molly graham (test run) -- red dragon -- barways

[yelling_muse]

Molly Graham is a tough cookie.

(She survived.)

She's been through enough that she isn't the same person as she was.

(She's divorced, for one.)

But she tries to lead a life as close to normal as she can manage.

(She does it for Josh.)

So when a bar appears instead of the laundry room, she doesn't look nearly as surprised as she might have a few months

Comments

[volam_vincam]

...

Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.

[justshoothim]

The pandimensional bar doesn't cause her to drop her laundry.

The sight of him does.

(The basket hits the floor sideways; the clothes spill out.

She wants to say, why are you here, what are you doing --)

She quickly drops down to her knees and starts gathering up the clothes again.

(-- but all that happens is that she averts her gaze. Concentrates on the cotton.

Don't look up don't look up don't look up.)

[volam_vincam]

He drops his eyes to the floor--

--and raises them again, a half-second's incredulous dart, because he's not dead for her.

That's impossible.

He's not dead for her.

He has to be.

She moves like--

No.

Come on.

No.

Fucking Milliways.

[justshoothim]

Her first thought (having gotten the laundry back in order) is just to turn and leave.

(She's not sure whether she's ready to talk or not.)

But then -- she can't.

So she looks up.

(Shit. Oh, shit.)

She doesn't know anyone else here.

"I don't suppose --"

Her voice sounds strained, even to her.

"-- you could tell me what's going on."

(It isn't spoken like a question.)

(He's not dead.)

[volam_vincam]

Evenly: "It's... the bar at the end of the universe. Milliways."

When he got here, someone gave him the standard welcome speech.

He repeats it back word for word, almost without paying attention, stalling for time.

The Window is behind her and to her left.

Not giving it a glance is remarkably easy.

This isn't the Will she knows.

(He doesn't quite move right.)

[justshoothim]

He doesn't look, she doesn't look. It's as simple as that.

"The end of the -- you're kidding me."

She looks as though she'd like to be disgusted with this sort of humour, but doubts her own reaction.

(He isn't the Will she remembers.)

[volam_vincam]

"I'm not."

He shakes his head.

"I'm completely serious, Molly. Every" (stolen) "word."

Now he nods to the Window.

[justshoothim]

"Oh my god."

She can't put her hands to her mouth because she'd drop the basket (again).

It's just a light show, Molly, calm down.

The thought doesn't comfort her at all.

[volam_vincam]

Silently, he stands, holding out his hands in silent offer for the basket.

Gently: "I know. Let me take that for you. Do you want to sit down?"

That's what's wrong with him. Ease of motion. Where are the scars? He's been shot, stabbed-- he walks like he's twenty years old again, new and fresh and unmarred, unmarked.

[justshoothim]

She keeps her hold on the basket, shaking her head.

"But I'd like a seat."

He's almost a complete stranger. Molly isn't sure how much she recognizes anymore.

[volam_vincam]

"All right."

Fucking dammit.

"All right."

There's an empty table nearby; he gestures to it, and almost none of the pain shows on his face.

Almost none.

Death teaches you not to put up signposts to your weaknesses. It's a hard lesson, and not one easily relinquished.

[justshoothim]

(She can see it.

She can see it. She's not sure what she'd call the effect. Comforting, possibly. Alienating, maybe.

Part of her feels she should have just walked away.)

Molly looks in the direction he's pointing (offers a small nod), and, almost hesitantly, pulls out one of the chairs. Sitting down, she places the laundry basket by her feet, then straightening up and pushing her hair from her eyes.

Her own hurt is fully visible.

Maybe he isn't her Will, but he is still Will.

She isn't going to hide.

[volam_vincam]

Will hesitates visibly before standing by the chair across. He doesn't sit.

"You want anything?"

(First drink's free. He's told her that.)

[justshoothim]

"I'd like --"

A pause.

"A chocolate shake."

She feels almost childish saying it, but.

It doesn't (shouldn't) matter.

[volam_vincam]

He nods, and heads for the bar.

There's no amusement in him, and no mockery.

The look of quiet respect, the carefulness, distance-- it's how Eights dealt with him. After.

He remembers hating it and being helplessly grateful at the same time.

When he sets her shake down on the table he retreats to the other side again, resting his hands on the back of the chair, unwilling to sit without an invitation. It would feel wrong, somehow. Inappropriate.

[justshoothim]

She feels the same: she hates not being able to read anything from him. She hates how he seems more like a machine than a man. She hates that she can't grab on, hold onto anything.

But she's grateful for it. She doesn't know if she wants to reconnect. She doesn't think that, if he did choose to take away the sort of veil, things might be much better. She appreciates that nothing's gotten out of hand.

Her right hand goes out for the shake, drawing it a little ways across the table so the straw's accessible to her. She doesn't drink yet, fingertips near the mouth of the straw.

Staring down at the shake seems somehow preferable to looking at Will, for the moment.

There's a nod at the chair, rather than an explicit statement.