There's an older gentleman across the room making a great effort not to look in Shelley's direction. He's almost gone so far past not looking that even when he does look, he doesn't actually see. Just a slowly disappearing greek salad with accompanying olive pile.
Shelley isn't really looking at anyone in particular.
But then, she isn't not looking either, so her attention is drawn again and again to the man just over there. He really does seem familiar... now, where from...
She'll remember it's rude to stare in just a minute. Honest.
It is not fair to say that Shelley is the last person that he wanted to see at this moment. There were at least a dozen other people who passed her on that list. But he wasn't exactly rushing off to find her, either.
Ford never did learn how to make himself invisible. It was always on his list of things to do, but as that list tended repeatedly to be hastily scribbled on the backs of cocktail napkins while roaringly drunk, they also tended to be unreadable the following morning, and were therefore thrown out.
As such, no matter how much he concentrates upon realizing he's been stared at, he stays frustratingly visible.
She may not recognize him, but he certainly recognizes her. How could he not? A year's worth of nightmares tends to crystallize a person's face in one's mind.
The one of her grinning above him and singing lullabies while breaking his fingers was especially helpful in that respect.
And the worst of it is that he can't even put any blame to her. Maybe it would be easier if he could. If he could just hate her for things she did, he could live with it. But he can't. He doesn't know anything she may or may not have done. She could have been just as much a pawn as (Trillian) everyone else, or she could have been playing them all the entire time.
He'll never know. She's just one more person who won't speak of those times. She's an unknown, and explorer though he is, there's always a grudging respect and healthy fear of the unknown.
And she's still part of their extended family. He loves her as much as they all do. Even so, the emptiness in the back of his head itches whenever any of them are near. It's the space he used to hold open for the knowledge that only they have, the knowledge he used to believe he deserved to have as well.
Now, though, it's merely become a cobwebbed storage room where he's stacked his regrets.
The tea's gone cold, but he drinks it anyway. It's something to do.
The teacup chatters against the saucer when the tune reaches him. Ford sets them both down hastily before the sound is noticed, gripping the table until the tremble stops.
It was a tune he knew all too well. If he had any prowess with an instrument, he could doubtless play it from memory simply based on the number of times he'd heard it. Even now, his foot begins to tap out the beat, quite of its own volition. His chest tightens, and his breath feels like icy needles through his throat.
Slowly, numbly, Ford reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a small bottle. He tips one of the pills into his hand and swallows it dry before replacing the bottle in his pocket. In a few moments, he's able to breath more normally and even pick up the teacup without a fuss.
are idly drumming on the edge on the bar - the piano part of the music he can still hear. She's not humming it any more; she's singing.
Odd, since this piece has no lyrics. It apparently does not deter her.
"...Dum dee da dum da da, humm ada da da da..."
There is a contented smile on her pretty face as she stirs the last of her tea absently, turning it into a tiny pale whirlpool. A little spills over the side, and she breaks off to ask for a napkin. The steaming pool of tea vanishes neatly instead, leaving her feeling slightly sheepish. Red hair falls in front of her face, obscuring her expression.
He'd never expected to get old. At 15, he'd expected to die in a hail of police gunfire doing something amazingly disreputable. At 25, he'd expected to die investigating the uncharted backwaters of space, his legacy immortalized in his last Guide entry. At 35, he'd expected to die being eaten by an enormous shark taking up residence in a lake behind a bar at the end of the universe. Sixty-five was what happened to other people.
And no one should have to be 65 after seeing the things he'd seen.
The tune thunders in his ears, coming from inside as well as out by now. His teeth clench together to keep himself from joining in. His eyes staunchly refuse to close, because he knows he'll see her playing it. And he'll probably smile. Zarquon take him, he'd smile. And he can't let that happen. Not anymore.
Shelley gets up after a time, plate and cups vanishing from the bar surface as she wanders towards the stairs, the spring and rhythm to her steps telling that the music still runs through her mind.
As the redhaired girl passes by his table, she looks again, and half-smiles absently but cheerfully, the smile of someone who knows they knows you but can't quite place how.
The she is gone, skipping up the stairs, two at a time, forgetting her curiosity already.
He freezes when she passes, only half-heartedly returning her smile with a forced one -- the one that you give your dentist when he asks if you've been flossing, the one that is accompanied by the words "What seems to be the problem, officer?" -- and silently screams out to any power that would listen for her not to speak to him.
As it happens, whether by divine intervention or not, she merely continues up the steps, leaving him alone.
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But then, she isn't not looking either, so her attention is drawn again and again to the man just over there. He really does seem familiar... now, where from...
She'll remember it's rude to stare in just a minute. Honest.
Reply
Ford never did learn how to make himself invisible. It was always on his list of things to do, but as that list tended repeatedly to be hastily scribbled on the backs of cocktail napkins while roaringly drunk, they also tended to be unreadable the following morning, and were therefore thrown out.
As such, no matter how much he concentrates upon realizing he's been stared at, he stays frustratingly visible.
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But it is rude to stare, she suddenly realises, turning her attention back to her tea.
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The one of her grinning above him and singing lullabies while breaking his fingers was especially helpful in that respect.
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Her feet kick in rhythm to some unknown tune currently running through her head.
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He'll never know. She's just one more person who won't speak of those times. She's an unknown, and explorer though he is, there's always a grudging respect and healthy fear of the unknown.
And she's still part of their extended family. He loves her as much as they all do. Even so, the emptiness in the back of his head itches whenever any of them are near. It's the space he used to hold open for the knowledge that only they have, the knowledge he used to believe he deserved to have as well.
Now, though, it's merely become a cobwebbed storage room where he's stacked his regrets.
The tea's gone cold, but he drinks it anyway. It's something to do.
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Shelley never could resist a tune running through her mind and her light voice carries. It's that kind of music. Catches at the subconscious.
(The March of Death)
The fresh white flower bobs slightly in her hair, as perfect as the day it was picked. Months ago, now.
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It was a tune he knew all too well. If he had any prowess with an instrument, he could doubtless play it from memory simply based on the number of times he'd heard it. Even now, his foot begins to tap out the beat, quite of its own volition. His chest tightens, and his breath feels like icy needles through his throat.
Slowly, numbly, Ford reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a small bottle. He tips one of the pills into his hand and swallows it dry before replacing the bottle in his pocket. In a few moments, he's able to breath more normally and even pick up the teacup without a fuss.
Reply
(crushed so easily in his hand)
are idly drumming on the edge on the bar - the piano part of the music he can still hear. She's not humming it any more; she's singing.
Odd, since this piece has no lyrics. It apparently does not deter her.
"...Dum dee da dum da da, humm ada da da da..."
There is a contented smile on her pretty face as she stirs the last of her tea absently, turning it into a tiny pale whirlpool. A little spills over the side, and she breaks off to ask for a napkin. The steaming pool of tea vanishes neatly instead, leaving her feeling slightly sheepish. Red hair falls in front of her face, obscuring her expression.
Reply
And no one should have to be 65 after seeing the things he'd seen.
The tune thunders in his ears, coming from inside as well as out by now. His teeth clench together to keep himself from joining in. His eyes staunchly refuse to close, because he knows he'll see her playing it. And he'll probably smile. Zarquon take him, he'd smile. And he can't let that happen. Not anymore.
Reply
As the redhaired girl passes by his table, she looks again, and half-smiles absently but cheerfully, the smile of someone who knows they knows you but can't quite place how.
The she is gone, skipping up the stairs, two at a time, forgetting her curiosity already.
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As it happens, whether by divine intervention or not, she merely continues up the steps, leaving him alone.
(...Dum dee da dum da da, humm ada da da da...)
Well, mostly alone.
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