[ He supposes, privately, that that fits; he hadn't been much good at fighting back at the time, either.
The moment dies, of course. It always does. The only difference is that John hadn't been the one to kill it this time, not with some out-of-line comment or snippy remark. It isn't John that comes to defense of himself. It's the simple reminder that light peal of laughter pinning beneath his own deals him, the reminder that he's not alone in this moment. He's leading Abigail through it, sharing in that private and grim amusement he'd taken with him through the years, and she is partaking in it, with no thorniness or reprisal. Something in his chest withers in response, and he feels its legs break beneath him.
He can't find or name what just died. That doesn't stop him from mourning it, from touching the new hollow in his chest and feeling heavy regret sink his gut.
Maybe he could perform an autopsy on this fresh carcass he's carrying inside of himself later. If he's lucky, he could find a sober and dark corner to brood in and be left alone, and he could identify what he wanted to participate in - what had been taken from him in that moment, who took it, and what poison they had used. Why he felt, at once, exposed and alone - relieved and horribly sad. But not now. This particular sober corner is already reserved for Better, and that's what he's going to try to do. Even as his entire body compels him to stand and leave her here to this tree. John, silent, rubs at his forearms and looks up at the tree branches.
They could have held his weight, he thinks. ]
It always goes wrong. They don't come sometimes, or they're-- [ The words stick in his throat, ] --watchin', or... sometimes it's like the horse is the rope, and it takes off with me draggin' behind, and they never get me.
[She doesn't draw his attention back to her. Let him look where he will, do what he needs to get through the moment. That he's sharing it at all— that has to be a step towards something better. Healing, maybe? Seems silly even to think it, too lofty, but even she knows there's power in speaking something aloud, something what's been playing shadow for God knows how long.]
All them what-ifs.
[What-ifs and impossibilities, a memory twisted up into countless nightmares, the way the worst memories always knew how to do.]
Mighty long rope, to be trailin' after you all these years.
[It was probably going to get longer, still. These weren't the kinds of moments you ever forgot.]
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no subject
The moment dies, of course. It always does. The only difference is that John hadn't been the one to kill it this time, not with some out-of-line comment or snippy remark. It isn't John that comes to defense of himself. It's the simple reminder that light peal of laughter pinning beneath his own deals him, the reminder that he's not alone in this moment. He's leading Abigail through it, sharing in that private and grim amusement he'd taken with him through the years, and she is partaking in it, with no thorniness or reprisal. Something in his chest withers in response, and he feels its legs break beneath him.
He can't find or name what just died. That doesn't stop him from mourning it, from touching the new hollow in his chest and feeling heavy regret sink his gut.
Maybe he could perform an autopsy on this fresh carcass he's carrying inside of himself later. If he's lucky, he could find a sober and dark corner to brood in and be left alone, and he could identify what he wanted to participate in - what had been taken from him in that moment, who took it, and what poison they had used. Why he felt, at once, exposed and alone - relieved and horribly sad. But not now. This particular sober corner is already reserved for Better, and that's what he's going to try to do. Even as his entire body compels him to stand and leave her here to this tree. John, silent, rubs at his forearms and looks up at the tree branches.
They could have held his weight, he thinks. ]
It always goes wrong. They don't come sometimes, or they're-- [ The words stick in his throat, ] --watchin', or... sometimes it's like the horse is the rope, and it takes off with me draggin' behind, and they never get me.
no subject
All them what-ifs.
[What-ifs and impossibilities, a memory twisted up into countless nightmares, the way the worst memories always knew how to do.]
Mighty long rope, to be trailin' after you all these years.
[It was probably going to get longer, still. These weren't the kinds of moments you ever forgot.]