an_alien_sky (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} an_alien_sky) wrote,@ 2005-08-10 16:34:00 |
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Coda
Sparked by Lee Ann for a rewrite of "Bloodied Land", this scene may or may not be in the finished tales...
--------------
Fog closed around the square box of the cheap diner, pressing up against the windows, suffocating the light and smothering all colors to dull grey. Maybe fog was the most famous part of San Francisco, but to Steve, it was sinister, brooding, as if something waited just out of sight in the grey haze, waiting to pounce. Shadows drifted out there, vague and moving, sometimes resolving into full human, sometimes not, and Steve shivered, expecting each of those shadows to suddenly turn on him...
There was movement to Steve's right, pulling his attention from the window. Jonathan placed a cup of coffee in front of Steve, then slid into the seat across from him.
"They were out of cream," Jonathan said.
Steve only shrugged. The coffee here was barely tolerable anyway, lukewarm and weak. Having a cup just gave him something to fiddle with, something to use as an excuse for not talking.
But Jonathan had gone silent, too, staring out the window as if seeing shapes in the clouds of greyness. "I told Liz," he said finally. "Told her everything."
Jonathan's voice was steady enough. Steve glanced at the keyboardist, saw his hands trembling. "And?" Steve said quietly.
In answer, Jonathan let out a long breath, went back to staring out the window.
Steve waited. If he simply waited and let Jonathan talk, then Steve wouldn't have to. Let Jonathan stay focused on his own problems.
"Bad," Jonathan said. "I mean, she's still around. Still home. We're still talking. But..."
He didn't need to explain that 'but.' Steve had encountered it before, with his own girlfriends, time and time again, before Kern, before the magic, before...before...
Steve dropped his gaze down to his coffee cup, took a sip. Now that 'but' was worse for him, given what had happened, what was still happening. Something in the cup caught his eye, and he stared into it.
The curve of the white porcelain surrounding the black liquid...it looked like an archway, like the one leading into the Labyrinth in Kern, going down into the belly of the earth. The Labyrinth, where Darkwater...
"Steve?"
Steve's hand shook, swirling the contents of the cup. The trembling reflection of the lights on the coffee's surface broke up, becoming for a moment a face, sinister, glaring...
...ice-blue eyes glaring into his own, cold stone against his back, a wooden dagger pressed up against his throat, as he glared back, unable to breathe, unable to move away...
Something tapped his hand. "Hey. You okay?"
Steve jumped, coffee splattering everywhere. Jonathan swore and jerked back, shaking his hand off.
"Sorry," Steve said, reaching for the napkins, but then made the mistake of looking into Jonathan's face.
Jonathan was staring at him, his face twisted in concern. "Steve...?"
Steve couldn't take that gaze, that concern. He shoved himself up from the booth, headed for the door and shoved through it. The fog wrapped around him, chill and damp, and soon he was lost in it, huddled in his jacket and shivering. The diner was right on the Wharf, and the breeze from the Bay cut through the jacket, through to bone. Steve didn't care; he kept walking, until he ran into the railing along the dock. There, he stopped, gripping the railing tightly, leaning over to stare at the murky water and the shadowy, creaking shapes of boats moored in the greyness. The fog was a wall, hiding, cloaking...
Hollow footsteps on wood creaked behind him. Steve couldn't run, not backed up against the railing. He waited, listening, as the footsteps stopped, just behind him.
"You asked me all the way out here," Jonathan said, the fog hushing his voice. "Stiffing me for the tab ain't real polite."
Steve dug into his pocket, pulled out a couple bills, held them back towards Jonathan.
But Jonathan didn't take the money. He only moved around until he was at the railing, leaning next to Steve. For a long moment, there was silence, the only sounds the creaking of wood and ropes, the liquid slap of water against hulls, the gulls screeching over some idiot tourist's lunch.
"Well?" Jonathan said.
"There's too much space," Steve said softly. "The fog's filling it all up."
"You're not making sense."
Steve stared down at the bills in his hand, folding them, rolling them up. "There could be anything hiding out there. In that space. And we wouldn't know it. The fog's hiding him. It. Nothing's clear out there. You can't see nothing but grey. There's too much space, and too many hiding places."
"Do you need to hide?" Jonathan said gently.
Steve looked back up at Jonathan, saw nothing but concern on the keyboardist's face. "Maybe I'm already hidden."
"We all need to hide at some point. Nothing wrong with that."
"And if you're hiding from yourself?"
"If you know you're hiding," Jonathan said, "then you're not really hidden."
"But what if you are?" The words were torn from Steve, anxiety turning his voice high and sharp. "What if you don't even know you're hiding? What if you don't even know it's real or just a dream or...or a hallucination?"
"Nightmares?" Jonathan said, back to the gentle tone.
"I'm not asleep."
"Night terrors, then. Where you're in bed and scared shitless 'cause of what you thought you saw or heard..."
"I'm not asleep now," Steve said.
"Neither am I."
The breeze was chill, its touch an unwanted caress against Steve's face, his neck. Steve shivered, watching the swirls of fog and the shapes blurred behind it.. "What happened, over there. It was real, right? It wasn't a dream, or a spell..."
"It was real," Jonathan said.
Something under Jonathan's tone made Steve look at him. Jonathan hadn't zipped up his jacket, and his shirt was unbuttoned to mid-chest; the chill didn't seem to bother Jonathan at all. But Steve saw the scabbed-over slash on Jonathan's chest, and, worse, the red line of scar cut through the middle of Jonathan's throat.
"It was real," Jonathan said again. If he was aware of where Steve was staring, he didn't show it. "And there's five other people who'll be happy to tell you the same thing."
"None of you were with me," Steve said, "not for all of it."
"No," Jonathan said quietly, "we weren't."
Silence again. Steve couldn't look at him, couldn't talk, could only stare down into the grey-green water, not even seeing his own reflection. It was hidden in the greyness and strewn with dead fish and driftwood.
"When I told Liz," Jonathan said, breaking the silence, "it was hard. The hardest thing I've ever done. But I had to. I had to tell her. Not for her. For me. I had to get it out." The barest pause. "I had to heal."
Steve just looked at the water. No, not his reflection. He was hidden in that greyness, hidden and lost and covered in flotsam. "Jay..." Steve swallowed, somehow got the words out. "What...what makes something rape?"
Another uncomfortable silence. "Aisling?" Jonathan said softly.
"No," Steve said, still not looking at him. "Darkwater."
The silence this time was even longer. Unbearable.
Steve pushed away from the railing. "Look, never mind. Sorry I bothered you. Just forget I said --"
Jonathan had reached, snared Steve's hand in a tight grip, pulling Steve to a stop and holding their gripped hands up between them. Steve found himself staring directly into Jonathan's eyes, saw only concern and compassion, the deep brown undimmed by the fog.
"No," Jonathan said. "No more running. If you need to talk, I'll listen. If...if you don't need to talk, I'll listen anyway." A smile ghosted across Jonathan's face. "Or do you want me to start singing that song back at you again?"
"It'd serve you right," Steve managed, "if I quit and left you as our lead singer."
"Nah," Jonathan said. "We'd hire that Survivor guy. He's not doing anything right now."
Laughter broke from Steve, but there wasn't any humor in it, only a trembling edge of hysteria. He shivered again, feeling trapped, snared...
Jonathan was still watching him, still holding Steve's hand up between them in a tight grip.
No. Not trapped. That grip wasn't a snare.
A lifeline.
Steve sagged some, relaxed, though still shivering all over.
"Come on," Jonathan said quietly. "Let's get someplace warm. Then we can talk."
Sparked by Lee Ann for a rewrite of "Bloodied Land", this scene may or may not be in the finished tales...
--------------
Fog closed around the square box of the cheap diner, pressing up against the windows, suffocating the light and smothering all colors to dull grey. Maybe fog was the most famous part of San Francisco, but to Steve, it was sinister, brooding, as if something waited just out of sight in the grey haze, waiting to pounce. Shadows drifted out there, vague and moving, sometimes resolving into full human, sometimes not, and Steve shivered, expecting each of those shadows to suddenly turn on him...
There was movement to Steve's right, pulling his attention from the window. Jonathan placed a cup of coffee in front of Steve, then slid into the seat across from him.
"They were out of cream," Jonathan said.
Steve only shrugged. The coffee here was barely tolerable anyway, lukewarm and weak. Having a cup just gave him something to fiddle with, something to use as an excuse for not talking.
But Jonathan had gone silent, too, staring out the window as if seeing shapes in the clouds of greyness. "I told Liz," he said finally. "Told her everything."
Jonathan's voice was steady enough. Steve glanced at the keyboardist, saw his hands trembling. "And?" Steve said quietly.
In answer, Jonathan let out a long breath, went back to staring out the window.
Steve waited. If he simply waited and let Jonathan talk, then Steve wouldn't have to. Let Jonathan stay focused on his own problems.
"Bad," Jonathan said. "I mean, she's still around. Still home. We're still talking. But..."
He didn't need to explain that 'but.' Steve had encountered it before, with his own girlfriends, time and time again, before Kern, before the magic, before...before...
Steve dropped his gaze down to his coffee cup, took a sip. Now that 'but' was worse for him, given what had happened, what was still happening. Something in the cup caught his eye, and he stared into it.
The curve of the white porcelain surrounding the black liquid...it looked like an archway, like the one leading into the Labyrinth in Kern, going down into the belly of the earth. The Labyrinth, where Darkwater...
"Steve?"
Steve's hand shook, swirling the contents of the cup. The trembling reflection of the lights on the coffee's surface broke up, becoming for a moment a face, sinister, glaring...
...ice-blue eyes glaring into his own, cold stone against his back, a wooden dagger pressed up against his throat, as he glared back, unable to breathe, unable to move away...
Something tapped his hand. "Hey. You okay?"
Steve jumped, coffee splattering everywhere. Jonathan swore and jerked back, shaking his hand off.
"Sorry," Steve said, reaching for the napkins, but then made the mistake of looking into Jonathan's face.
Jonathan was staring at him, his face twisted in concern. "Steve...?"
Steve couldn't take that gaze, that concern. He shoved himself up from the booth, headed for the door and shoved through it. The fog wrapped around him, chill and damp, and soon he was lost in it, huddled in his jacket and shivering. The diner was right on the Wharf, and the breeze from the Bay cut through the jacket, through to bone. Steve didn't care; he kept walking, until he ran into the railing along the dock. There, he stopped, gripping the railing tightly, leaning over to stare at the murky water and the shadowy, creaking shapes of boats moored in the greyness. The fog was a wall, hiding, cloaking...
Hollow footsteps on wood creaked behind him. Steve couldn't run, not backed up against the railing. He waited, listening, as the footsteps stopped, just behind him.
"You asked me all the way out here," Jonathan said, the fog hushing his voice. "Stiffing me for the tab ain't real polite."
Steve dug into his pocket, pulled out a couple bills, held them back towards Jonathan.
But Jonathan didn't take the money. He only moved around until he was at the railing, leaning next to Steve. For a long moment, there was silence, the only sounds the creaking of wood and ropes, the liquid slap of water against hulls, the gulls screeching over some idiot tourist's lunch.
"Well?" Jonathan said.
"There's too much space," Steve said softly. "The fog's filling it all up."
"You're not making sense."
Steve stared down at the bills in his hand, folding them, rolling them up. "There could be anything hiding out there. In that space. And we wouldn't know it. The fog's hiding him. It. Nothing's clear out there. You can't see nothing but grey. There's too much space, and too many hiding places."
"Do you need to hide?" Jonathan said gently.
Steve looked back up at Jonathan, saw nothing but concern on the keyboardist's face. "Maybe I'm already hidden."
"We all need to hide at some point. Nothing wrong with that."
"And if you're hiding from yourself?"
"If you know you're hiding," Jonathan said, "then you're not really hidden."
"But what if you are?" The words were torn from Steve, anxiety turning his voice high and sharp. "What if you don't even know you're hiding? What if you don't even know it's real or just a dream or...or a hallucination?"
"Nightmares?" Jonathan said, back to the gentle tone.
"I'm not asleep."
"Night terrors, then. Where you're in bed and scared shitless 'cause of what you thought you saw or heard..."
"I'm not asleep now," Steve said.
"Neither am I."
The breeze was chill, its touch an unwanted caress against Steve's face, his neck. Steve shivered, watching the swirls of fog and the shapes blurred behind it.. "What happened, over there. It was real, right? It wasn't a dream, or a spell..."
"It was real," Jonathan said.
Something under Jonathan's tone made Steve look at him. Jonathan hadn't zipped up his jacket, and his shirt was unbuttoned to mid-chest; the chill didn't seem to bother Jonathan at all. But Steve saw the scabbed-over slash on Jonathan's chest, and, worse, the red line of scar cut through the middle of Jonathan's throat.
"It was real," Jonathan said again. If he was aware of where Steve was staring, he didn't show it. "And there's five other people who'll be happy to tell you the same thing."
"None of you were with me," Steve said, "not for all of it."
"No," Jonathan said quietly, "we weren't."
Silence again. Steve couldn't look at him, couldn't talk, could only stare down into the grey-green water, not even seeing his own reflection. It was hidden in the greyness and strewn with dead fish and driftwood.
"When I told Liz," Jonathan said, breaking the silence, "it was hard. The hardest thing I've ever done. But I had to. I had to tell her. Not for her. For me. I had to get it out." The barest pause. "I had to heal."
Steve just looked at the water. No, not his reflection. He was hidden in that greyness, hidden and lost and covered in flotsam. "Jay..." Steve swallowed, somehow got the words out. "What...what makes something rape?"
Another uncomfortable silence. "Aisling?" Jonathan said softly.
"No," Steve said, still not looking at him. "Darkwater."
The silence this time was even longer. Unbearable.
Steve pushed away from the railing. "Look, never mind. Sorry I bothered you. Just forget I said --"
Jonathan had reached, snared Steve's hand in a tight grip, pulling Steve to a stop and holding their gripped hands up between them. Steve found himself staring directly into Jonathan's eyes, saw only concern and compassion, the deep brown undimmed by the fog.
"No," Jonathan said. "No more running. If you need to talk, I'll listen. If...if you don't need to talk, I'll listen anyway." A smile ghosted across Jonathan's face. "Or do you want me to start singing that song back at you again?"
"It'd serve you right," Steve managed, "if I quit and left you as our lead singer."
"Nah," Jonathan said. "We'd hire that Survivor guy. He's not doing anything right now."
Laughter broke from Steve, but there wasn't any humor in it, only a trembling edge of hysteria. He shivered again, feeling trapped, snared...
Jonathan was still watching him, still holding Steve's hand up between them in a tight grip.
No. Not trapped. That grip wasn't a snare.
A lifeline.
Steve sagged some, relaxed, though still shivering all over.
"Come on," Jonathan said quietly. "Let's get someplace warm. Then we can talk."
