Ficlet: Better (Jeremiah)
He hates it when Smith gets in those moods.
He can always tell when they’re starting - barely the twitch of an eyebrow, head twists to the side - away from Kurdy, always away from Kurdy - and his jaw clenches.
“What’s wrong, Smith?” never produces any coherent response, besides a flat denial or a shrug. Neither does “You okay?” and Kurdy’s not the type of guy to push any further. He suspects pushing further wouldn’t work, anyway. Smith doesn’t open up easily. It’s all very long term, and mostly consists of sitting next to the guy completely silent, staring into a campfire.
Endlessly. While Smith sighs, his chin propped on his hands, into the dead silence.
You know, enough is enough.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” asks Kurdy.
“I’m sorry?” Smith looks genuinely surprised. Probably is, little creep.
“You sit over there sighing much longer and I’m gonna think you have some kind of lung problem.”
Smith half-laughs. Pretending he’s okay. And he doesn’t look back to Kurdy, doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t use too many words or try to lie. He’s good, that’s for sure.
“Jesus, Smith, get over here.” Kurdy pats the ground next to him.
Smith hesitates.
“Come on,” says Kurdy. “Over here.”
Smith gets up, jerky, like he’s not sure what he wants to do, and Kurdy pats the ground again, gesturing him over, until Smith settles next to him.
Kurdy slides his arm around Smith, pulling him in, until Smith rests his head on Kurdy’s shoulder. It’s easier than Kurdy was expecting, somehow. Smith fits that way, with Kurdy’s arm snug around him, Kurdy’s fingers running through his hair.
“Well,” and Smith stops. “This is nice,” - almost more of a question than a statement.
“Better than moping?”
Smith turns his face into Kurdy’s neck. “Yeah,” but it’s muffled.
“Yeah,” echoes Kurdy. “Yeah.”
He can always tell when they’re starting - barely the twitch of an eyebrow, head twists to the side - away from Kurdy, always away from Kurdy - and his jaw clenches.
“What’s wrong, Smith?” never produces any coherent response, besides a flat denial or a shrug. Neither does “You okay?” and Kurdy’s not the type of guy to push any further. He suspects pushing further wouldn’t work, anyway. Smith doesn’t open up easily. It’s all very long term, and mostly consists of sitting next to the guy completely silent, staring into a campfire.
Endlessly. While Smith sighs, his chin propped on his hands, into the dead silence.
You know, enough is enough.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” asks Kurdy.
“I’m sorry?” Smith looks genuinely surprised. Probably is, little creep.
“You sit over there sighing much longer and I’m gonna think you have some kind of lung problem.”
Smith half-laughs. Pretending he’s okay. And he doesn’t look back to Kurdy, doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t use too many words or try to lie. He’s good, that’s for sure.
“Jesus, Smith, get over here.” Kurdy pats the ground next to him.
Smith hesitates.
“Come on,” says Kurdy. “Over here.”
Smith gets up, jerky, like he’s not sure what he wants to do, and Kurdy pats the ground again, gesturing him over, until Smith settles next to him.
Kurdy slides his arm around Smith, pulling him in, until Smith rests his head on Kurdy’s shoulder. It’s easier than Kurdy was expecting, somehow. Smith fits that way, with Kurdy’s arm snug around him, Kurdy’s fingers running through his hair.
“Well,” and Smith stops. “This is nice,” - almost more of a question than a statement.
“Better than moping?”
Smith turns his face into Kurdy’s neck. “Yeah,” but it’s muffled.
“Yeah,” echoes Kurdy. “Yeah.”