Matter Out of Place, Ch. 1-A Caskett WIP set after Belly of the Beast (6 x 17)
Title: Matter Out of Place
Rating: T
WC: ~1000, this chapter
Summary: "He says there's nothing wrong. He says he's fine. They're fine. Most of the time, she believes him." post-Belly of the Beast (6 x 17). Probably a 3-shot.
He says there's nothing wrong. He says he's fine. They're fine. Most of the time, she believes him.
He bugs her more often. Ever since Elena. He inundates her with silly videos and pictures of cute animals he says they absolutely need to have as pets. He plans zoo capers to kidnap them. Elaborate schemes for him and supporting roles for her.
He sketches grand plans for a labyrinth of room-to-room otter tubes for the Hamptons and texts them to her. Snapshots of napkins and envelopes and meeting agendas he's probably meant to be following. He manufactures reasons to call her. Sudden, urgent wedding plans and bouts of indecision over everything from dinner to fabric softener.
She calls him on it sometimes. Not always, but sometimes. She says his name in a particular way, and he sighs. He knows he's caught and he comes clean right away.
Just needed to hear your voice, he says.
Me, too, she says, because it's true.
They're both a little . . . needier. A little less guarded, even in public. But there's nothing exactly wrong.
He's had nightmares. Ever since Elena. So has she. But he says he's ok, and it seems true. He talks about them. They're . . . big. The writer in him running away with the details. Conjuring up the worst.
He sees her lost, far, far below ground. He hears the endless, patient echo of water dropping on crumbling stone. He sees Vulcan Simmons with her hair wrapped around his fist. Sees him slamming her forward. He sees her shatter like one-way glass. All of her shatters and she bleeds. She disappears.
Professional hazard. It's all she has to say now. She tugs his ear or gathers him up if it's a really bad one. She whispers that his mind is making it more terrible than it was, and he nods.
He holds on to her and nods even though it's hard for him to believe it. It's hard for her to believe it, but it's true. But he talks about them, at least.
He listens when she talks about hers. When she's ready to talk about hers. They're always the same for her. Variations on a theme. Nothing inventive, just short, awful, and to the point. Flashes of memory more than anything, and she needs a little time most nights.
He gives it to her. He settles next to in the darkness. In the flicker of the gas fire. In the starlight when they wind up on the roof some nights. He lets things fall silent. He doesn't push, and she tells him that it was the same. It's always the same, but she tells him anyway. The next day, every once in a while, but she tells him. She doesn't shut him out.
They're fewer and farther between now. That's good, too. For both of them, the nightmares are getting fewer and farther between.
It's not like they don't know the drill. She's dutiful about her trips to Burke, and he asks how it went. Every time, he asks, even though he knows the answer already, whatever it is. He knows whether she'll shrug because it was a good day or barrel into him and hold on tight because it wasn't. Whether it'll be wine and a movie she doesn't have to think about or whiskey and quiet for a while. He always knows.
He still worries about her. He watches, more intent, even than usual, and he tells her when she's falling apart. He tells her and she listens. She hears him out and they put her back together again.
He worries, but he doesn't worry. Not like before. Two years ago. A year ago, even. There's no question of him walking out. Of her haring off after Bracken. Leaving him behind again. They've had that conversation.
I'm not . . .
I know . . .
She means it and he believes her. Just like that, he believes her, and sometimes she's weak with relief. Sometimes how far they've come stops her in her tracks.
They're ok, all things considered.
She knows that when she pulls on a sweatshirt of his and shivers off the covers. Her feet are cold and clumsy on the floor tonight. She's slow.
She smiles, though, at the time it takes. How hard she has to think about what sleeves are and which way the door is. It means she's out of practice, and that's good. It's been a while. Weeks, probably, since either one of them has really been up in the middle of the night. She knows it's getting better.
She knows, because he holds out his arms to her right away and whispers that he's sorry he woke her. Because he whispers Sorry again when she flicks his hear.
Sorry.
It comes with a smile this time, because she tells him that he's supposed to. That she wants him to wake her. She wants to help.
He's ok and she is, too.
He comes right back to bed. Holds her in his lap for just a few minutes and gives a tired laugh as they tilt crazily in the office chair. But it's just a few minutes, and then he's letting her lead him back to bed. He's letting her drape the blankets over him.
He smiles up at her as she snaps them high and controls the fall. He curls himself around her when she clambers in on her side. He's already closing his eyes when she rolls on to her stomach and smooths a palm all down his ribs.
"You can sleep?" she asks and wishes there weren't a quaver in her voice. Wishes he hasn't heard it.
"I can sleep," he says into the deep hollow of the pillow. It's still warm. The bed is still warm.
"Not such a bad one," she says. That's stronger. No quaver there, and she's glad when his eyes flick open and he smiles at her. She's glad it's a little bleary. That he's already drifting off.
"Not so bad," he echoes.
She believes him. She mostly believes him.
A debt of gratitude owed to Cora Clavia for the otter tubes. They are totally A Thing.