Ursula has been fond of Hollis and Byron for the past few years, for as long she’s known them. She doesn’t let on much, of course; reputation to uphold. But they’re both a bit like brothers, she thinks—Byron like a younger tagalong type who needs a bit of looking after, though she does not know which of them is actually younger, and Hollis like the estranged eldest who tries and often fails to understand what his younger fellows are going through. She’s getting all of this from stories, books; she has never had brothers, so she does not know for certain.
She also isn’t sure how to reconcile this fondness with the fact that Hollis is obviously cracking under the burden of leadership he never asked for--Gardner is ostensibly in charge, but he is useless at the moment, flopping about in his grief--and Byron is now wiedergänger: a revenant, a ghoul. Something out of childhood stories, told to frighten little girls to sleep.
She steals a swig of Hollis’s whiskey when he excuses himself to the other room, and thinks: the same way she has reconciled going on with the daily grind of life when such an important part of it is missing. She will not allow her grief to render her useless.
So: the cans and supplies. Swinging the cabinet doors open, she stacks them up inside. They’re not sorted but they have no labels and anyway, food is food; people can cope.
“Oh,” a voice comes from behind her somewhere. Sally. Ursula sighs, presses her eyes closed; the can in her hand rests just on the ledge inside the cabinet. It must look like she is simply being indecisive about where it belongs. “I didn’t realize anyone was in here--”
“I was just finishing up,” Ursula says back, and a perfunctory coolness is all she can muster right now. There’s no energy for anything else.
“I wasn’t intending to stay,” Sally says, with a light disdain that says that the kitchen is no place for her, that she has better places to be. But it’s just as hollow, and when she’s drawn herself a glass of water at the sink she settles down at the table regardless.
Ursula lowers herself into another chair, considering the remaining cans as if there’s something she can divine by staring at them. Ridiculous, but she still turns one around and around, shiny metal glinting in the overhead light.
“In the stories,” Sally says, between careful sips of water; contamination is a real worry. “They always come back to avenge themselves, or a murdered lover, or... something. Some reason.”
Ursula lifts her eyebrows, looks up from the can. She can’t feel the expression on her face.
It must be sharp, because now Sally looks annoyed. “Sorry. Just trying to make conversation.”
A handwave, permissive. “It’s fine.” It isn’t. “Go on.”
For a second, it looks like Sally won’t, but then she sighs; her expression softens. She looks toward the boarded up window. “Just that there’s so many of them out there. How can they all have a reason?”
“They’re all dead, and they don’t want to be. Maybe that’s reason enough?”
“People die all the time,” Sally muses, and Ursula feels a twitch in her eyelid and then it’s like Sally’s brain catches up to her mouth and she realizes what she’s said. “Oh...I didn’t mean--”
“No,” Ursula says,snappish. “You did. And despite being staggeringly insensitive, you’re also right. People die all the time, in more mundane circumstances than this.”
Silence, for a long while, broken only by Sally sipping at her water. Odd silence; actually; the creatures haven’t given up battering on these windows for the last three days. Why now, suddenly?
“I’m sure you’ll find her,” Sally says, the sentiment a poor fit for her voice after years of casual derision. “We thought Byron was gone too--”
“He was gone, and still is.” It feels wrong, using these words; they’re betrayal words. “And at the same time, was never out of our sight.”
“He’s... he’s your friend, though.” She sounds confused. "I thought you'd be happy..."
“Oh, I am. Of course I am.” Just not happy enough to overcome other sadnesses. “And I suppose you think we make an even better match now. The funeral director and the walking corpse.”
Sally coughs like she wants to laugh, like she isn’t sure if it’ll come out too cruel.
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timeasmymeasure
part 15a
Date: 2013-05-24 12:28 am (UTC)Ursula has been fond of Hollis and Byron for the past few years, for as long she’s known them. She doesn’t let on much, of course; reputation to uphold. But they’re both a bit like brothers, she thinks—Byron like a younger tagalong type who needs a bit of looking after, though she does not know which of them is actually younger, and Hollis like the estranged eldest who tries and often fails to understand what his younger fellows are going through. She’s getting all of this from stories, books; she has never had brothers, so she does not know for certain.
She also isn’t sure how to reconcile this fondness with the fact that Hollis is obviously cracking under the burden of leadership he never asked for--Gardner is ostensibly in charge, but he is useless at the moment, flopping about in his grief--and Byron is now wiedergänger: a revenant, a ghoul. Something out of childhood stories, told to frighten little girls to sleep.
She steals a swig of Hollis’s whiskey when he excuses himself to the other room, and thinks: the same way she has reconciled going on with the daily grind of life when such an important part of it is missing. She will not allow her grief to render her useless.
So: the cans and supplies. Swinging the cabinet doors open, she stacks them up inside. They’re not sorted but they have no labels and anyway, food is food; people can cope.
“Oh,” a voice comes from behind her somewhere. Sally. Ursula sighs, presses her eyes closed; the can in her hand rests just on the ledge inside the cabinet. It must look like she is simply being indecisive about where it belongs. “I didn’t realize anyone was in here--”
“I was just finishing up,” Ursula says back, and a perfunctory coolness is all she can muster right now. There’s no energy for anything else.
“I wasn’t intending to stay,” Sally says, with a light disdain that says that the kitchen is no place for her, that she has better places to be. But it’s just as hollow, and when she’s drawn herself a glass of water at the sink she settles down at the table regardless.
Ursula lowers herself into another chair, considering the remaining cans as if there’s something she can divine by staring at them. Ridiculous, but she still turns one around and around, shiny metal glinting in the overhead light.
“In the stories,” Sally says, between careful sips of water; contamination is a real worry. “They always come back to avenge themselves, or a murdered lover, or... something. Some reason.”
Ursula lifts her eyebrows, looks up from the can. She can’t feel the expression on her face.
It must be sharp, because now Sally looks annoyed. “Sorry. Just trying to make conversation.”
A handwave, permissive. “It’s fine.” It isn’t. “Go on.”
For a second, it looks like Sally won’t, but then she sighs; her expression softens. She looks toward the boarded up window. “Just that there’s so many of them out there. How can they all have a reason?”
“They’re all dead, and they don’t want to be. Maybe that’s reason enough?”
“People die all the time,” Sally muses, and Ursula feels a twitch in her eyelid and then it’s like Sally’s brain catches up to her mouth and she realizes what she’s said. “Oh...I didn’t mean--”
“No,” Ursula says,snappish. “You did. And despite being staggeringly insensitive, you’re also right. People die all the time, in more mundane circumstances than this.”
Silence, for a long while, broken only by Sally sipping at her water. Odd silence; actually; the creatures haven’t given up battering on these windows for the last three days. Why now, suddenly?
“I’m sure you’ll find her,” Sally says, the sentiment a poor fit for her voice after years of casual derision. “We thought Byron was gone too--”
“He was gone, and still is.” It feels wrong, using these words; they’re betrayal words. “And at the same time, was never out of our sight.”
“He’s... he’s your friend, though.” She sounds confused. "I thought you'd be happy..."
“Oh, I am. Of course I am.” Just not happy enough to overcome other sadnesses. “And I suppose you think we make an even better match now. The funeral director and the walking corpse.”
Sally coughs like she wants to laugh, like she isn’t sure if it’ll come out too cruel.