Just Muse Me 17.5.2 Really Don't Want To Hear
She knew what he was going to say the moment he appeared. She just knew. No psychic flash or future vision, no phantom sensation. She knew. She read it in his face.
Before he could open his mouth she went for the liquor cabinet.
"Pamela..."
"Don't." One hand up to stop him, one hand up to reach for the whiskey. "Don't, Remiel. Unless I'm mistaken and you haven't come here to tell me..." The bottle almost slipped from her fingers. She swallowed. Saying the words would make it real, and she desperately didn't want it to be real right now. "If you've come here to tell me something else, then tell me. Otherwise, just... don't."
He didn't. She didn't pour the drink either, because the simple fact that he didn't say anything meant that she was right. And he was...
"Dammit!" Glass shattered. Pamela threw things when she was mad, it was a bad habit. In this case it was a bottle of really expensive whiskey now dribbling down her wall, pooling with the shards of glass on the floor. "Goddammit." Screw angel sensibilities. He was dead, and she was going to cuss all she wanted to. "God-fucking-dammit..."
Her fingers curled into fists. The gems and insignia on her rings pressed into her forehead. Tears poured down her face, some down her cheeks, some into her mouth. Salt and congealing moisture. She crumpled, shoulder into the edge of the counter, then on her knees on the kitchen floor.
"No..." she swallowed the words and they came burbling out, thick. "No, no, please..."
"I'm sorry..." Remiel's voice was much closer, now, and his broad shoulders took the weak attempt at pummeling from her fists. "Pamela..."
"No!" But it wasn't a shout. It wasn't much of one, anyway. "No, why? Why now, why him, why..."
"It was an ambush. They ..." he stopped. Weeks, months of being around Pamela had taught him something at least. She wasn't interested in that why. "I don't know. But he was a soldier. He knew the risks and accepted..."
"Oh, fuck the risks," she snarled, shoving him over. "Fuck that, fuck this war, and..." and this would have been the part where she stood and stepped away except that her stomach was twisting itself in knots. Her head was pounding already, she needed a drink. She needed something.
She needed him to appear, to swoop in between one breath and the next with the sound of wings as he always had, and put his arms around her and tell her that he was all right. Except he wasn't.
He was dead.
"No..." Tears again. "No, Rem, he can't be, he can't..." She couldn't stop crying. She couldn't stop babbling denials. She didn't know what else to do, it hurt so much and the pain kept welling up and dripping out in the strangest ways possible. Shaking. Nausea. More tears. "He can't..."
"I'm sorry."
"Cas..." Now she was crouched on the floor, rocking back and forth. Arms wrapped around herself, black painted nails digging into worn black cotton. "Cas..."
Before he could open his mouth she went for the liquor cabinet.
"Pamela..."
"Don't." One hand up to stop him, one hand up to reach for the whiskey. "Don't, Remiel. Unless I'm mistaken and you haven't come here to tell me..." The bottle almost slipped from her fingers. She swallowed. Saying the words would make it real, and she desperately didn't want it to be real right now. "If you've come here to tell me something else, then tell me. Otherwise, just... don't."
He didn't. She didn't pour the drink either, because the simple fact that he didn't say anything meant that she was right. And he was...
"Dammit!" Glass shattered. Pamela threw things when she was mad, it was a bad habit. In this case it was a bottle of really expensive whiskey now dribbling down her wall, pooling with the shards of glass on the floor. "Goddammit." Screw angel sensibilities. He was dead, and she was going to cuss all she wanted to. "God-fucking-dammit..."
Her fingers curled into fists. The gems and insignia on her rings pressed into her forehead. Tears poured down her face, some down her cheeks, some into her mouth. Salt and congealing moisture. She crumpled, shoulder into the edge of the counter, then on her knees on the kitchen floor.
"No..." she swallowed the words and they came burbling out, thick. "No, no, please..."
"I'm sorry..." Remiel's voice was much closer, now, and his broad shoulders took the weak attempt at pummeling from her fists. "Pamela..."
"No!" But it wasn't a shout. It wasn't much of one, anyway. "No, why? Why now, why him, why..."
"It was an ambush. They ..." he stopped. Weeks, months of being around Pamela had taught him something at least. She wasn't interested in that why. "I don't know. But he was a soldier. He knew the risks and accepted..."
"Oh, fuck the risks," she snarled, shoving him over. "Fuck that, fuck this war, and..." and this would have been the part where she stood and stepped away except that her stomach was twisting itself in knots. Her head was pounding already, she needed a drink. She needed something.
She needed him to appear, to swoop in between one breath and the next with the sound of wings as he always had, and put his arms around her and tell her that he was all right. Except he wasn't.
He was dead.
"No..." Tears again. "No, Rem, he can't be, he can't..." She couldn't stop crying. She couldn't stop babbling denials. She didn't know what else to do, it hurt so much and the pain kept welling up and dripping out in the strangest ways possible. Shaking. Nausea. More tears. "He can't..."
"I'm sorry."
"Cas..." Now she was crouched on the floor, rocking back and forth. Arms wrapped around herself, black painted nails digging into worn black cotton. "Cas..."