#heavily influenced by nellie crain

[arianakristine]

On the fourth day of Shipmas ...

the only seat left in this dark, depressing bar is at the bar next to you but I don’t really want to talk.

There is No Without

               She shifted her weight on her left side, looking out over the dank recesses of the Rabbit Hole. Shady and disgusting even during the brightest of summer days, on this cold winter’s night it looked dank and depressing. Even the tinny version of Jingle Bell Rock playing over the speakers only added to the desolate tone of the town’s one dive bar.

               It was exactly what she was looking for.

               She sided up to the bar and dropped into the stool, huddling into her puffy winter coat. She pulled off her hat and shook her hair from the last flakes of melting snow. She glared down the man behind the counter and unzipped her jacket. “Whiskey, straight,” she commanded gruffly.

               She felt the presence at her side, the eyes set on her as the bartender slid the glass over. It was heavy, the look, and she swallowed thickly.

               She swallowed back a third of her drink and winced at the sharp taste. She stared down at the smudges across the bar. “Don’t,” she said sharply.

               His hands raised and he settled into his seat, keeping his blue eyes trained on her.

               She scowled and drank back the rest, signaling her empty glass. “I don’t want to talk.”

               “I know,” he said softly, the stir of his accent barely heard over the clank of pool balls in the dimly lit corners.

               She watched as the next glass filled, the way the bartender looked her over as she polished off the shot. He set the bottle beside to her glass rather than comment on her drinking, and then strolled down to the other patrons. She resigned to give him a big tip. She sloshed the whiskey into the glass and pondered why she bothered with the pretense. Her thumb rolled across the peeling label over the “C” in Crow, his gaze an itch across her spine. She sniffed and glanced blearily up at him. “Stop looking at me like that.”

               He held up his hands. “Hey, if you want to drink yourself into a coma, it’s your prerogative.”

               She scowled again and felt her hold on the bottle waver unsteadily. “That’s right, it is. And you’re judging me for it.”

               “Perhaps,” he murmured, his voice barely discerned above the din. “Just making sure your coma doesn’t lead to an early grave as well.”

               She snorted loudly. “You’re one to talk.”

               He was silent a beat, fingers sliding across the chipping wood. Finally he steadied, and gave a tight smile. “Well, nothing to do with that.”

               She didn’t feel pleased with her victory in that argument, just a hard stone in her throat at the notion. Her vision blurred as she leveled another pour, the cheap whiskey slipping out and onto the already sticky bar. Her hand shook slightly as she raised the tumbler to her lips. “See? I can handle my liquor.”

               “I know you can.”

               “And you’re an ass if you think I don’t blame you,” she hissed out, almost surprising herself with the fervor in which she spoke. “I do. I blame you.”

               He said nothing.

               She tensed, gripping the glass tight in her hand. She shook her head. “I do.”

               “I thought you didn’t want to talk.”

               She sighed and swallowed down the drink in one go. It no longer tasted like anything, no flavor or burn, but it tingled with numbness. Exactly as she needed. “I don’t.” she insisted.

               He smiled, all squinted eyes and dimpled cheeks. She reached out a finger as if to touch him before yanking back. He chuckled slightly. “Well, I’m glad you chose me to not talk to, then. Even if I’m to blame.”

               “You are,” she insisted stubbornly. She felt her lower lip tremble against her will. He was so pretty, with those deep puppy-dog eyes and chiseled jawline. And he looked at her with such reverence, as if she was the only one to – to—

               “It’s okay to miss me.”

               She sniffed, and busied herself with the bottle instead of his eyes. “Why would I? I barely … I’ve been here three months.”

               Silence responded. It was more a response than anything else, heavy in implication.

               She moved her hand from the label, down her left fingers and hand, across veins and scars and bony prominences. She hesitated, fingers flexing, before trailing down to her wrist. Her nails bit into the roped leather, softly at first and then digging down. “I’ve always been alone,” she said. She wished her voice didn’t sound so hollow.

               She can feel as he moves closer, the warmth of his aura just barely against hers. He lingers there a long moment, then she almost feels as his calloused fingers brush over the laces. “There is no without.”

               Her breath hitched, and she closed her eyes as a single tear dropped down her face.

               She could feel his warm, honeyed breath at her ear. “I am not gone.”

               The searing disappointment when she opened her eyes to find an empty seat was the greatest shock.

               Who taught her to believe?

               He was scattered across her life in pieces, fragments of him. His shoelace, the badge, the walkies, a jacket. But it was the ghost of him that felt like new snow on her skin, frozen and numb but also comforting and untainted. So different than that last kiss, the one that was all warmth and sunshine and fiery desire, melting through her walls as if they had always been made of ice.

               The whiskey in her belly was what made her admit it, she thought later.

               She loved him completely.

               And it might be that even still in death he loved her the same.