[Danny leaves her on the 29th and he won't be back for hours, until night has descended back over Rubilykskoye and she's crawled into bed to inhale the lingering scent of House, of John, of all of them intertwined.
In the now, in the later afternoon, while she's alone, she feels numb. She doesn't want to leave; she wants Eddie and Billy here with her. She's thinking about wandering the woods for the stupid golf cart, of finding Billy, and then Eddie filters in and she stops, breathes, exhales out: ] You need blood?
[That might be nice, maybe. To drift. To give. Forget the cart and try again tomorrow. ]
( he doesn’t need it, not desperately nor is the faint hint of hunger really starting but—- ) Yeah.
( it’d be nice to feel grounded, to feel the closeness that feeding gives — to feel Jem or Billy his veins, to not worry that they’ll disappear too for a moment. )
You should come by. Both of you. You'll get through the wards, but - there's traps. I'll meet you.
[she says this like it's normal. like this is now an accepted thing which happens. like this is how grief manifests: your brother traps the property and keeps you in, keeps everyone else out. this is how you do it.
she'd like to sleep some more, truthfully. another eight days or so. another six weeks. ]
( he's not surprised by traps, honestly. he's not sure what it says about him that he gets it. ) Okay, we'll see you there.
You'll get there first, Bills. I'm out in the woods already but wrong side of the lake. ( Billy'll probably get there first, Eddie has to go around from where Gilia's home is located. )
[She waits at the boundaries. Settles close to where the chickens have taken up roost, and entertains Mercymorn with pets and idle conversation. There’s some tidying she’ll need to do, later. Sort through their things, go out eventually for the golfcart.
For now it’s this miasma of numb-grief. Of empty uncertainty. She wants to go back to bed, mostly. She wants to pretend nothing has changed.
Whoever gets there first will find her still in her pj’s: one of House’s shirts, a pair of bloomers cut into shorts. One of John’s cardigans sits over her shoulders, which is the maybe only out of habit. She hasn’t brushed her hair. ]
[ It's been bad since the first one left, disappeared, went up in smoke or slipped through the void. Billy hasn't fully thought about it, because it's frightening. It's like when people die — everyone says they're in a better place, they're up in heaven or whatever, but Billy doesn't know about that, even with his new take on a saint's medallion. What if it's not better after all? What if you just rot? And John, seemingly, couldn't even rot. Where do you go after this shithole? Back home, somewhere else, or nowhere at all, and what would be worse?
Billy doesn't say any of that to Jem. And he won't now that House has hobbled off to die like that dog in Where the Red Fern Grows. House is Little Ann, too fucking sad about Old Dan dying, so she goes and dies herself. It's fucked up. Maybe Billy gets it. He sort of got it when he read the book in gradeschool, and he'd cried for nearly an hour, missing someone in particular and wondering why that stupid yawning emptiness wouldn't come and claim him too.
Eddie's coming. In the meantime, Billy finds Jem's elbow, knocks his forehead against hers and mutters: ] What needs to get done?
[ Feeding chickens? Dealing with that smelly goat? Setting off with her to find the cart? Or he can sit there with his hand on her side and his forehead against hers until Eddie arrives. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
In the now, in the later afternoon, while she's alone, she feels numb. She doesn't want to leave; she wants Eddie and Billy here with her. She's thinking about wandering the woods for the stupid golf cart, of finding Billy, and then Eddie filters in and she stops, breathes, exhales out: ] You need blood?
[That might be nice, maybe. To drift. To give. Forget the cart and try again tomorrow. ]
no subject
( it’d be nice to feel grounded, to feel the closeness that feeding gives — to feel Jem or Billy his veins, to not worry that they’ll disappear too for a moment. )
no subject
[she says this like it's normal. like this is now an accepted thing which happens. like this is how grief manifests: your brother traps the property and keeps you in, keeps everyone else out. this is how you do it.
she'd like to sleep some more, truthfully. another eight days or so. another six weeks. ]
no subject
Meet on the southside.
[ To Eddie: ] I left from the greenhouse.
no subject
You'll get there first, Bills. I'm out in the woods already but wrong side of the lake. ( Billy'll probably get there first, Eddie has to go around from where Gilia's home is located. )
no subject
For now it’s this miasma of numb-grief. Of empty uncertainty. She wants to go back to bed, mostly. She wants to pretend nothing has changed.
Whoever gets there first will find her still in her pj’s: one of House’s shirts, a pair of bloomers cut into shorts. One of John’s cardigans sits over her shoulders, which is the maybe only out of habit. She hasn’t brushed her hair. ]
no subject
Billy doesn't say any of that to Jem. And he won't now that House has hobbled off to die like that dog in Where the Red Fern Grows. House is Little Ann, too fucking sad about Old Dan dying, so she goes and dies herself. It's fucked up. Maybe Billy gets it. He sort of got it when he read the book in gradeschool, and he'd cried for nearly an hour, missing someone in particular and wondering why that stupid yawning emptiness wouldn't come and claim him too.
Eddie's coming. In the meantime, Billy finds Jem's elbow, knocks his forehead against hers and mutters: ] What needs to get done?
[ Feeding chickens? Dealing with that smelly goat? Setting off with her to find the cart? Or he can sit there with his hand on her side and his forehead against hers until Eddie arrives. ]