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Jul. 14th, 2006 01:05 pmHow long's it been: three, four days now? That's more than enough fucking time. Dragging his ass into the bathroom, he unravels the bandages from around his midsection a little less carefully than he probably should, but he's had it. When he catches sight of himself in the mirror, he stops short: he looks like hell with that slash still evident across his right cheek, and his ribs... they're bad. Purple and blue and green and red and a little oddly angled, and that slice through the gut that Elaine healed is visible as a line right across his abdomen but inside... well, he doesn't know how he feels inside any more. He doesn't know if the pain he's in is because of his ribs or because he's so fucking heartbroken.
Could be both, and he's sick to death of sitting around feeling sorry for himself. No, there's shit he needs to do. He breathes in deeply once those bandages are gone because he can, because it's good for his lungs, because it helps keep his mind off the memory of the last shower he had in this room. It was right before that night that still feels like it was only a handful of days ago and a handful of years ago at the same time. He can almost see Beth in there, water running over her hair, that fiery look of want you need you love you in her eyes.
It's a hell of a nice memory: he never knew he could love someone so much.
Squatting, he picks up those ruined clothes and moves them out of the shower, then stands and tests his ribs. Didn't break anything again doing that. One of these days, he figures, he'll have so damn much scar tissue around his ribs that they'll never ever break again. He'll be made of scar tissue; the thought almost makes him laugh. Instead, he strips out of his clothes and turns on the water and steps into the shower and lets the hot droplets wash over him, eyes closed, trying so hard not to think about anything, not a goddamn thing. So what if it's still almost impossible to move? In every almost there's opportunity and he knows it. As long as he's not completely incapable of walking, he can do what needs to be done.
And this is something he just has to do, and no one can talk him out of it. Drying off, dressing, leaving his ribs unwrapped so they have a chance to start healing -- those are all just automatic movements -- he turns his attention to his gun. It needs cleaning, it needs fixing up. One more trip to the closet for the cleaning kit; he makes pretty quick work of it, testing its heft, its balance, its line of sight. It hurts to hold it up for long, but he's not asking to be able to hold it up for long. Besides, if he needs it, adrenaline will kick in and he won't hurt till after.
When he stands he tucks the Jericho into the waistband of his jeans; his jacket and coat are destroyed anyhow, so he'll have to throw some extra ammo into that old ISSP waistpack he borrowed from Jet and wear it that way. One more trip to the closet and he gets that out, packs a few things in it: extra clips. A roll of gauze (no, make that two). Lighter and smokes, even though he's only had one cigarette this whole time and isn't really interested in another but if this little task is successful, he'll be glad he has them. A bottle of water. Some surgical tape.
A picture of Beth, one that didn't go into the album. His thumb runs across her face in the picture; he sets it in carefully. Be with you soon, Slim, if I have anything to say about it. He settles the pack around his waist and fastens it there in the front, runs that towel through his hair one last time, and makes his way to the door. First stop has to be Room 31. It's not so very far away but the corridor feels kind of endless. In his mind he knows the room will be empty, but in his heart, there's that tiny goddamn flame of hope. When he opens the door, though, the silence is thicker than a slice of molasses bread and he knows he shouldn't have even come in here: the air's still and dead and hanging heavy with memories.
Resigned, he closes the door behind him: he had to try. He had to see it for himself, even though it's so completely irrational to think she'd have been there all this time without anyone knowing.
Right now, his mind isn't the most rational of places. It's fighting a war between practical and hopeful, resigned and romantic, fatalistic and optimistic.
He follows the corridor to the staircase leading down to the bar; each step is difficult as hell on his left leg but he doesn't give a shit. All he has to do is make it down these stairs and into the bar and across the room to the front door. After that... hell, he'll take his chances. He's never been the delicate cautious type.
Could be both, and he's sick to death of sitting around feeling sorry for himself. No, there's shit he needs to do. He breathes in deeply once those bandages are gone because he can, because it's good for his lungs, because it helps keep his mind off the memory of the last shower he had in this room. It was right before that night that still feels like it was only a handful of days ago and a handful of years ago at the same time. He can almost see Beth in there, water running over her hair, that fiery look of want you need you love you in her eyes.
It's a hell of a nice memory: he never knew he could love someone so much.
Squatting, he picks up those ruined clothes and moves them out of the shower, then stands and tests his ribs. Didn't break anything again doing that. One of these days, he figures, he'll have so damn much scar tissue around his ribs that they'll never ever break again. He'll be made of scar tissue; the thought almost makes him laugh. Instead, he strips out of his clothes and turns on the water and steps into the shower and lets the hot droplets wash over him, eyes closed, trying so hard not to think about anything, not a goddamn thing. So what if it's still almost impossible to move? In every almost there's opportunity and he knows it. As long as he's not completely incapable of walking, he can do what needs to be done.
And this is something he just has to do, and no one can talk him out of it. Drying off, dressing, leaving his ribs unwrapped so they have a chance to start healing -- those are all just automatic movements -- he turns his attention to his gun. It needs cleaning, it needs fixing up. One more trip to the closet for the cleaning kit; he makes pretty quick work of it, testing its heft, its balance, its line of sight. It hurts to hold it up for long, but he's not asking to be able to hold it up for long. Besides, if he needs it, adrenaline will kick in and he won't hurt till after.
When he stands he tucks the Jericho into the waistband of his jeans; his jacket and coat are destroyed anyhow, so he'll have to throw some extra ammo into that old ISSP waistpack he borrowed from Jet and wear it that way. One more trip to the closet and he gets that out, packs a few things in it: extra clips. A roll of gauze (no, make that two). Lighter and smokes, even though he's only had one cigarette this whole time and isn't really interested in another but if this little task is successful, he'll be glad he has them. A bottle of water. Some surgical tape.
A picture of Beth, one that didn't go into the album. His thumb runs across her face in the picture; he sets it in carefully. Be with you soon, Slim, if I have anything to say about it. He settles the pack around his waist and fastens it there in the front, runs that towel through his hair one last time, and makes his way to the door. First stop has to be Room 31. It's not so very far away but the corridor feels kind of endless. In his mind he knows the room will be empty, but in his heart, there's that tiny goddamn flame of hope. When he opens the door, though, the silence is thicker than a slice of molasses bread and he knows he shouldn't have even come in here: the air's still and dead and hanging heavy with memories.
Resigned, he closes the door behind him: he had to try. He had to see it for himself, even though it's so completely irrational to think she'd have been there all this time without anyone knowing.
Right now, his mind isn't the most rational of places. It's fighting a war between practical and hopeful, resigned and romantic, fatalistic and optimistic.
He follows the corridor to the staircase leading down to the bar; each step is difficult as hell on his left leg but he doesn't give a shit. All he has to do is make it down these stairs and into the bar and across the room to the front door. After that... hell, he'll take his chances. He's never been the delicate cautious type.
