Work Text:
Eliot’s not sure how long he’s been sitting here. Hours, he thinks. Long enough for the sun to set and the darkness to creep in. He figures he should get up, switch on the lights, check his messages, maybe even read the damn pamphlets the doctor gave him, but he knows he won’t.
Not yet anyway.
He’s not ready for it, and right now he doesn’t know if he ever will be.
There’s no cure. Treatment only goes so far. The simple fact is that he can’t carry on. Right now it’s just the occasional tremor, but he knows it’ll get worse. Knows he can’t trust his body much longer. He’s seen it happen after all. Remembers seeing his mother trying to hold back the tears while she packed away her quilting needles. Recalls the vitality draining from her as she had to give up one thing after another until all she could do was sit on the porch and watch as the world moved on without her.
He knows that if it was just him he’d carry on until a mistake left him for dead. It’d be quicker – and cleaner – than wasting away inside the shell his body would become. But it’s not just him these days. One mistake, just one, and they could die. Because of him. He can’t let that happen.
Since Memphis, since Kaye Lynn, he’d harboured a dream that maybe one day he could go back there. Resurrect Kenneth Crane and spend the rest of his life playing guitar – maybe even joining her on the road after all. It’s tough knowing that’s never going to happen now. The day ‘s coming soon when he won’t be able to hold a guitar, never mind play it…
A shaft of light falling across the table makes him start. He hadn’t even heard the door. He doesn’t look up as she comes into the room, heels clicking over the polished floorboards. Sophie. Of course it’s her. He’d tried to keep this from them all, but there was no way he could conceal it from someone who took such pride in studying body language as she did.
She stops behind him and rests her hand gently on his shoulder. He thinks about hiding what’s on the table from her, but something in that soft touch stops him. He’s going to miss this when… when he leaves.
He can hear the sharp gasp as she takes in what’s in front of him and her grip tightens fractionally. The leaflets, the MRI results, the medications. The gun.
He’s not ready for that.
Not yet anyway.
end