rest. Some peace at the end of the day.
[ Her free hand extends in offer, though the other remains, giving him no ground for retreat into his own untamed panic. ]
Will you let me help you?
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. ]
no subject
He will; she'll ensure it with every passing day if she must that her touch means him only gentleness. That her presence doesn't herald harm. (To what end, she can't say, save that she doesn't like the way things are between them now; she doesn't like this hostility, this distance.
She is so tired of both. If she must have a husband, then perhaps in him she can find her own cold comfort.)
His hand bats at hers and she realizes he's falling into a stupor, and will soon be asleep if she doesn't get him from the chair and onto his feet. The day has been so long, though, and the prospect of dragging him up herself seems...unlikely.
And just like that, she senses another presence in the room, a large form behind her that, for once, heralds no sense of unease. Behind her, and then at her side. At Treavor's, practiced hands helping her husband upright. (And her gratitude finds another recipient, another unfortunate target sure to endure her thankful smiles for days to come: Wallace is managing capably.)
Was he near all along? A thought to examine later, that question of whether he was listening at the door to her tearful entreaties, to Treavor's fear. Waiting to intervene? Waiting to part them, should the scene turn ugly? Or only waiting to see what would happen? For now, perhaps unnecessarily, she takes her husband's other arm, a second brace in the slow struggle to his room.
This room, that was hers. This room, that was Brom's, when it ceased to be hers. How she hated this room. How it bears now no sign of that other man, and so seems strangely unfamiliar, enough that she falters in the doorway. Only a moment, though. And a moment more for indecision: go, or stay with him until he sleeps? He seems so troubled. He seemed so soothed by her touch.
And Wallace can hardly stay all night; poor man, he deserves his rest. They all do.
So, she determines to remain, and follows onward, to help as she might. ]
I'll stay with him.
[ This, to Wallace, but she returns her attention to Treavor; he's not so far gone, is he, that he can't comprehend her offer? ]
I'll stay until you sleep. Would you care for that?
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.) ]
no subject
Or, perhaps, I won't hurt him.
Or, You need rest, too.
And he, reluctantly, goes.
And she, uncertain, lingers at the bedside, considering.
This is the first time she has witnessed this intricate interaction between Treavor and his manservant; how it plays out with such coordination, as though this has been going on for...
Years.
Another clench of her heart, a bolt of compassion and pity. How long has he been doing this nightly routine of drinking and staggering to bed? How many lonely nights has he spent drunk and furious? And what was done to him, to make him this way? (Well - what was done to her? Someone was unkind. Someone vanished. Dreams were shattered and childhood snatched away too quickly.)
(An awareness at the back of her mind, a small and weak flicker of hope: maybe he would understand her. Maybe, if he cared to try, he could see his pain reflected in her, and recognize it - and she wouldn't feel so alone.
Not tonight. Not for many nights to come. It isn't right of her to expect anything of him at all, anyhow.
It isn't right to make these assumptions.)
This poor man. His sacrifice seems so...hopeless, when she considers how he may have lived before. Not a noble act, but one of concession of defeat. Why not marry a nobody in a nowhere village? Why not, when life is only drinking and misery?
Why not allow the daily affairs to be handled by his barely-a-wife, or the business to be handled by his family? Why not merely relent, and be maneuvered (and oh, she does know that feeling all too well.)
And why not message his barely-a-wife with crassness, when she shows him no warmth, anyhow? The worst has already happened; she can only repeat her rejection.
An ugly sort of guilt plays in her. No, of course she won't go back on her refusal - certainly not tonight, when he is incomparably drunk - but would it hurt her to offer something? How much of this night will he remember? Will it settle in him, a knowing that she means him only gentleness, only merciful, compassionate tenderness?
How many have ever meant him only that, and nothing more?
So, she offers a cautious touch, featherlight stroke of her fingers along his cheek to coax his face up, and presses a chaste kiss to his temple. ]
Rest now. I'll sit beside you, and keep the watches of the night.
[ A grim thought, a sorrowful thought: if anyone needs protection, it's the man misfortunate enough to cross her path.
Well. Who better to protect him? She knows what terrors lie outside her door. ]
I won't let anything harm you.
no subject
He feels the absence before it reaches comprehension, finds himself glancing boggled around the room unsnagged by any sign of his manservant. Wallace, the surest quantity that keeps the world together. Wallace, recognized and trusted even in the depths of deepest drink, Wallace known beyond the need for thinking.
Wallace isn’t here now. He’s gone away when Treavor wasn’t looking. (Been banished away? Why would Wallace go.)
It’s only the woman now.
Treavor’s been left…
Not quite alone. He doesn’t not know who she is. Silly girl. Worn-down woman. She lives here, too. He rather wishes she didn’t. Or… no, he wishes he didn’t live here. He used to have a house. A house of his own. Now there’s this woman in his room.
She’s not the worst woman, in this room.
(He remembers a hand against him, or he’d dreamed it. His name in soft tones, or he’d dreamed that, as well. A touch without wounding, or the wounding’s yet to come, there’s always wounding yet to come.)
He should call for Wallace.
He’s tired.
And she’s— Someone’s…
A drift against his skin. Nearness of a someone not entirely unknown.
Treavor doesn’t register the way he moves into that touch, shifts guided by that touch. A softness so rarely known, and how is it he should know its source? Why should he anticipate blue eyes and find them, much as they waver in his haze, much as all wavers in his haze?
It hurts him, the gentleness now granted. Wells his chest and leaves him shrinking somewhere inward, down against a muted wish of what he’d like, might like, might once have liked to have.
And his eyes slip shut. Let her… let her… It’s fine, probably. It’s late. This is his bed. It’s… Dreaming. He’s dreaming. He understands.
The way he understands the pressure at his temple can’t be actual, can’t be other than envisioned. Never mind the drop of his heart, the sharper clenching of his chest. He knows what that feeling might be. Knows the closeness of another body. Doesn’t understand its implications.
A little late, words filter through his thinking, and he tries to find the source, tries to find the source, opens his eyes and blinks blearily at… Not Wallace. At her, still. That woman.
Rest, she said.
She’ll…? He doesn’t remember. What she said. Or how much of the past five minutes, past hour has been waking and how much the work of dreams. What he knows is he’s tired. What he knows is he can’t find Wallace, but he feels no harm from this woman. What he knows is there’s little enough can harm him any worse now, ha, so he might as well… give in for the night. Sink at last. Let this woman watch him, wound him (only he doesn’t feel that worry; only she seems so unrazored now) if she likes. He’s survived enough for today.
So he watches her for a moment more before beginning to pull himself up onto the bed. Before half-shifting aside the covers. Before pausing and staring at a pillow, his pillow, still thinking the woman’s here, hasn’t yet gone. Before offering a remark toward the pillow, for the… whoever’s watching. The woman. ]
Don’t let yourself freeze.
[ Because it's... cold here at night? Cold usually at night. She ought to be in bed. But that's her business, and he's already forgotten his own remark. ]
no subject
What does it mean when one is so accustomed to building a defense, that a kiss, or a touch, or a soft word seems like an infiltration, and that the war has been lost? That lying down to sleep seems like surrender? That's how he looks: like a captured city after a long siege.
Tomorrow, she thinks, she'll speak with Wallace. Perhaps he'll be willing to give some insight into Treavor's behavior; if he has been with the man for so long that this nightly routine is so perfected, then he must know what has been endured. The question is whether the manservant will share that information with her. She knows it's the habit of servants to gossip amongst one another, but there is a strict line between that, and telling tales to the employers.
Some distant, ingrained memory, perhaps, of who can be trusted on a farm, and who can not.
His words catch her, hand hovering just as he hovers, and a frown tugs at the corner of her mouth as she tries to make sense of -
Ah. She told him she didn't care to kiss anyone. How cold she is. And her expression softens, full of clemency. (Doesn't she feel agreeable just now? Warm, yes, and agreeable.) ]
No, I won't freeze. I have such warmth for you. My friend.
[ Yes, friend. Let him rail against it if he wishes; how she likes the notion of having one friend, someone to hold dear. Someone who has no opinion of Brom, nor memory of Ichabod. Perhaps Treavor is some brightness in her life, after all; perhaps she needn't feel so wholly deadened to the world.
Tomorrow will tell, and every tomorrow after.
With these words, her fingertips trace again through his hair, a slow carding she repeats, rhythmic and pleasing to herself, if he doesn't shy away. ]