shelley_winters | (no subject)

(no subject)

It's late afternoon when Shelley finds the headache has receded enough for her to sit up without too much discomfort. She's still fairly dizzy, and her head feels hot underneath chilled fingers, but she makes herself get out of bed anyhow.

Ten minutes under a hot shower spray leaves her feeling slightly more like herself, if 'herself' bears much resemblance to a half-drowned, redheaded kitten. But the girl gamely ties on a warm dressing gown, rubs halfheartedly at her hair to change it from sopping wet to just damp, and heads carefully downstairs, slippers flopping on each step.

Determined, she makes her way to the couch and sits, slightly rueful at how accomplished she now feels.

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After a few minutes, the kitchen door opens and Elan exits. Blinking in slight surprise at Shelley's presence, he spoke calmly. Having already finished the housework, and spoken with her work, Elan was settling down with a book and a cup of tea.

"Oh? You are out of bed, I see."

With little ceremony, he set the cup of tea in his hands down in front of her before sitting beside her on the couch.

"Here."

"Mm-hmm."

...Mumbles Shelley, slightly nonsensically. Her legs are curled up in front of her, dressing-gown wrapped around slightly damp bare legs. It may be heading towards summer, but it can still be less than warm. It's England.

Seeing that she was cold, Elan slipped an arm around her shoulders. Sitting in still silence, he simply let the time pass. There was little to say at the moment, but just to be. To be Elan and Shelley together. He liked it.

She shifts almost automatically, settling after a moment when it becomes clear that's all he's doing.

Several minutes go by.

"What?"

A soft smile from Elan as he glanced at the redhead.

"You were cold."

She shrugs moodily.

"Wet hair does that. It's getting on your sleeve."

Closing his eyes, he commented rather distantly. At the moment, her health and even comfort was the most important. If she were not made happy, then he had no chance of it either.

"That does not matter."

"Hmph," Shelley tries to say, and just makes herself cough instead.

It's so... frustrating.

Opening his eyes, Elan glanced down at Shelley and inquired softly.

"What is the matter?"

"I'm... coughing, that's a matter," she manages, with some hauteur.

Some.

His other hand strayed over to rest on hers. His voice soft and rather distant.

"I just--I worry for you, and for us, though you especially."

Her hand is snatched away, and her already-curled up body goes rigid.

"'Us' isn't," she says, hoarse voice stilted.

"And why worry about me? I'm only ill."

Elan shook his head. He had not particularly expected an overly positive response to that, in all honesty.

"Not your physical health... This is very trying on both of us at this time."

"What is?" she asks, mock-innocently, fingers curling in the folds of the dressing-gown.

Cold water is trickling down her neck, making her shiver.

His arm was still around her as Elan seemed to sink into the sofa as if to escape his thoughts, to vanish into the cushions.

"We are galæ, out of place. This place is not mine, but neither is it wholly yours now. Over silent dinners, during boardgames, books with tea, the world has changed, and become something alien and not entirely friendly to us both. We feel it within us, and I especially."

There was a hollowness to Elan, he felt. A hole that he could not fill, a world that was not his own, and simply bearing it was all that was in his power.

"This is my home," Shelley whispers.

Her expression is one of misery tempered by determination. He will not make her wish- make her unhappy to be here.

"The only thing I hate about it is you."

A small shudder from Elan as her question dug up feelings he would rather not give voice or even thought. There were things that spawned so great a horror within Elan--latent thoughts--that were he to shine the light of consciousness on those dark corners, he would surely crumble to dust from the horror--the blatant, unchanging, ennui of his life and the possibility that this was, indeed, the end.

And Elan knew, somewhere, about the dangers of those thoughts, and had methodically avoided them, but Shelley was unearthing them.

"...The only thing here I love, or even have, really, is you."

"You don't love me," says Shelley, managing for the first time to keep something approximating calm. But she still can't meet his eyes, knows it, and so keeps her gaze on the floor.

"Y- you just need me while you're stuck here."

Leaning in closely, he kissed her chastely on the corner of her mouth. His voice was tender as he commented.

"I think I would know full and well if I loved someone, and rest assured that I do love you."

She turns her face away, sharp shoulders hunching in.

"But I don't love you," she says, as coldly as she can manage when she wants to shiver, or run far, far away.

"And anyway. I don't believe a word you say. So."

For a moment, there was no movement.

Nothing.

An austere silence.

Then Elan closed his eyes, and slowly rose from his seat beside her, taking his arm from around her shoulders.

He began to walk towards the kitchen. After a moment, he turned to look back at her. For a brief moment anger--but unable to maintain it, his look softened to a heartbroken hurt.

The kind of look that said "I love you anyway."

Shelley makes the mistake of looking up as he stands, and is caught when he turns back to look at her.

She should say something.

But apart from what she had just said - what she'd been trying to say for months, she will not take it back now - what is there to say?

She looks down again, cheeks flushing.

The door to the kitchen shuts with a click.

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