It was a question that had seemed less important to have answered than everything else, and he's not sure what his lack of interest in assigning a name and a face to his--and he should just fucking admit it, his death, you're dead, Nicky-boy, like a doornail--what that lack of interest meant. Maybe just that it's easy to overlook little details like that. Or maybe he didn't want to know who could betray them.
He wonders why he was already so sure it was betrayal and not someone come riding up from Vegas; when he lets his mind settle on it, it's because there's something dirty and petty about a bomb in a closet. If it'd been someone from Vegas it probably would have worked, too, in one brilliant orange bang.
Nick is only gone for a second, swallowing around a knot full of tears, and he meets Larry's eyes before sweeping them back down to write: It's not your fault, Larry.
It's not. Nick knows that with a sureness that displaces the wisps of resentment, the little bitter orange twist in him that wants to swing a fist at whoever's close enough to hit. If Larry or Frannie had even an idea that Harold and Nadine would try something like that, they never would have let it wait.
I'm sorry, too. With that, he sets his notebook aside and reaches out to rub Larry's back in small one-handed circles. When that's not enough, he scoots closer, bumping their knees together and slinging his arm over Larry's shoulder. He's almost terribly serene with how sorry he is; sure as shooting sorrier than that mountain lion the sheriff told him about such a long time ago.
He's not sure why that thought unpicks the frayed knot of his control, but he brings a hand up to scrub at the corners of his eyes while comforting closeness turns into the clutching of a drowner. It's not just grieving, not anymore. There's an angry, snarling hitch to this feeling, now that he has faces and names. It's lucky that they're going to burn in hell. Lucky for them, and maybe lucky for Nick, because he has no idea what he'd do if he saw either of them.
no subject
It was a question that had seemed less important to have answered than everything else, and he's not sure what his lack of interest in assigning a name and a face to his--and he should just fucking admit it, his death, you're dead, Nicky-boy, like a doornail--what that lack of interest meant. Maybe just that it's easy to overlook little details like that. Or maybe he didn't want to know who could betray them.
He wonders why he was already so sure it was betrayal and not someone come riding up from Vegas; when he lets his mind settle on it, it's because there's something dirty and petty about a bomb in a closet. If it'd been someone from Vegas it probably would have worked, too, in one brilliant orange bang.
Nick is only gone for a second, swallowing around a knot full of tears, and he meets Larry's eyes before sweeping them back down to write: It's not your fault, Larry.
It's not. Nick knows that with a sureness that displaces the wisps of resentment, the little bitter orange twist in him that wants to swing a fist at whoever's close enough to hit. If Larry or Frannie had even an idea that Harold and Nadine would try something like that, they never would have let it wait.
I'm sorry, too. With that, he sets his notebook aside and reaches out to rub Larry's back in small one-handed circles. When that's not enough, he scoots closer, bumping their knees together and slinging his arm over Larry's shoulder. He's almost terribly serene with how sorry he is; sure as shooting sorrier than that mountain lion the sheriff told him about such a long time ago.
He's not sure why that thought unpicks the frayed knot of his control, but he brings a hand up to scrub at the corners of his eyes while comforting closeness turns into the clutching of a drowner. It's not just grieving, not anymore. There's an angry, snarling hitch to this feeling, now that he has faces and names. It's lucky that they're going to burn in hell. Lucky for them, and maybe lucky for Nick, because he has no idea what he'd do if he saw either of them.