The evening of the
Open Call, the
Bill/Johnny Convo, and the
Bill/Orlando Convo.
Bill pulls the Mini half onto Johnny's drive and half on the grass. There's plenty of room at the moment, but once he's ready to go, he's not interested in getting blocked in. In his experience, when he's ready to get away from the DBY crew, he's ready now.(
... )
She hadn't been close enough, and surprised on top of that. And Johnny is good at appearing to be together (if by 'together' you meant eccentric, scattered and bloody odd, but basically all right for all of that).
"He's not all right, quaen," Bill repeats, and isn't the least surprised when she turns a little, full body, her eyes skittering to the kitchen, her desire to go, to comfort, is almost palpable, though her hand stays on Bill's arm. "Don't, Keira-mine," he says gently, and she turns back, a little surprised smile curling her lips, eyes wide and bight. The tops of her cheeks are faintly rosy. "It's not something you can help with."
Somehow, they had shifted as he spoke, hands sliding, and now he's holding Keira's hand. He has no idea how it even happened.
He doesn't let go.
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She shakes his hand off, steps closer to grab his face with both hands. "Jesus, what happened to you!" He stands still but flinches when she gingerly runs a finger under his eyes, looking surprised himself.
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He could make excuses -- hell, he could tell her the truth.
Johnny was a bloody mess, Keira. I did what I had to do to settle him down, and a little blood was no great hardship in pursuit of that.
She'd probably believe him, too. Whether he deserves it or not, she probably would, and while she might not understand the kind of comfort that could come with whiskey and fistfights, she'd probably trust in the fact that he did. She might even be relieved to know it had been their boss that had messed up his face.
This time.
But he can't quite bring himself to do that. To begin with, it's not his place to tell. Johnny is in no state to defend himself against her concern at this point.
And he's drunk, and he hasn't been really drunk in a long time. He can hold his alcohol, and he's known how to walk the line between numb and impaired for a long, long time now. He supposes he's lucky he can even recognize his own impairment, at this late stage.
He doesn't dare start telling her things now. No telling what might come spilling out.
Loose lips sink ships.
He opens his mouth to say something inconsequential -- his hand going up all on it's own to touch the side of her mouth (she isn't smiling, and he really loves her smile), brush fingertips against the pink curve of her bottom lip -- and what comes out is: "I love you."
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He can fake it.
He can.
First, a cup of tea, and he drops the kettle in the sink when he tries to fill it; finally gets the plug jammed into the socket and the goddamn cups aren't where he left them, he's sure of it. He stares at his cabinets like he's never seen them before, at bags of rice and pasta, at plates and bowls, and there's the tea at least. He fumbles the tin down, and it clatters agains the tile worktop when his hands shake.
Cups, cups, what's that they say? In your cups? Don't know if the expression applies to a couple ounces of Mary Jane, but maybe nobody met that girl yet when they'd invented that phrase. Cups. Cups. Left of the sink, bottom shelf.
He misses the shelf entirely when he reaches, depth perception a thing of the past; he swipes at his eyes with his sleeve and finds they're wet again, when did that start again, fucking... leaking, that's the problem, he's leaking, his fucking brain's running out of his head, he's got a good thing going, a family, of a kind, got people who count on him, got people he loves and needs and frankly, some kinda damage is really the only possible explanation for... this.
"Past is past," he mutters, echoing his words to Bill. "It's dead and it's done."
He manages to get his hand on a mug this time, but he can't get it from the shelf to the worktop; it falls into the sink at the next tremour, the ensuing crash loud and shocking.
"Fuck," Johnny whispers. The kettle rumbles, and starts to whistle.
He can fake it.
He has faked it for this long, for all these years... He can't fall apart now. He just can't.
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