i'm all right i'm all right it only hurts when i breathe
"...Da?" Enfys calls ahead of herself as she picks her way down the hall to the living room; it's four am and they should both be asleep. She knows he went to bed hours ago, like she knows he's been up a while now. "Da, what happened--"
Some of the picture frames are broken or just fallen, she notes, standing in sock feet in the doorway. John Keel is nursing his wounded knuckles, pressed to his mouth, standing by the mantelpiece that they fell from.
'Fell'. Right. She falls silent, watching him with wide little girl eyes.
"Go back to bed."
It takes her a moment to rally, and then she frowns at him fiercely. "Sit down. I'll be back in a minute...please." She thinks she should hesitate, or something, but in the end she doesn't wait to see if he's going to do what she told him to (he's not).
She comes back a few minutes later, wearing his slippers to get past the broken glass. "You can clean that up later," she says, briskly, perching on the edge of the coffee table and taking his hand.
"I can do that myself."
"Don't care. Be quiet."
They sit there in silence for a while, and when he takes his hand back he touches her cheek, very lightly, and says in English, "You're a girl, Enfys. Not woman of the house. Go back to bed."
She stares at him for a while. "Ffwcia oma."
Mourning someone together doesn't work so good when you both insist on doing it alone.
Some of the picture frames are broken or just fallen, she notes, standing in sock feet in the doorway. John Keel is nursing his wounded knuckles, pressed to his mouth, standing by the mantelpiece that they fell from.
'Fell'. Right. She falls silent, watching him with wide little girl eyes.
"Go back to bed."
It takes her a moment to rally, and then she frowns at him fiercely. "Sit down. I'll be back in a minute...please." She thinks she should hesitate, or something, but in the end she doesn't wait to see if he's going to do what she told him to (he's not).
She comes back a few minutes later, wearing his slippers to get past the broken glass. "You can clean that up later," she says, briskly, perching on the edge of the coffee table and taking his hand.
"I can do that myself."
"Don't care. Be quiet."
They sit there in silence for a while, and when he takes his hand back he touches her cheek, very lightly, and says in English, "You're a girl, Enfys. Not woman of the house. Go back to bed."
She stares at him for a while. "Ffwcia oma."
Mourning someone together doesn't work so good when you both insist on doing it alone.