The First Cut


brian_icon.gif samara2_icon.gif

Scene Title The First Cut
Synopsis …is the deepest.
Date February 22, 2011

Bay House — Master Hovel

Moonlight casts eerie shadows into the master hovel of the Bay House. It's late enough to have such light, but it's only just after curfew.

After she'd driven Adisa home (yeah, that was safe), Sam had jumped in the shower to get the paint out of her hair at the very least. She'd lingered there awhile, letting the water wash away the majority of the paint, even the paint handprint she'd left on her arm. When she comes to bed, she's in her paint clothes again, but her hair is damp, and her body is mostly paint-free. Aside from the brush along her cheek that she'd missed, a line of yellow cutting just underneath her eye like an abstract accent of the woman's general demeanour.

She sneaks into the room as quietly as she can, altogether unsure what's going on with Brian. Carefully, slowly, she lowers herself to the mattress on the floor— her side, taking pains not to let the floor creak beneath her barefooted footsteps.

It's useless though. CRREEEEAK.

With a sigh, she stretches across the bed, trying not to draw any more attention to herself in the event that Brian is sleeping.

Brian's eyes crack open, his neck craning up some to peer up at Samara. His head then collapses back onto the bed. Despite the somewhat cold temperature of the room, there is a bead of sweat on his forehead. The man has stripped down. The sheet on the mattress is pulled up to his waist, his wrist lying on his forehead. Pulling it down, he moves his head to the side. His arm moves down as Samara slides down to the mattress.

Peering up at Samara, his eyes close back down. Rolling onto his side with his back to the young woman, one arm curls up against his chest in a little self-hug. Burrowing his head into his pillow he lets out a soft whimper as he pushes himself a little bit more into the mattress. He's not sleeping. But he's not talking either.

The movement yields Sami's attention. Her head turns to watch him carefully, canted to examine the movement. She'd been concerned earlier— but the quiet has a similar effect. Her lips purse together somewhat while her eyebrows draw together some. She turns on her side, her head pressing hard into the pillow as she makes a decision. She sidles against him, a single arm wrapping around his body if he'll have it.

She settles against him, her eyes closing lightly as she does so. The quiet hangs, nearly uncomfortably, at least for her part. But her own attitude and persistence won't let it last, even if she should. "Hun.. what's going on?" her voice is but a whisper, a shadow of her brightness and light, there, present. Unknowingly, somewhere between the journey to the bed and the silence, the concern had become a new beast: worry.

As soon as skin touches his, he starts to shy away. Like a scared dog. But after a moment he relaxes to the touch, allowing her arm to wrap him up. One hand comes up to scrub at his head. "I just wanted you to have a good memory. Before it got bad." He says ever so quietly. "I hope you had fun with Adisa." He leaks out, slowly going to lay on his back. Eyes closing tightly. When they open it is clear that tears are quickly forming and beading away from his eyes.

"Like really.." He meeps, one hand scrubbing at the tears coming from his eyes. "I don't want this to be real." He turns some, features pulled down into real depression. "This is really bad.." He groans quietly. "I don't even want to have sex."

"It was okay.. I was worried about.. am worried about you…" The tears leave too much to the imagination and without knowing what's going on, already produce those in kind in the woman. Sam slides away from him slightly as she blinks hard, the worry growing in the pit of her stomach. She takes a quiet gasp for air, to push down her feelings, producing the weakest brave face known to man.

She remains on her side, even as he turns, giving him a little extra space as he pronounces he doesn't even want sex. The colour drains from her face somewhat. "What happened?" That sinking feeling in her stomach sickens her further, leaving a tiny twitch.

Brian brings up his hand to his face. The words are difficult to bring out. But the tears are readily flowing. His hand dropping down as he starts to sob. "Sorry. It's hard." He manages to get out quietly. A deep breath is taken. "I just don't want to say it. It makes it real. You know?"

Pressing his hands to his forehead, his teeth grit as he lets out a groan. "Eric died." He lets out weakly. The sobs that rack him follow immediately after he lets out the admission, eyes closing tightly.

Lips quiver.

Shoulders tremble.

Mouth dries.

There are no gut reaction tears. Just reality sinking in. Death. Real death. Of a child. Sami bites her lip hard to stop it from moving underneath her duress. It's useless. It quivers anyways. Inspiring a harder bite. The sharp pain of broken skin feels dull underneath the emotional whirlwind gripping the petite woman.

Her shoulders tremble further, leaving her body in shivers as she attempts to breathe with what feels like the world on her chest. Tears drain from her eyes. The welling long gone— replaced by her incessant tear-hiccup of doom. Laying down doesn't seem prudent as she slides into a sit to hug her own knees, stabilizing herself into a fetal position on the mattress. She doesn't need to ask the how, there's no question, it had to have been the evo flu.

Again she gasps for air. Pain surmounting through aches throughout her body. She shivers as she purposefully uncurls herself, reaching out to be there for Brian rather than let herself feel her own pain. She'd convinced herself the kids would bounce back— that somehow they'd recover. She had to at the time. But it left the reality of death as a complete shock, waves through her system, in ways she shouldn't have needed to endure.

"Gillian's sick." Brian drones, moist eyes staring straight up at the ceiling. But that's only an afterthought. The sharp stinging in his chest is solely for Eric. "I thought.." The tightness in his throat is unbelievable. "I already threw up once." He explains quietly. "I think I'm going to again.." He moves away from her, slipping from her contact. Winters goes to push himself to his feet. Completely naked, he doesn't seem to be affected by the cold. Mainly because his body feels like it's on fire.

Going to the window, he cracks it open and bends over. Shortly after a couple gag reflexes, he straightens up. Nothing left. Stepping back some he goes to collapse back onto the mattress.

"This is my fault." Brian mutters. "Doyle didn't want to take them to the island. It was my choice."

Sam can actually feel her blood pressure skyrocket as she twists on the mattress. Her face contorts as she rolls onto her stomach to bury her face in her hands. There's no sniffling going on, no attempt to pretty up these tears, just tears. Unbidden. Large crocodile tears that trail down her cheeks.

Her head shakes a little, at the comment. But it takes her some time to find her voice again. "You," hiccup "couldn't" hiccup "have" hiccup "known," she tries to comfort. She tries to soothe, but she's emotional, hormonal, and all around, raw.

Her stomach aches, but in a different way. It's not morning sickness or nausea for that matter. It's physical distress. She opens her mouth and gasps for breath to practice the few relaxation techniques she knows.

Feeling a little better she whispers, "You didn't do this. You were chased away."

Sitting on the edge, his elbows rest on his knees. Leaning forward some, tears trail down his cheeks as he stares blearily at the window. Bringing up his hands to his face, he lets out a few more sobs shaking his head. "It doesn't matter.. Eric's still dead." He lets out, staring at the ground. "What are we supposed to tell Joe.. and Lance and Lucy?" He tries to swallow hard but it doesn't really work.

Brian looks over his shoulder at his wife to be. His lips part some. His mouth then closes. Lowering his head some he lets out a long groan. "Fuu-uuck.." He gasps out raggedly.

The streak of yellow paint brushed high along Sami's face bleeds at the edges, giving an odd hue to the tears that trail down her cheeks— like crying sunlight. Uselessly, Sam uses the elbow of her shirt to mop up accumulating moisture, but the moisture keeps coming. She takes another deep breath, aiming to help herself minimize her own stress. There's other concerns with her emotional state. Her eyebrows knit together as she turns to face him. Her words come out in a laboured whisper, "The truth." It's all they have to offer the kids. The truth. Her body curls together again, trying to find some position of safety from the big bad world that saw fit to eat a little boy.

A single hand unravels from the tugged together ball she's formed, reaching out towards his shoulder, but not quite touching it, leaving that minimal amount of space until she finds her courage. She needs touch. Too long with so little had left her in want.

Hands balling into fists they rest on the edge of the bed for a long moment. His eyes slowly creep open to glare at the window. Straightening up, Winters goes to lay back into Samara. Brian folds his hands on his stomach. Tears still trailing rapidly down his cheeks. "We're not going to be able to sleep tonight." He groans. His eyes slowly open wide peering up at her. A deep breath is taken, chest slowly rising then falling.

"We should have sex but…" He swallows hard. "I'll get it up and start thinking about Eric." A long groan is let out. "Post death sex is the worst kind of sex." An empty pathetic attempt at a laugh is let out. Hand grasping at his face weakly. He had to try to lighten the mood, right? A long moment passes. "But seriously…"

As he leans into her, Sami twists around, accommodating him further, wrapping her arms around him; her tears glisten against his shoulder as she sniffles loudly— her own sad attempt at a chuckle in turn. Her forehead presses against his shoulder as she buries her face, concealing it from even the moonlight.

Her grip tightens around him further as she considers something to say again. Sorrow has this tendency to render her speechless, especially when she's left to wallow. But all of these thoughts are pushed aside as she softly kisses his shoulder. "I love you," she whispers quietly against his skin. And then, as a kind of afterthought she tags on, "You don't have to be strong in this."

Lowering his head to her chest, one hand climbs up to pull on the back of her head into his shoulder. Words have left again and he finds it difficult to speak. The hand atop Samara's head is weak, like it is achieving some miracle against gravity for just staying up there for so long. His hand eventually drops, his head twisting to the side.

It takes him a long time to answer. His lips practically crusted together. Despite all the moisture on his face his lips remain incredibly dry. Tongue sweeping out to moisture them he lets out a long drag of a breath. "Yes I do." He whispers back ever so quietly.

"Not for me," Sam whispers back to his shoulder as her head shakes against it lightly. Her breath shallows as she tries to reign in her own emotions. "And not in here," her whisper is almost like a faint whistle of wind, barely audible. Her cheeks, still dampened by tears, press against him.

Lightly her eyelashes sweep against his skin. There's a soft tickle as she blinks, even if damp, they still have that light brush.

His back goes stiff at the little tickle against his shoulder, though after a second it melts back under her touch. Hands coming down, they go to hug around his stomach, head burrowing into her chest. Pushing with his legs some to reposition the pair of them, his eyes close. It appears this might be where he remains. Eventually he drips off slightly to her side, though remains leaning on her heavily.

His eyes slump close as his breathing stabilizes. Not sleep, but perhaps as close as he can get for this night.

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