Roy had proved adept at avoiding every well-meaning inquiry. He was back at work, Al knew from Ed, but had managed to quickly derail any conversation touching, even lightly, outside of work. He had been a whirlwind of efficiency, working his way through stacks of papers that in some cases appeared to have actually begun to fossilize.
Al knocks at the door, and gets no answer. He sighs, and reaches, above the door, feeling until his fingertips touch the metal of a key. He navigates his way through the dark, mostly successful except for slamming his shin into a dark-fabriced stealth footstool. He's been alive again long enough for the shock of pain to only thrill him a tiny bit.
He knows where Roy will be, but he has to check several doors. One leads into the kitchen, and he stops long enough to find a glass and put in three lumps of ice, not two or four. The third door opens into a view of books, and Al knows he's found it. He lets the door shut behind him, and puts the bottle down on the chairside table. 17 year old Ardbeg, not 15 or 10.
The dark-haired man in the chair says "Breaking and entering is illegal, you know." His hands don't relax; Al notices he's wearing both gloves, even this late at night.
Al pours three fingers of scotch and holds the glass out to Roy. "You were born near the Creta border, in a town that had been captured only ten years before."
"Anyone who can read a personnel file knows that. "
"You had an older sister and a younger brother. He died when you were thirteen, because his friends dared him to leap from Porter's Rock into the lake." Roy shudders and his hand closes around the glass.
Roy takes a drink and tilts his head back against the chair. Al eyes an abandoned glass on the sideboard. He picks it up and wipes it out with the tail of his dress shirt, then pours a more modest amount for himself. Ed had already gotten him drunk once, as part of his mad spree of giving Al every experience he had missed in the last five years. He thinks it was one he could have done without. Al had wobbled around the room after one shot, and Ed had _laughed_. It was totally unfair.
He folds himself down to the floor and sits crosslegged at Roy's feet. "Talk to me, Roy."
Roy hunches. "You aren't in a piece of metal anymore."
"Yes. You're the one alone in the dark. Talk to me anyway." Al doesn't think Roy could refuse him; the habit is too strong after endless weeks of spilling every scrap and secret to give Al something to hear, something to keep him sane.
Roy wets his lips, and sets down the glass, and Al knows he was right.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2005-09-09 12:26 pm (UTC)Roy had proved adept at avoiding every well-meaning inquiry. He was back at work, Al knew from Ed, but had managed to quickly derail any conversation touching, even lightly, outside of work. He had been a whirlwind of efficiency, working his way through stacks of papers that in some cases appeared to have actually begun to fossilize.
Al knocks at the door, and gets no answer. He sighs, and reaches, above the door, feeling until his fingertips touch the metal of a key. He navigates his way through the dark, mostly successful except for slamming his shin into a dark-fabriced stealth footstool. He's been alive again long enough for the shock of pain to only thrill him a tiny bit.
He knows where Roy will be, but he has to check several doors. One leads into the kitchen, and he stops long enough to find a glass and put in three lumps of ice, not two or four. The third door opens into a view of books, and Al knows he's found it. He lets the door shut behind him, and puts the bottle down on the chairside table. 17 year old Ardbeg, not 15 or 10.
The dark-haired man in the chair says "Breaking and entering is illegal, you know." His hands don't relax; Al notices he's wearing both gloves, even this late at night.
Al pours three fingers of scotch and holds the glass out to Roy. "You were born near the Creta border, in a town that had been captured only ten years before."
"Anyone who can read a personnel file knows that. "
"You had an older sister and a younger brother. He died when you were thirteen, because his friends dared him to leap from Porter's Rock into the lake." Roy shudders and his hand closes around the glass.
Roy takes a drink and tilts his head back against the chair. Al eyes an abandoned glass on the sideboard. He picks it up and wipes it out with the tail of his dress shirt, then pours a more modest amount for himself. Ed had already gotten him drunk once, as part of his mad spree of giving Al every experience he had missed in the last five years. He thinks it was one he could have done without. Al had wobbled around the room after one shot, and Ed had _laughed_. It was totally unfair.
He folds himself down to the floor and sits crosslegged at Roy's feet. "Talk to me, Roy."
Roy hunches. "You aren't in a piece of metal anymore."
"Yes. You're the one alone in the dark. Talk to me anyway." Al doesn't think Roy could refuse him; the habit is too strong after endless weeks of spilling every scrap and secret to give Al something to hear, something to keep him sane.
Roy wets his lips, and sets down the glass, and Al knows he was right.