Thursday after open casting

[billboyd]

Things settle back down into a more normal day after the nitwits are all ushered out. Bill wanders back to the kitchenette to grab a cup of coffee -- every time he uses the fucking coffee maker, he's tempted to tear it apart and clean the shite out of it, but he can't be arsed -- and is on his way back to his desk when he passes the door to the

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[billboyd]

And Bill knows exactly what he means. Maybe he hasn't ever thought about it in exactly those terms, but he's been operating on that theory with Orlando for a long fucking time.

His eyes stray to the monitor screen for a moment, but there is no picture there now, no pretty, laughing Ivy for Bill to compare to his memory of her, no girl who's smile was eerily similar to Keira's, who had been so consumed by grief that she was hardly recognizable now.

It isn't going to happen that way, he thinks, but he isn't sure what he means. Even so, there is some kind of immense pressure in his chest, and he can't rid himself of the nagging sense that there is more than one person in Bill's life right now that could be forced to walk down a path similar to the one Ivy had walked, forced by circumstance or by the inability to clearly see the path being walked, and the only thing that Bill could conceivably do to prevent it is--

He could leave. He could stop this. He could turn the file and everything he knows over to homicide and he could back out of their lives, remove the possibility of some of that danger. Because someone wants him dead, and that someone doesn't mind innocents getting caught up in the crossfire. And even if that doesn't happen, there is still the possibility of his own end, and of subjecting them (her) (him) to the same kind of grief (maybe not exactly, but close enough, isn't it?) that had chewed up Ivy St. Claire.

For the first time in his adult life, he wishes he had someone he could go to for advice. Wishes there was someone he could tell everything to, just lay it all out, because he's beginning to suspect rather strongly that his own judgement -- which he's always trusted, always believed in without qualification -- is not trustworthy.

He's aware of Johnny watching him -- he could tell Johnny, he thinks, but he knows he won't, doesn't think he would be able to stand seeing distrust when he looks into Johnny's eyes -- and waiting, so he does what he always does.

He shoves it away, pushes it into the furthest corner of his mind, separating it from what he needs of his mind to operate on a daily basis, pushing it away.

"I told her I'd take her out on a proper date tonight," he says, "but I'm pretty sure she'll be okay with the change of plans."

He glances up and catches the edges of something on Johnny's face, old ache and another glimse of that weariness. It's gone nearly as soon as he looks at it, easing into Johnny's familiar smile (even that, though, looks strained and frayed at the edges), easy and accepting. It looks for a moment like Johnny is reaching for him, probably to rub his back or throw a casual arm around Bill's shoulders, but Bill just isn't up to it, he's too raw for contact, casual or otherwise.

He shifts and locks up his body language, closes it off, and if Johnny had intended some kind of physical gesture, he abandons it.

Bill isn't surprised.