and when I die I expect to find him laughing
She's been on edge, more than ususal, ever since the radio announcement yesterday; someone on this island is killing women and there's nothing Alex can do about it, nothing but hang around indoors and try not to look like a target. She's already been shot once, surely that should grant her an exemption, but there's less and less these days that she's absolutely sure about. And it's really better, this once, to be safe than sorry.
So she's taken to the rec room, curled up in a chair with the copy of Hotel du Lac she's coaxed from the bookcase and settling into a resigned, comfortable kind of semi-boredom; even the jukebox is cooperating more than not, with something low and vaguely soothing despite what she can hear of the lyrics. It's something like being back there, one of the days she'd been off work or staying up too late afraid of sleeping.
And the hair standing up on her neck, the shadow in the corner of her eye, isn't startling now; it's nearly a reassurance, another confirmation that nothing's really changed.
"Hi, Molls," Alex says softly. She knows much better by now than to turn, to try and look at her daughter; there's no colour at the extremes of peripheral vision, she remembers hearing that, but she can see it anyway, navy and white, a glint of gold off fair hair. It's almost enough to live on. "What do you make of all this, I wonder?"
She turns the page without looking down at it; her hands shake, rattling on the paper, but she hardly notices.
"I'm still coming back, you know," she says. "Temporary delay, maybe, but I'll be there. I promise. You just hold on."
(Ex-DI hallucinating inna rec room, timed to earlier this evening, will attempt to snap out of it if interrupted. All tags welcome.)
So she's taken to the rec room, curled up in a chair with the copy of Hotel du Lac she's coaxed from the bookcase and settling into a resigned, comfortable kind of semi-boredom; even the jukebox is cooperating more than not, with something low and vaguely soothing despite what she can hear of the lyrics. It's something like being back there, one of the days she'd been off work or staying up too late afraid of sleeping.
And the hair standing up on her neck, the shadow in the corner of her eye, isn't startling now; it's nearly a reassurance, another confirmation that nothing's really changed.
"Hi, Molls," Alex says softly. She knows much better by now than to turn, to try and look at her daughter; there's no colour at the extremes of peripheral vision, she remembers hearing that, but she can see it anyway, navy and white, a glint of gold off fair hair. It's almost enough to live on. "What do you make of all this, I wonder?"
She turns the page without looking down at it; her hands shake, rattling on the paper, but she hardly notices.
"I'm still coming back, you know," she says. "Temporary delay, maybe, but I'll be there. I promise. You just hold on."
(Ex-DI hallucinating inna rec room, timed to earlier this evening, will attempt to snap out of it if interrupted. All tags welcome.)