(no subject)
title: silence is a girl's loudest cry
rating: pg
fandom: boardwalk empire
character(s): meyer/anna
summary: it’s a stupid question - do you have to go? but she wants so desperately for him to stay...
words: roughly 900
She’s at the stove when she hears it - the sound of silverware scraping against her new china plates. Her ears bristle, skin tightening. The day she’d picked them out had been radiant, warm for early spring in New York, and the mellow blue had caught her the moment she’d walked in.
Meyer’s thinking again. He’s always thinking, the gears in his head turning restlessly over and over like nervous tapping fingers, but this kind is different. It takes him far away, pulls him out like the tide. His eyes, always dark and clear, turn glassy, glazed in that vacant sort of way that tells her he’s not here - his body might be anchored to the earth, but his mind has wandered off, leaving the flesh behind.
She turns and her hand slides down to her hip as her body wilts beneath a sigh. Yes, he’s gone for certain. He’s twirling his fork slowly, absently, and his chin has slipped down his palm. The tea in his cup is untouched, no teaspoon of milk (like he always takes it), and his food merely broken up and spread out to make it look as if it’s been eaten.
The stove is cooling, all the fires long burnt out. She drops her hand to her side, moving toward him. Meyer’s eyes slide back into focus, returning to the present - a kitchen still gleaming in the afterglow of early morning, fragrant tea leaves sweetening the heavy air. She kneels before him, taking his hand. His eyes catch on the bruise, just beneath her shoulder - the one he’d left last night when he lost control (only once, it’s not his fault). It’s why she’s so worried. Meyer isn’t one to lose himself. He is the essence of poise, of composure. When she unravels before him, in tears and pieces and fractured pleas, he is the one to pick her up, put her back together, and soften the jagged edges left behind.
But he had, last night, when he'd pressed himself so close to her and buried his fingers in her hair.
She reaches for his cheek, her palm molding easily against it. “It’s nothing,” she assures him.
“It must hurt,” he remarks numbly, running his thumb gently over the fragile skin.
“I don’t even feel it.”
For a long moment he just looks at it, brushes his thumb over and over the place where he had held on too tight. A mark of a violence kept in chains, kept hidden away from the surface for far too long. It’s almost like he wants to erase it. Forget it (it was never there). And maybe if he keeps running his fingers over the deep angry stain of his weakness - it will disappear.
“Won’t you talk to me?”
He stops, looks up at her. “About what?”
“I know something’s bothering you.”
“Nothing’s bothering me,” he tells her, reaching over the sugar bowl for the milk.
“I’m your wife, Meyer,” she replies. “I know when there’s something going on, even when you don’t want to tell me what it is.”
His voice rises, but only a little. “There’s nothing.”
She watches his face close up, the eyes retreating back behind their cold shield. He’s wearing his mask. It’s the one she hates to see here at their breakfast table where she’s supposed to know everything, to know that he feels safe enough with her to trust her with his life. Something in her squirms every time she has to see it (and the ache to dismantle it, pull it apart in her hands, grows more intense). This is home for him. It should be a sanctuary, a place for him to come to when there is no where else to run.
There’s a heavy silence. It weighs on her shoulders, pulling her down into the floor, but he’s there to pick her up. He tilts her head back, framing her small face with his hands.
Her eyes sting with the building pressure of tears; she doesn’t even know why , even resents the nonsense of such an urge (especially in front of him, there’s no reason). “Do you have to go?”
He doesn’t answer, doesn't even look at her. It’s a stupid question - do you have to go? But she wants so desperately for him to stay, for him to forget everything that leaves him feeling so trapped and alone in his private desperation. They’d leave the kitchen, she’d lead him back into their room, and hold him close like she had last night. She wouldn’t expect him to say anything, prod him for answers he's unwilling to give. It would be enough, his being there, letting her comfort him. That’s all she asks - let me comfort you. I’m your wife. I love you and I don’t want you to go.
Softly, he kisses her, his lips grazing the corner of her mouth as he pulls away.
“I’ll be late, don't wait for me.”
He leaves the kitchen, leaves her kneeling before his empty chair. It isn’t until the door slams behind him and she watches his silhouette melt into the burning, blinding sunlight that she realizes she’s alone.
She sinks down, pressing her forehead into her folded arms, and squeezes her eyes shut so tightly she sees stars.
I love you, Meyer.
rating: pg
fandom: boardwalk empire
character(s): meyer/anna
summary: it’s a stupid question - do you have to go? but she wants so desperately for him to stay...
words: roughly 900
She’s at the stove when she hears it - the sound of silverware scraping against her new china plates. Her ears bristle, skin tightening. The day she’d picked them out had been radiant, warm for early spring in New York, and the mellow blue had caught her the moment she’d walked in.
Meyer’s thinking again. He’s always thinking, the gears in his head turning restlessly over and over like nervous tapping fingers, but this kind is different. It takes him far away, pulls him out like the tide. His eyes, always dark and clear, turn glassy, glazed in that vacant sort of way that tells her he’s not here - his body might be anchored to the earth, but his mind has wandered off, leaving the flesh behind.
She turns and her hand slides down to her hip as her body wilts beneath a sigh. Yes, he’s gone for certain. He’s twirling his fork slowly, absently, and his chin has slipped down his palm. The tea in his cup is untouched, no teaspoon of milk (like he always takes it), and his food merely broken up and spread out to make it look as if it’s been eaten.
The stove is cooling, all the fires long burnt out. She drops her hand to her side, moving toward him. Meyer’s eyes slide back into focus, returning to the present - a kitchen still gleaming in the afterglow of early morning, fragrant tea leaves sweetening the heavy air. She kneels before him, taking his hand. His eyes catch on the bruise, just beneath her shoulder - the one he’d left last night when he lost control (only once, it’s not his fault). It’s why she’s so worried. Meyer isn’t one to lose himself. He is the essence of poise, of composure. When she unravels before him, in tears and pieces and fractured pleas, he is the one to pick her up, put her back together, and soften the jagged edges left behind.
But he had, last night, when he'd pressed himself so close to her and buried his fingers in her hair.
She reaches for his cheek, her palm molding easily against it. “It’s nothing,” she assures him.
“It must hurt,” he remarks numbly, running his thumb gently over the fragile skin.
“I don’t even feel it.”
For a long moment he just looks at it, brushes his thumb over and over the place where he had held on too tight. A mark of a violence kept in chains, kept hidden away from the surface for far too long. It’s almost like he wants to erase it. Forget it (it was never there). And maybe if he keeps running his fingers over the deep angry stain of his weakness - it will disappear.
“Won’t you talk to me?”
He stops, looks up at her. “About what?”
“I know something’s bothering you.”
“Nothing’s bothering me,” he tells her, reaching over the sugar bowl for the milk.
“I’m your wife, Meyer,” she replies. “I know when there’s something going on, even when you don’t want to tell me what it is.”
His voice rises, but only a little. “There’s nothing.”
She watches his face close up, the eyes retreating back behind their cold shield. He’s wearing his mask. It’s the one she hates to see here at their breakfast table where she’s supposed to know everything, to know that he feels safe enough with her to trust her with his life. Something in her squirms every time she has to see it (and the ache to dismantle it, pull it apart in her hands, grows more intense). This is home for him. It should be a sanctuary, a place for him to come to when there is no where else to run.
There’s a heavy silence. It weighs on her shoulders, pulling her down into the floor, but he’s there to pick her up. He tilts her head back, framing her small face with his hands.
Her eyes sting with the building pressure of tears; she doesn’t even know why , even resents the nonsense of such an urge (especially in front of him, there’s no reason). “Do you have to go?”
He doesn’t answer, doesn't even look at her. It’s a stupid question - do you have to go? But she wants so desperately for him to stay, for him to forget everything that leaves him feeling so trapped and alone in his private desperation. They’d leave the kitchen, she’d lead him back into their room, and hold him close like she had last night. She wouldn’t expect him to say anything, prod him for answers he's unwilling to give. It would be enough, his being there, letting her comfort him. That’s all she asks - let me comfort you. I’m your wife. I love you and I don’t want you to go.
Softly, he kisses her, his lips grazing the corner of her mouth as he pulls away.
“I’ll be late, don't wait for me.”
He leaves the kitchen, leaves her kneeling before his empty chair. It isn’t until the door slams behind him and she watches his silhouette melt into the burning, blinding sunlight that she realizes she’s alone.
She sinks down, pressing her forehead into her folded arms, and squeezes her eyes shut so tightly she sees stars.
I love you, Meyer.