08-14-2013, 04:22 PM
Dee is clearly not used to people who Take Care Of Things. Dee's anxiety and hovering and worry-not-panic strikes Hawksley as terribly odd, but all the same, when she sits on the bed and he's sitting on the chair with a glass of scotch and the bottle nearby and a heavy ice cube melting in the amber, Hawksley takes a moment and goes over, settling a broad and long-fingered hand on her dark hair and scritching at her scalp while he sips languidly, far-too-calmly, from his glass.
Still, he doesn't say a damn thing about it. Not she'll be fine or don't worry or anything that might be construed as an attempt to be helpful. One must do what is most helpful for the circumstance, mustn't one? Of course. And at the moment, words are far, far from the most helpful thing. He scritches her hair and sips his scotch as though nothing at all is wrong in the world, which for him may be annoyingly true. He goes back to the chair.
He sips, and he thumbs through his phone but settles on nothing. He looks up when Sera comes back in and watches her while she calls Rosa and every time he sees her cry he imagines his heart getting held to the ropes and pummeled, but he doesn't go over and envelope her and nuzzle her and urge her to stop, stop, please just stop crying. He listens, and overhears that the priest has a kid, but that kid is grown, and that kid is Awake, and that kid does some of the dirtiest, hardest work there is to do in the world.
Which Hawksley was not expecting. But decides not to be surprised by. Singers and Wheel-Turners, he thinks, glancing at his phone again. Maybe a rigid sense of duty (and hey: maybe a tendency to be judgey-judgey) runs in the blood.
Sera collapses into sleep. Hawksley drinks just the one glass, and the truth is that as soon as Dan has left and Dee has left and Sera has passed out, he turns off his phone and puts the glass aside and leans back in the chair, cheek on his fist. He is a tall man, but even taking that into account, he takes up more space than necessary with his legs wide and his body relaxed. His eyes are aimed at her but he's not watching her, not really. He's just frowning at the air, and he does what he does on many such long nights and simply thinks.
Later on, however later that is, Sera will find him sleeping in her chair with its lovely brocade, his face still on his fist, his elbow on the arm of the chair.
Still, he doesn't say a damn thing about it. Not she'll be fine or don't worry or anything that might be construed as an attempt to be helpful. One must do what is most helpful for the circumstance, mustn't one? Of course. And at the moment, words are far, far from the most helpful thing. He scritches her hair and sips his scotch as though nothing at all is wrong in the world, which for him may be annoyingly true. He goes back to the chair.
He sips, and he thumbs through his phone but settles on nothing. He looks up when Sera comes back in and watches her while she calls Rosa and every time he sees her cry he imagines his heart getting held to the ropes and pummeled, but he doesn't go over and envelope her and nuzzle her and urge her to stop, stop, please just stop crying. He listens, and overhears that the priest has a kid, but that kid is grown, and that kid is Awake, and that kid does some of the dirtiest, hardest work there is to do in the world.
Which Hawksley was not expecting. But decides not to be surprised by. Singers and Wheel-Turners, he thinks, glancing at his phone again. Maybe a rigid sense of duty (and hey: maybe a tendency to be judgey-judgey) runs in the blood.
Sera collapses into sleep. Hawksley drinks just the one glass, and the truth is that as soon as Dan has left and Dee has left and Sera has passed out, he turns off his phone and puts the glass aside and leans back in the chair, cheek on his fist. He is a tall man, but even taking that into account, he takes up more space than necessary with his legs wide and his body relaxed. His eyes are aimed at her but he's not watching her, not really. He's just frowning at the air, and he does what he does on many such long nights and simply thinks.
Later on, however later that is, Sera will find him sleeping in her chair with its lovely brocade, his face still on his fist, his elbow on the arm of the chair.
my whole life is thunder.