nysalogs | april catch-all.

[He comes by, and she doubts very much that he doesn't notice her injuries, but thank god, he doesn't fuss. They end up playing cards, sitting in her bed and playing hand after hand. He's surprisingly good at it, beating her more often than not (to her secret displeasure). They play for matches, and for the first time since she was rescued she finds herself thinking of something other than that hideous jail cell.

He stays the night. Not in the way he used to (though frankly, Rosalind doubts she'd be up for that kind of thing), but simply lying next to her, curled beneath his own blanket. There's something wonderfully soothing about having him there, and Rosalind basks in it.

After all: she'd spent nearly twenty years sharing a bed with a man. It's lonely sometimes, rolling over and not seeing anyone there. She closes her eyes and listens to his steady breathing, in-and-out, slow, a rhythm that lulls her to sleep.

She dreams. And though she wishes her mind would linger on nothing more than her day's distractions, what Rosalind dreams of is dying.

It's harder when you've already died, see, because you know how bad it is. You know exactly how painful it is; how horror and grief consumes you as you realize there's no getting out it. She remembers the agony, blinding white, her every cell split apart in an instant. She remembers the growing dread, the terror; the hideous knowledge that even if she bolted, her fate was sealed.

It was agony.

Take all that pain, and juxtapose the past few weeks. The riots, the kidnapping. She finds herself in a school, tied up and gagged, as the smell of roasting bodies fills her nose and a man with a wicked grin grabs her and slides his knife against her skin, sadistic in his sensuality. She dreams of begging, pleading; she dreams of a monstrous, inhuman scream as claws sink into her back. She dreams of a mob, leering and groping, and the heat of a fire, licking at her skin and burning her to a crisp.

She doesn't scream or writhe, no. Rosalind's teeth are grit, and she whimpers softly, her body gone stiff as a board in her sleep. She trembles, shakes, but doesn't reach out, because even unconsciously she's too afraid she won't find anyone if she does.]

[ He doesn't fuss. They have nurses for that, he just checks her over summarily and quietens down to provide the distraction. Sex would be on the table, most days, nothing quite like being outside one's own head for a while. But they don't slide that way, fatigue, genuine companionship — Bruce isn't going to put a name to either. ]

[ He stays up, not sleeping. His mind is too clear for that, and he's waited out hours for less noble causes than sitting vigil. ]

[ — and there is a horrific intimacy in observing someone's nightmares. Bruce doesn't wait, he reaches out, touches her hand, her shoulder. Low, clear, ]

Rosalind.

[Her eyes fly open; with a sharp gasp she jerks away from his hand, scrambling back on the bed, tangling in the sheets as she tries to get away from--

--who? Not Alan, but she's not really seeing Alan. Just a figure, dark and threatening, his voice low and his intentions surely sinister. But there's no grin, no leer, no fingers around her throat or rough grip on her forearms, and slowly she realizes that there's nothing to fear at all.

She slumps down, exhaling harshly. Her body is still tense, but that will melt soon.]

I, ah--

[She shoves a hand through her hair, shaking her head, trying to focus.]

My apologies. I-- did I wake you?

I wasn't sleeping.

[ Bland, unconcerned — sleep is for the weak, something something. Bruce retreats, stands, his pride is like hers, comfort is restricted to the select members of a very exclusive club. And even then, it's fifty-fifty, depending on his moods. ]

[ They have a good equilibrium. He doesn't like change much. ]

Tea for you?

Good god, Alan . . .

[She sits up, hoisting the bedsheets up. She draws her knees up as well, leaning forward to rest atop them, and stares up at him. After a moment, she reaches, intending only to pull him back on the bed.]

You were just watching me sleep?

Don't be ridiculous. [ a beat, just long enough, ] I'd be standing in the corner if I was going to do that.

[ He doesn't offer strong resistance, but does hesitate. ]

Something to eat or drink... helps.

[She wrinkles her nose at him, but the joke disarms her.]

. . . tea, then. But I'd be grateful for company along with it.

I didn't know you liked to keep losing at cards that much.

[ He raises his eyebrows just enough to be cheeky, but disappears into the kitchen to put on the kettle. ]

[Oh, very clever, and she's enough energy to sneer at him. That barely lasts, though. The moment he leaves, she slumps back, one hand covering her eyes. She's still shivering, and the room seems both too small and too big, lonely in its emptiness. She's a little desperate for him to return, but she won't be needy. She's already been too emotional in reaching for him; she won't humiliate herself further.

Instead she gets up, throwing open a window and reaching for a bathrobe. By the time he returns, she's turned on a few lamps, because she knows she won't get back to sleep for ages. And apparently he hasn't been sleeping at all, but just watching her, so he ought to have no objections.]

[ The rest of the house is quiet, save for the sound of someone moving about and putting on the tea. Bruce prefers it as quiet as possible, but in a place where anything can creep in and stay under the skin, it helps to know there's someone else there. Someone to keep it away. ]

[ He's rediscovered that instinct. It feels better than he remembers. ]

Tea.

[ Quietly, as he sets the tray down on the bedside table. ]

Thank you.

[She says it quietly, reaching for a cup and wrapping her fingers around it. It's warm, and she draws her legs up, putting her knees to her chest.]

I could get used to you waiting on me like this.

I'd rather you didn't.

[ Even, firm. It's not something to challenge him on — or ask of him very much, it's not especially in his nature. He is not a continuous, watchful keeper unless it's from a distance. ]

[She lifts an eyebrow.]

Alan, if you can't take a joke like that, it's going to be a long night.

[ Soft, ]

I'm not in a joking mood.

[ He scrubs a hand through his hair, and pulls the chair up beside the bed, stretching out so his heels are resting on the mattress. ]

How's the tea?

It's fine.

[It is, actually, and she sips at it, enjoying the warmth and taste. But she's watching him with a frown.]

What's wrong?

[Ironic, that she should ask that with bruises around her neck and scars all over her body. But she's not used to this reaction, and it unsettles her.]

[ Tim's gone, that's what's wrong. The ground under him — ]

[ Bruce shakes his head. ]

Ever found yourself doing something you thought you never would?

[She nods. Perhaps she wouldn't have admitted that in the light of day, but it comes easier in the middle of the night.]

Yes. More and more often here, I find.

To what are you referring?

[ More than one thing. Not just Tim, but everything else. All he's learnt and never learnt better in his years, watching the patterns even as he was remade. ]

I'm a little resistant to change.

You're going to have to be a little more specific than that.

[It isn't chiding. Just curious, slowly picking at this edge.]

Change being your staying here? Your relationship? Or . . . something else?

I'm still thinking about it.

[ The non-answer to top all non-answers, dear Lord. He shrugs, like he's putting something away, and then scrubs his face. Being tired in front of her is indignity enough. ]

Suppose I just should have taken the opportunity to sleep.

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