He's limp. Not fightin' her, exactly, but not goin' with her, near deadweight against her hands. He makes a choked noise when she pulls hard, bad shoulder sendin' a sudden spike of wakeful pain through him and his eyes open, focusin' on her and whatever little smile was there is now a crumpled frown, confusion painted in th'lines of his face. "Kate," he says, name fallin' from his lips in a soft whine. So confused, he don't understand why she's makin' him move, why she's makin' it so it hurts again.
But she's still holdin' him, she's still bringin' him to his feet and th'words on her lips are orders and his feet move under him without any real input from his brain, staggerin' upright, leanin' too hard on her tiny frame 'n he feels bad on it, he does, but everything's white'n'shaky right now and he figures she wants him up she's just gonna have t'be able t'handle it.
Ben fixes tired eyes on his feet and wills them forward, carryin' him in stumbling and awkward steps away from the dead tree and wide circle of bent-down grass all brown and dry, flowers fallin' from their stalks, everythin' painted in shades of blood and death settlin' over th'soil as th'life flowed hard into him. He lets her guide him even as exhaustion settles back and pain comes forward once more, blurrin' his sight -- and he don't trust no one t'lead him blind but she's given him every damn thing and more besides and he don't think he's got a choice.
Maybe, somewhere deep inside where there's avatars long past, Russian letters and circus tricks and trains fallin' from bridges and fiery trees as far back as time itself he hates her a little for bringin' him back, for not lettin' him slip down into th'black but for now -- for now he feels her hands on his, holdin' him steady, pullin' him back to th'light and he can't quite bring himself t'feel anythin' but a strange and aching kind of love.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2011-06-09 02:02 am (UTC)But she's still holdin' him, she's still bringin' him to his feet and th'words on her lips are orders and his feet move under him without any real input from his brain, staggerin' upright, leanin' too hard on her tiny frame 'n he feels bad on it, he does, but everything's white'n'shaky right now and he figures she wants him up she's just gonna have t'be able t'handle it.
Ben fixes tired eyes on his feet and wills them forward, carryin' him in stumbling and awkward steps away from the dead tree and wide circle of bent-down grass all brown and dry, flowers fallin' from their stalks, everythin' painted in shades of blood and death settlin' over th'soil as th'life flowed hard into him. He lets her guide him even as exhaustion settles back and pain comes forward once more, blurrin' his sight -- and he don't trust no one t'lead him blind but she's given him every damn thing and more besides and he don't think he's got a choice.
Maybe, somewhere deep inside where there's avatars long past, Russian letters and circus tricks and trains fallin' from bridges and fiery trees as far back as time itself he hates her a little for bringin' him back, for not lettin' him slip down into th'black but for now -- for now he feels her hands on his, holdin' him steady, pullin' him back to th'light and he can't quite bring himself t'feel anythin' but a strange and aching kind of love.