Alex Krycek (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} alexkrycek) wrote,@ 2008-07-16 01:25:00 |
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He would, wouldn't he
"Alex, this week." Timothy has been getting impatient after the 'not now's and 'soon's of the last few weeks, the promises and sideways glances. Not yet, not with his house like this but he couldn't tell Timothy that. Not yet, not with him like this, but he couldn't tell him that either. "This week, or- you know I don't have a choice, Alex, I can't just keep on feeding them here, have them take up the space." He wouldn't kill them, but there were always people looking for puppies.
A sharp nod and the door closes behind Timothy, leaving Alex with Natasha on his lap and the others milling about the room, yapping at each other as they were tearing at the bedding and at random ears and limbs. Dog among them with the softest pushes and prods. Five minutes later and they've settled into exhausted sleep, leaving him to pet Bernice and Dog and stare at the concrete floor. "Can't give them up now, can I?" he mumbles to himself, smiling as Dmitri turns over in his sleep, nudging Nikolai sideways. They were his, they even had names now.
The boxes of cheap frozen pizza were stacked in one of the corners, the bottles from the night before still next to the couch. How could he bring them there- but here- he couldn't leave them here, he couldn't leave them, full stop. It gnaws at his insides, seeing them like this- and-
he would, wouldn't he. A bit like a current, a bit like- he'd never wanted them, but he would, wouldn't he. After the night, that night, would he? After Harkness and the gun, but then they'd- would he? Maybe not, maybe there is another way, someone else, maybe, or he could bring the house up to standard, but could he in that kind of time. This week Timothy said.
He would- wouldn't he.
If he asked, but why would he- asking is just- and then he might say no and- The clearing swims in his mind, both of them just standing there, looking at each other. He'd given Dog a pat on the head and Dog had whined as if he'd known, and missed, and it had echoed something in him, something. He'd drowned that night in a bottle of vodka but still-
he would- wouldn't he.
Deep breath taken, and slowly - like sleep walking - mechanic gestures, he bundles them up in the basket. Might as well now, morning, he has to be there for work. Might as well now and not later that week. Might as well now while he is still hopeful? Daring enough? Suicidal enough? What if he doesn't. But he would, wouldn't he? Careful so as not to disturb them he throws in the extra blanket, some of their toys, then kneels by Bernice. "He will, won't he- he must!" A small smile. "I promise they'll come visit. I promise." If he does- but why wouldn't he.
They haven't talked- not really- in weeks, months now. Months since they have tou- talked. Talked. The clearing, yes, but that had been more of a dance around nothing and Harkness. Lost the cellphone, remember. But he would- wouldn't he. Wouldn't he? Closer to the spa from here than it would be to his own house, along familiar paths he's avoided, still would, with his heart beating in his throat and gently yapping life under his arm as he carries the basket. Dog trolls along next to them.
What if he doesn't- what if- what if- what if- He's never- he's always said that one, maybe two, maybe even three, 'but not six, Alex, think about it'. They are six now, so would he? And if not, maybe his house after all, maybe they would be okay among the bottles and stuffy furniture, among the crap on the floor and- but that house, those grounds, by the sea, and so much space and cleanliness, certainly, and he would- wouldn't he. He has to.
It's the last steps up to the house that his heart is beating in wild staccato. The grounds lie quiet, late morning and there is a car in the small lot, a customer then, but one more step, and one more. The puppies are moving in the basket, mewling softly and Dog gives excited whines himself at being here. Maybe a scent he's caught. Maybe his scent. Maybe.
Just for them- right- he is telling himself that- he is doing it for them. Like giving his kids up for adoption but he rings the doorbell anyway, - months since they have tou- talked, really talked - swallowing hard as he hears it sounding out inside. A small step back from the door, uncertain shuffle of the feet. He would- wouldn't he. Please?
"Alex, this week." Timothy has been getting impatient after the 'not now's and 'soon's of the last few weeks, the promises and sideways glances. Not yet, not with his house like this but he couldn't tell Timothy that. Not yet, not with him like this, but he couldn't tell him that either. "This week, or- you know I don't have a choice, Alex, I can't just keep on feeding them here, have them take up the space." He wouldn't kill them, but there were always people looking for puppies.
A sharp nod and the door closes behind Timothy, leaving Alex with Natasha on his lap and the others milling about the room, yapping at each other as they were tearing at the bedding and at random ears and limbs. Dog among them with the softest pushes and prods. Five minutes later and they've settled into exhausted sleep, leaving him to pet Bernice and Dog and stare at the concrete floor. "Can't give them up now, can I?" he mumbles to himself, smiling as Dmitri turns over in his sleep, nudging Nikolai sideways. They were his, they even had names now.
The boxes of cheap frozen pizza were stacked in one of the corners, the bottles from the night before still next to the couch. How could he bring them there- but here- he couldn't leave them here, he couldn't leave them, full stop. It gnaws at his insides, seeing them like this- and-
he would, wouldn't he. A bit like a current, a bit like- he'd never wanted them, but he would, wouldn't he. After the night, that night, would he? After Harkness and the gun, but then they'd- would he? Maybe not, maybe there is another way, someone else, maybe, or he could bring the house up to standard, but could he in that kind of time. This week Timothy said.
He would- wouldn't he.
If he asked, but why would he- asking is just- and then he might say no and- The clearing swims in his mind, both of them just standing there, looking at each other. He'd given Dog a pat on the head and Dog had whined as if he'd known, and missed, and it had echoed something in him, something. He'd drowned that night in a bottle of vodka but still-
he would- wouldn't he.
Deep breath taken, and slowly - like sleep walking - mechanic gestures, he bundles them up in the basket. Might as well now, morning, he has to be there for work. Might as well now and not later that week. Might as well now while he is still hopeful? Daring enough? Suicidal enough? What if he doesn't. But he would, wouldn't he? Careful so as not to disturb them he throws in the extra blanket, some of their toys, then kneels by Bernice. "He will, won't he- he must!" A small smile. "I promise they'll come visit. I promise." If he does- but why wouldn't he.
They haven't talked- not really- in weeks, months now. Months since they have tou- talked. Talked. The clearing, yes, but that had been more of a dance around nothing and Harkness. Lost the cellphone, remember. But he would- wouldn't he. Wouldn't he? Closer to the spa from here than it would be to his own house, along familiar paths he's avoided, still would, with his heart beating in his throat and gently yapping life under his arm as he carries the basket. Dog trolls along next to them.
What if he doesn't- what if- what if- what if- He's never- he's always said that one, maybe two, maybe even three, 'but not six, Alex, think about it'. They are six now, so would he? And if not, maybe his house after all, maybe they would be okay among the bottles and stuffy furniture, among the crap on the floor and- but that house, those grounds, by the sea, and so much space and cleanliness, certainly, and he would- wouldn't he. He has to.
It's the last steps up to the house that his heart is beating in wild staccato. The grounds lie quiet, late morning and there is a car in the small lot, a customer then, but one more step, and one more. The puppies are moving in the basket, mewling softly and Dog gives excited whines himself at being here. Maybe a scent he's caught. Maybe his scent. Maybe.
Just for them- right- he is telling himself that- he is doing it for them. Like giving his kids up for adoption but he rings the doorbell anyway, - months since they have tou- talked, really talked - swallowing hard as he hears it sounding out inside. A small step back from the door, uncertain shuffle of the feet. He would- wouldn't he. Please?
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