Chapter Text
She put her nose in the crook of his shoulder, the subtle slope that moved between his shoulder and his neck. He had worn cologne yesterday for a job interview, a sandalwood thing from some birthday or Christmas years ago. The little amber bottle gathering dust on the shared dresser, the dutiful nature by which he chose to keep everything that needed to be on a dresser to one little corner of it. The dresser was hers, they'd picked it up at a yard sale when they'd first moved and it had been flawless, except for the colour. She was determined to make the place unlike anyone else's home, not out of a desire to be a homemaker of the traditional sense, but to make it nobody's but theirs. So, she'd painted the wood around the big oval mirror a royal blue. The vanity in the same shade with golden detailing, swirls and vines on the drawers. A little Boy Scout fleur-de-lis for him, right in the centre where there had once been drawer knobs. The vibrancy had faded a little by now, gained a darker colouration through age. The knots and rings of the tan wood were showing through. This wear was pleasing to her, just made it more her own-- theirs, because it was as much his as it was hers. That was how they moved through the house. Except for the writing room.
The attic was thoroughly his space. He kept all of his family heirlooms up there, photos in boxes. As the youngest, he'd kept the most. It was also where she couldn't hear his typing, soundproofed enough that neither would bother the other during the day. She especially knew not to bother him when the ladder had been raised a touch. If it wasn't on the floor, she wouldn't climb it unless there was some dire emergency, which suited her just fine as her days were easy to fill with crafting work. Often she'd be so caught up in what she was doing that she'd lose all track of time until he'd come bounding into view, glad of finishing a chapter. That was a little less frequent, recently he'd been morosely sidling into the room to get involved with dinner. He didn't want to talk about the work which was stretching dangerously ahead, unfinished.
He was sitting up at the end of the bed and watching their reflection, exhausted. One nightmare he couldn't shake and here he was coming back to her soothing murmurs, so sweet in his ear. Her gentle, high voice like a fairytale princess and her delicate hands smoothing his hair back. The nightmare was still in him, in the column of his spine. He had been choking the life out of her, bare hands going white at the knuckles, forcing his thumbs into her throat. Her hands were cold, somehow, which wasn't as soothing as it could have been. They'd been sleeping with the sheets off and he'd still sweated through his t-shirt and shorts. 'You wanna come back to bed, hon? It's alright, you'll get there, sleepyhead.'
He focused on them in the mirror, how rigid he looked, like a carving on the end of the bedframe. Eventually, he sighed himself out of it and threw her a weary smile, 'yeah, I guess I'll get there if I put my mind to switching off.'
'You don't even have to think too hard about it. That's the key.' She kissed him, ran a thumb over his dry lips like she could heal him, a curious little smile.
He took hold of her wrist and turned her hand to kiss it, leaning back and pulling her with him. Her arms made their way around his waist, cradled his back. He looked for some encouragement in her face, but she only wished to hold him. It was hard to resist. He bowed against her slightly and let her hold him. Again, sandalwood. His hair smelled like dinner from the night before. The faded laundry smell of his shirt. Over these familiar and pleasant sensations was a more animal and earthy scent. The sweat on the back of his neck, sweat that drenched him. She knew that was fear.
Oil popped in the pan and woke him up where he was standing, two eggs stared back at him and he slid the spatula beneath to flip and blind them. Another loud pop and he turned the heat down. First thing in the morning and he was out of it. He caught the smell of burning toast a little late as well and turned around to deal with it, picking it up with his fingers and cursing a blue streak as the blackened slab he pried out burned him. No point wasting it when they were running low on cash. He'd concentrate harder as he made her breakfast, just the same but with no bust yolks . Maybe he'd cut her toast into soldiers. It always lit her face up like a sunbeam, these childish things. A bag of Hershey's kisses if he came home late. Shining her shoes for her on a Sunday. Steering her away from a puddle in the road if she got too distracted talking. How he deserved that, he had no idea. Especially when she was better at these things than he was, thoughtful presents every birthday. Painting Easter eggs to look like them, waking him up with breakfast in bed. He was just sliding a plate into place on the table. It was a weekday but he hadn't had a call to substitute yet. That was all he could really get since the move, nobody in town knew him well enough yet to recommend him.
He moved through the house to go and wake her, finding her so fast asleep, half tangled in the blankets. He sat at the edge of the bed and pushed her hair back from her face, making her scratch her cheek. He kissed her there and caught the tiny change in her sleeping expression, a curled up smile. Her eyes slid open and she hooked a hand in his t-shirt collar, 'mornin'.'
'Morning yourself. Breakfast's on the table.'
'Aw, what's it gonna be?'
'You've got to come find out.'
'Did you manage to get some sleep? You were kickin' around something fierce.'
'I got some. Come on, it's gonna get cold.'
He unhooked her hand and pulled back from her, leaving the room feeling unsettled. He didn't want her to see his face.
She slid out of bed, stretched and tiptoed after, bare feet on the dingy carpet. Her gratitude was glowing all over her face when she sat down to eat, digging in immediately-- nothing was cold yet. 'Y’had some more bad dreams?'
'I don't wanna talk about it. I just want to start my dad-- my day. I want to start my day in peace. Is that okay?'
It wasn't hard to miss that little slip up, but she nodded and turned her eyes down to the bleeding yolks on her plate, the golden pool. He was picking around some burnt bread and trying to force himself to eat it.
'Oh, throw that away, hon. I was reading somewhere that all that black stuff can kill you. Give you the big C.'
He looked at her from under his brow, which always did something to unnerve her. Clear green eyes caught too much light and too much shadow all at once. A snort from his hangdog expression.
'Neither you nor I can afford groceries right now.'
'I should go on out and do some errands for the lady down the street. She appreciated it so much. I don't know how she could give me a hundred bucks for it, but she did. Do you think she'd do it again?'
He considered the possibility, 'she looks like a rich old broad. Shame about that Beemer crumbling in her yard. Think it's past its prime.'
'Maybe I'll ask her if you can fix it up.'
A sharp shake of his head, 'it'd take time from my writing. No can do.'
'Would it hurt for me to ask? It could be somethin' you can do later.'
'Time's of the essence with those things. It's probably too late as it is. Twenty years it must have been there.'
‘Alright, if you don’t think it would do no good.’ She reached over and patted the back of his hand with cold fingers and he was right back into himself.
‘I think we might have to move again,’ he said after a long, cold moment. He watched her face fall, as he expected. The twist of the sick guilt in the pit of his stomach followed after. He needed to quell it somehow.
‘I thought we were gonna build a life here.’ Her big eyes, verging on wet. He couldn’t stand to know it was him who did this, who made her feel so low, but it was nearly every time. He scrubbed a hand over his face to break her look but it was still there even as he tried to ignore it.
‘We could, if we just– if I was luckier with the jobs. Maybe I’ll fall lucky, I don’t know. I’ll try to believe that’s possible, okay? Is that okay?’
He heard himself getting slightly indignant as he spoke, like her emotion was a hassle that he had to put up with. Better to brush it off than indulge it and make it worse. Now and then, she had to grow up and face facts.
'Sure, hon,' a pause where she finally broke the look, sniffling, 'we can make a life anywhere.'
A life, indeed, but what that meant hadn't been defined yet, even after the years.