Wrap your hands around your bottle, feel the amber coolness against your roughened fingers. Not much else, at the end of a day, nothing left but to raise a toast to the fall of evening and hope to sleep without dreams. You drink alone, these days, though younger hands once lifted your glass to clink against another's, and a younger heart would toast to the nightfall and hope not to sleep till well-past sunrise.

No reason, tonight, to look forward to morning.

Take a long pull from the bottle, the booze a bitter blessing, cold all the way down.

Maybe this time it'll help you sleep, and God bless it. Sure as hell won't mess with your reflexes; you've got a sharp eye even with a full load in you. Never could muddy your concentration-- you could shoot a Gebler rations tincan right through its damnable label from fifty paces, just the same.

Not like poor Sigurd. Feel your lip twist a little. Sigurd. Lift your bottle to him, swallowing memories and beer alike, tasting nothing. Man couldn't even smell alcohol without it going straight to his head. Not that that stopped him; your drink met with his in many a late-night toast. His and Hyuga's too, once you pried his nose out of the book and got him to loosen up a little. Drink to Hyu, too, just 'cause you know it'd piss him off. If he saw you, now?

Fuck. While you're at it, drink to the man who was your Commander, too. Just for spite, drink to him twice. All hail the great Kahran Ramsus. Three times. You left them all behind, why not? Find a better life. It made perfect sense.

Not a damn one of them would have the sense to go to a decent bar without you. Heh. What are the odds you'll ever see any of them again? Pop open a new bottle; cheers.

Sigh, something heavy starting to settle in your chest. Sweet, the slowing burn, the weight that might be sleep beginning to rest upon you.

The step you sit on could be a barstool, if you close your eyes. Smoothed well-worn wood, hard as sin on a poor drunken ass. But it's not a barstool, it's a porch. Right. You're not drunk, just... imaginative. Nice place here, real steady foundation. Whatever sorry sod built it knew what he was doing, didn't he? Tap your boot against the boards, hear the solid wood respond. Made with love, two strong hands and two little helper hands, we can forge that better life for us, right here, the three of us-- the four of us-- and would you be so kind as to pass me that hammer, Billy Lee?

Whoa, back up. When house starts talking to you, you're losing it. Good thing it's not a cold night, when a man can't even drink in his own house. Your house? Not anymore; it's a fucking orphanage. You lost it, fair and square, bad timing, all that shit. Nobody expected you to come back and you should be glad, right, a kind of relief, not having to make any more excuses.

Drinking in silence, easier that way. Sick of speech, sick of all the doubletalk explanations and the promises unkept, sick of the boy who won't say your name and the girl who won't say anything at all, sick of the whole damned thing.

Sick of yourself, most of all. Second bottle empty.

Open a third, familiar sharp scent pricking your eyes as you tilt it back-- drink to the house, and whosever hands they were that built it. For the little boy who still believed in his daddy then, who shouldered a gun when he was barely eight and learned to shoot the labels off of Gebler tincans from ten paces, fifteen, twenty. Who was always asking questions, whose eyes were like the unfamiliar Aquvy morning, all blue-sky new and full of promise.

Who watched his Mama die, because you weren't there.

You'd drink to her, but you've been drinking to her all along, haven't you?

Your bottle is empty, the salt on its rim might be your own tears. Pathetic. Such love. For the sake of her and for your children you turned your back on most everything, and look where it's gotten you.

The cock of a pistol, sweet familiar sound splintering the uneasy stillness of your thoughts. Don't move; there are footsteps treading quietly behind you, at the door. Here, at the fucking orphanage, the house of the children of God. Where you thought to find a night's worth of solace, self-pitying and lonesome though it may be. Ah, hells. Death could never be too unexpected, and with your back to the door you damn well deserve it.

Clear your throat, turn around slowly. Distract them while your hand moves to the shotgun resting at your hip. Don't let 'em take you without a fight; go down guns blazing. "What, is takin' a nap a crime, these days?"

The step behind you falters, and the first thing you see as you tip your head up is a crescent of moon-bright hair, twilight colored in the candle-thrown shadows of the doorway. "Jesiah?" The voice is distinctly surprised, and there is the unmistakable sound of a gun being slid back into its leather holster. Damn, but the boy is fast, with a sure hand. Somebody taught him well.

"Heya, Billy Lee." What's the kid doing up at an hour like this? Heh. Maybe he's got more of a wild streak in him than you suspected. "Did I disturb you?"

A deep sigh, blue eyes cast Heavenward. "It's three o'clock in the morning," his voice is never quite patient. "What are you doing out here?" Reproach, of course. Always so, from that little snit. But there might be something of relief seeping into his self-righteous tone, and through the dimness his young face looks only tired. Circles under his eyes? Aw, Billy, working yourself too hard. Take a break sometime, kiddo.

Flip him a grin, never mind that it feels frayed at the edges, your eyes aching. "I dunno, somebody told me not to come in the house after dark, not to bother the kids."

He bridles. "Only because you cannot come in without slamming the door," he says stiffly, "and then swearing at the noise you made."

Fairly accurate. Raise an eyebrow, and nod for him; it takes less energy than active apology. After you tilt your head the world takes a moment to follow, stars pitching dizzily towards the grassy yard. Hoo, steady, boy. Maybe you're getting too old for this. Maybe it's just his reflexes, but he's moved half a step closer to you, his hands outstretched to catch you.

An awkward warmth lodges in your throat, and you wish you could stand up and walk away, like a man. Like his father.

What is there to say, really? Reach out for your beer, the glass feeling warm beneath your touch. You've been out here longer than you thought. Feel your hand wavering as you raise your bottle to him, a salute to your only son.

You forgot the bottle was empty, and you choke on the air.

Feeling inside-out, you watch him grab you, steady you as you cough. Lord but his hands are small, so pale. But you know what to look for, the gunman's calluses, the strength there, in the wrist. When he was eight he could hardly lift the smallest of your guns. How must he shoot now-- his orphanage is safe.

Yeah. Safe. Shrug your shoulders, bring your jacket closer about your throat. Maybe it is a cold night after all. "You want me to go."

"For the love of God," he whispers, too angry to raise his voice. "You won't make me pity you. You've brought this upon yourself."

His eyes narrow, and oh but he looks like Racquel. Something about the eyebrows, when she'd get mad, all fiery and uncertain. Or maybe it's the twitch of the lips, wanting to yell but maintaining restraint, more self-respect than to pop a vein hollering when no good will come of it. Not when it would wake the children. Heh. She knew you were incorrigible, she never asked much beyond that.

As for her son...

"I'm not asking for your pity, Billy Lee. Save it for someone who deserves it. Do you want me to leave?"

"What, again?" he says primly, but you can't blame him. His head comes up and his eyes are heavily blue, like the smoke that pours from a low-swung censer, translucent and heady. Kind of like that spring he had the fever, cheeks flushed and his forehead burning, eyes all cloudy with the fire in his head. You were fucking scared, your little boy shaking in your lap, nothing your broad gun-hands could do--

Only now it's a fever carefully banked, and you're worse than useless, you're feeding the flames.

"Never mind," you mumble. "'S too cramped in there anyhow." Absently you wonder how far you'll be able to walk before you fall over. At least you're toasted enough that there may not be any dreams. "I am sorry, Billy Lee, truly."

Belatedly you realize that those hands that you just now thought of as frail are suddenly underneath your elbows, compelling you up and forward. You're over the threshold before you know it, house enfolding warm around you, invitation offered and accepted, all without a word.

Throat tightening, you can feel your eyes sting. Fuck it all, Jessie. You really must be gone, if the prospect of a room for the night can make you cry.

"There," he says from behind you, firm untrusting hand still holding tight to your upper arm. Kid has some grip. Grin a little, through the wince. Good for him. "Primera will be expecting you in the morning. Don't disappoint her?" And through the descending haze of sleep you hear his voice, and you hear the unspoken please, and you think there might just be the tiniest hint of apology in his tone, somewhere underneath the contempt. For tonight it's more than you expected, and you lean back into his hands gratefully as he steers you to a bed.