Love, Thieves, Fear (1/?)
anonymous
August 28 2011, 19:59:13 UTC
"Love, thieves, and fear make ghosts." -- German Proverb
xx
John’s heart stops in surgery. He doesn’t remember this, of course, doesn’t remember anything that took place between the anesthesia and the recovery bed - but they tell him. It seems a bit of trivia at first, no scarier than what put him under the knife in the first place. Later, he’ll wonder.
He doesn’t wonder about much of anything in the hospital, except when he’ll be getting back into the field. When he sees himself in the mirror, he takes note of the patch of grey hair that’s snuck up on him, and the lines bent into his forehead, and knows intellectually that regardless of how well his shoulder heals, he’ll be put out of the army eventually. He just can’t imagine it. He imagines his men out there without him, with someone else in his place. He imagines disasters and triumphs he won’t share and wounds he won’t treat, but he can’t imagine not going back.
(He doesn’t have to.)
xx
Harry can only guilt him into accepting so many favors, but today she still has currency. She calls him up and convinces him he needs some new clothes for civilian life - the ones he abandoned in her basement sometime close to the turn of the century are so out of date they’re almost retro, or so she says - and, with great reluctance, he lets her take him out shopping. At least she’s sober for the moment.
She leaves him to finger through the jumpers while she goes to look for a gift for Clara in another department. John leans heavily on his cane, willing the people around him not to notice his hand shaking, willing the attendant to leave him alone. He pulls a grey wool thing out to get a better look. When he puts it back, there’s a man in front of him - twenty stone at least, covered in tattoos, with a knife handle sticking out of the belt of his trousers.
Oh, god, John thinks, or prays. Let him attack me. Or be here to rob the place. He puts a bit less weight on the cane his new therapist tells him he doesn’t need.
“You’re one of them that can see us?” the man asks.
“Excuse me?” John says, polite as he was raised to be. He doesn’t notice his hand has stilled.
The man looks much happier than John wants him to. “I heard one of you lot were in town. Oh, hey, I’m Rhys.”
“I’m glad,” John says. “Um. I’m sorry. Do you need something, or . . .?”
Rhys straightens up. If he loomed over John before, he’d block out the sun now. “Oh, yeah. ‘Course. Can you talk to my girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend, I s’pose. Till death do us part, and all.”
“You want me to talk to your dead girlfriend?”
“If she was dead, I wouldn’t need you, would I?” Rhys says. Then he rattles off a name and an address, and says, “I need you to tell her I didn’t do it.”
John doubts that, somehow. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder. He whirls around. It’s only Harry.
“John?” she says quietly. “Who are you talking to?”
He glances over his shoulder, and then his eyes stick there. Rhys is gone. “Myself,” John finds himself saying, because what good did Afghanistan do him if he can’t think on his feet? “I was just - thinking out loud.”
“Like hell,” she says.
John’s hand starts trembling again, and he shoves it into his jacket pocket. “It’s an Afghanistan thing, all right?”
“You can tell me about it.”
“I - I’d really rather not.” He glances back again, looking for any trace of the hulking man he’d just given five minutes of his life to. “Can you drop me back off at mine?”
xx
John’s heart stops in surgery. He doesn’t remember this, of course, doesn’t remember anything that took place between the anesthesia and the recovery bed - but they tell him. It seems a bit of trivia at first, no scarier than what put him under the knife in the first place. Later, he’ll wonder.
He doesn’t wonder about much of anything in the hospital, except when he’ll be getting back into the field. When he sees himself in the mirror, he takes note of the patch of grey hair that’s snuck up on him, and the lines bent into his forehead, and knows intellectually that regardless of how well his shoulder heals, he’ll be put out of the army eventually. He just can’t imagine it. He imagines his men out there without him, with someone else in his place. He imagines disasters and triumphs he won’t share and wounds he won’t treat, but he can’t imagine not going back.
(He doesn’t have to.)
xx
Harry can only guilt him into accepting so many favors, but today she still has currency. She calls him up and convinces him he needs some new clothes for civilian life - the ones he abandoned in her basement sometime close to the turn of the century are so out of date they’re almost retro, or so she says - and, with great reluctance, he lets her take him out shopping. At least she’s sober for the moment.
She leaves him to finger through the jumpers while she goes to look for a gift for Clara in another department. John leans heavily on his cane, willing the people around him not to notice his hand shaking, willing the attendant to leave him alone. He pulls a grey wool thing out to get a better look. When he puts it back, there’s a man in front of him - twenty stone at least, covered in tattoos, with a knife handle sticking out of the belt of his trousers.
Oh, god, John thinks, or prays. Let him attack me. Or be here to rob the place. He puts a bit less weight on the cane his new therapist tells him he doesn’t need.
“You’re one of them that can see us?” the man asks.
“Excuse me?” John says, polite as he was raised to be. He doesn’t notice his hand has stilled.
The man looks much happier than John wants him to. “I heard one of you lot were in town. Oh, hey, I’m Rhys.”
“I’m glad,” John says. “Um. I’m sorry. Do you need something, or . . .?”
Rhys straightens up. If he loomed over John before, he’d block out the sun now. “Oh, yeah. ‘Course. Can you talk to my girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend, I s’pose. Till death do us part, and all.”
“You want me to talk to your dead girlfriend?”
“If she was dead, I wouldn’t need you, would I?” Rhys says. Then he rattles off a name and an address, and says, “I need you to tell her I didn’t do it.”
John doubts that, somehow. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder. He whirls around. It’s only Harry.
“John?” she says quietly. “Who are you talking to?”
He glances over his shoulder, and then his eyes stick there. Rhys is gone. “Myself,” John finds himself saying, because what good did Afghanistan do him if he can’t think on his feet? “I was just - thinking out loud.”
“Like hell,” she says.
John’s hand starts trembling again, and he shoves it into his jacket pocket. “It’s an Afghanistan thing, all right?”
“You can tell me about it.”
“I - I’d really rather not.” He glances back again, looking for any trace of the hulking man he’d just given five minutes of his life to. “Can you drop me back off at mine?”
Harry’s jaw clenches, but she nods.
Rhys is waiting for him when he gets home.
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*waits for more now*
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