Work Text:
I remember that gaze...
CRACK.
"March, we're going to play a game," my voice came out cold, uninterested.
Big frightened blue eyes. Red blood dripping down his nose.
Annoying sleazy brat. Slow learner.
Took whacking him twice for good measure, and he still hadn't got it.
"Give me your left arm," I tried reasoning with him, like he was some stubborn kid. Why did he have to make it so hard? For God's sake.
I had to physically pry his arm away, wasting my time and energy.
It’s a simple procedure, really.
Twist, quick snap, done. If he’d just cooperate, it would have been over in a second.
I take a bite out of an apple. The taste feels dull on my tongue-
...or maybe it's just how I remember it. Everything's gray except red.
Red apple.
Red blood.
Blue eyes.
Red scream.
.
.
.
.
Drunkard.
.
.
.
A total amateur. I wondered if these people were serious when they called him a professional.
Not that it was that bad...
At least the little girl was safe.
I wondered who she got that kindness from.
March stopped the car and stepped out.
The girl—Holly—ran toward him, jumping into his arms.
I could have easily turned away, but...
The way they held each other...
So tight.
Eyes glistening with tears.
I hadn't seen kids so...loving before.
She was only thirteen...
There’s something wrong with kids today...they know too much...
Could be out finding themselves a man three times their age, talking about boys, and laughing at the word "gay"...
But she hugged her father. Took care of his mistakes instead of making her own.
And he cried, holding her.
.
.
.
.
The empty swimming pool had become an ashtray. A sad sight.
I approached March, who was sitting there, cradling a glass of scotch in his hands.
I had only meant to show him the cow sticker...
It couldn't have been me...telling him something personal.
I figured I wasn't disappointed when he fell asleep halfway through the story.
Holly was sitting on the empty land lot, reading with a flashlight in her hand...
.
.
.
.
So his wife was dead.
Because of his inability to smell.
I didn't say anything. What could I have said to Holly in that moment?
I just felt something tight coiling in my chest.
That was why March had looked at me that way. Why he had asked me to tell him that "dinner guy" story.
Because he wanted me to stay...
Or maybe I was making things up, just because I wanted to be needed.
.
.
.
.
Amelia was dead.
I watched that beautiful yellow dress and youthful face disappear beneath a white sheet forever.
My stomach twisted with dread.
I turned slowly toward Holland.
The empty lot.
Just him beneath the tree, staring into the distance.
Tight jaw. Empty eyes.
He looked somehow guilty.
Guilty for a young girl's death. Guilty for what Holly had to witness. For Jessica getting hurt.
Leaving suddenly felt wrong.
.
.
.
.
"Did you fall again?..."
Something tender warmed my chest. A laugh tickled my throat, though nothing came out as I stared into his wide eyes, water dripping from his curls.
"Yeah," he nodded, looking thrilled.
"Jesus Christ, are you kidding?"
"I think I'm invincible. It's the only thing that makes sense. I don't think I can die." I didn't like the way he said that.
John-Boy fired again, hitting the car between the three of us.
This wasn't the time to lecture Holland.
"Where's the film?"
"It's up there. We just gotta go get it."
I nodded. That was it. Tonight or never.
.
.
.
.
Holland ran.
I jumped on John-Boy, making him drop his gun.
I had to give Holland time to get the film.
Throwing John. Watching him struggle.
I'd never felt stronger.
Adrenaline. The word I'd learned from "word of the day calendar."
A near-death experience?
Right then, I didn't care. Smacking John's face. Seeing Holland raise the film can in triumph.
His eyes were watery. Happy.
Hopeful.
I smiled.
"Come on, let's go down and see your dad," I told Holly, hugging her small shoulder.
.
.
.
.
And then, seeing him smile again at my drunk mug in the bar after we heard that the assholes had gotten away with their crimes.
I look down at my hands.
They feel out of place whenever I touch them.
Too rough when I carry her, sleeping, to her bed.
Too big when I hug his waist.
"...how do you let these hands...touch you? They're big..."
I don't finish, because he crouches in front of the bench.
His eyes.
Full of concern.
"Bear hands..." he whispers.
"Bear hands," I repeat, not quite getting what he wanted to say by that.
But my voice comes out bitter.
"Warm..."
"Calloused," I say, my brows casting a gloomy shadow over my eyes.
His hands cup mine from underneath.
"Coarse," he whispers again, guiding one of my hands to his cheek. Soft skin. Evening stubble.
He closes his eyes, looking content. His lips stretch into a small smile.
"Always your hands..."
I don't understand him.
He looks up at me again, and my heart stutters.
Blue eyes.
Warm smile.
"Let me..."
I scoot over, giving him some space to sit. He tugs me into a sideways hug, his fingers burying themselves in my hair.
"I know these hands. The first time you wiped my tears away...after we got that film. How you carried Holly after she got tired during that little party we had..."
He continues as I close my eyes and exhale.
"—that time I broke my leg and you carried me around, too. You had strength for both of us. When you hug my waist. Yes, I love it...when you intertwine our fingers—"
He intertwines our fingers on one hand.
"—when you flip pages in your books. When, in bed, you're-...uh...okay, not now...when you brush the hair from my forehead. Or when you cook. Oh, yeah, how could I forget? The pasta you make, mmmh—"