You hold your hand there a moment longer as he finally falls silent, seemingly soothed. Without any real idea of what you should be doing, all you can do is offer that touch, because it seems to be helping and you feel so helpless-
(- Ella, c'mon, we'll get through this, we gotta -)
Red's hand is clenching, and you remember him pulling on his hair, hurting himself, so you release his cheek to snatch his fingers, pressing both hands between your large, rough palms. There's so much of what he's said and what he's saying that you don't understand (Why is Wessex going to hurt him? How did a god take away his ability to speak? What can you possibly do, to make it even a little better?) but you've learned that asking too many questions can lead to dark places, especially in times like these.
( Why can't you just talk to me, El, and we'll get through this? Do you think I don't miss him, too? That it isn't killing me inside? Do you think I'm so fucking heartless, that I don't miss him too- )
You swallow down the memories that rise like a flash flood. You'd fucked things up then, again and again, too lost in your own misery to see that your wife coped differently than you, that she needed something you didn't know how to give. And when Sam gives you an out, you almost fucking take it- because he's right, you don't know him that well, and as bad as he feels he deserves someone with their own shit together right now, not sad-sack widower who can't crack a smile you.
( Why won't ya look at me? We can get through this, but you gotta at give me somethin' t'work with, El, at least look at me-- )
You could leave, just like you did before, when you were lost and things were hard and you were too fucking weak to carry her burden and you should have, could have, stayed.
( Fine, El. If you think I'm so fuckin' awful I'll leave. 's not like we're gettin' anywhere. Y'can have the whole damn house t'yerself, it it'll make ya happy - 's obvious I'm just a fuckin' thorn in yer side, these days, that y'stopped wantin' me when Ray------- )
"D'ya want me t'go?" Your voice is rough and gentle, uncertain as you peer up into his face. "If y'wanna be alone, tell me an' I'll go- otherwise I'm stayin'. Yer in my house, after all." The last comment is made with a little forced humor, a dismal attempt to lighten the mood, set him somewhat at ease. "Y'don't gotta talk if y'don't wanna. But y'don't gotta be alone, either."
(- Ella, c'mon, we'll get through this, we gotta -)
Red's hand is clenching, and you remember him pulling on his hair, hurting himself, so you release his cheek to snatch his fingers, pressing both hands between your large, rough palms. There's so much of what he's said and what he's saying that you don't understand (Why is Wessex going to hurt him? How did a god take away his ability to speak? What can you possibly do, to make it even a little better?) but you've learned that asking too many questions can lead to dark places, especially in times like these.
( Why can't you just talk to me, El, and we'll get through this? Do you think I don't miss him, too? That it isn't killing me inside? Do you think I'm so fucking heartless, that I don't miss him too- )
You swallow down the memories that rise like a flash flood. You'd fucked things up then, again and again, too lost in your own misery to see that your wife coped differently than you, that she needed something you didn't know how to give. And when Sam gives you an out, you almost fucking take it- because he's right, you don't know him that well, and as bad as he feels he deserves someone with their own shit together right now, not sad-sack widower who can't crack a smile you.
( Why won't ya look at me? We can get through this, but you gotta at give me somethin' t'work with, El, at least look at me-- )
You could leave, just like you did before, when you were lost and things were hard and you were too fucking weak to carry her burden and you should have, could have, stayed.
( Fine, El. If you think I'm so fuckin' awful I'll leave. 's not like we're gettin' anywhere. Y'can have the whole damn house t'yerself, it it'll make ya happy - 's obvious I'm just a fuckin' thorn in yer side, these days, that y'stopped wantin' me when Ray------- )
"D'ya want me t'go?" Your voice is rough and gentle, uncertain as you peer up into his face. "If y'wanna be alone, tell me an' I'll go- otherwise I'm stayin'. Yer in my house, after all." The last comment is made with a little forced humor, a dismal attempt to lighten the mood, set him somewhat at ease. "Y'don't gotta talk if y'don't wanna. But y'don't gotta be alone, either."
and in the sea that's painted black
creatures lurk below the deckbut you're my king and i'm your lionheart
creatures lurk below the deckbut you're my king and i'm your lionheart
