Silence
Author's Note: This is an alternate-universe drabble that I came up with. It's tackling the sort of relationship I would imagine Kirsty and Kane might have had if they'd have stayed on the run. (I understand they're married now, but I'm from the UK and Kane hasn't even returned yet.) I've always got the feeling that the K/K relationship runs on the thrill of the 'Romeo and Juliet'-style drama, and that if they were allowed to live in peace at last, they'd find that things were somewhat empty between them. Please don't shoot me, that's just my interpretation of the storyline. J I've worked with a real 'stream-of-consciousness' narrative, which I thought fitted the situation quite well. The tone, style and themes of this story won't be to everyone's taste, but I'd really appreciate it if you could review and tell me what you think, good or bad. J
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She doesn't make a lot of sense really, she knows she doesn't. She'll go to the cinema and ask for salted popcorn, and throughout the film feel it singe her tongue and she'll wish, bitterly, that she'd chosen sweet, allowing it to mar her enjoyment of the film itself. She'll buy herself a new top, one that she just has to have - I'll pay you back Mum, promise, just as soon as I've found a new job, I promise I will - and she'll wear it once, twice, maybe, and then discard it, assign it to the bottom of her wardrobe. Jade used to joke that if Kirsty was given the chance to live in a mansion she'd wish she'd chosen the one with the white picket fence instead of the water fountain.
There's no danger of living in mansions now, of course. Or of going to the cinema, or even of buying a new top. They've barely a penny to their name; it's really quite hard to get used to, after years of mothering mothers and fathers who'd give you the world if you asked them nicely enough. But she doesn't mind, doesn't care. It doesn't matter to her. All that matters to her is that she's with him. At last, she's free to walk hand-in-hand down the road with him, and stop to kiss whenever they like. She's free to be with him, alone.
Except they're not alone, really, are they? There's still something in the way, still a barrier, still a blockade. It's him, her, and the silence.
Oh, how she loathes the silence. It's always the worst sort of silence - awkward, heavy - and she never knows quite how to break it. Often, she'll start to laughingly tell a story, feeling enthused and vivacious, and then trail off as she remembers that it involves Dani or her dad. And the silences are even worse after that; even heavier and more awkward.
Sometimes she'll sense him standing beside her, trying to speak without opening his mouth, hoping that the words will somehow flow through his eyes or from his hands. They never do, though, because what he wants to talk about is too complex to be relayed without speech.
She knows she can be a little difficult at times - difficult, that's what her mother used to call her. And impossible, and troublesome, if she was feeling more articulate. "You'll be the death of me, Kirsty Sutherland," her mum used to sigh, shaking her curls before busying something more important than her daughter, like Flynn or the DIC or the washing.
She misses her mum, hasn't stopped missing her for a minute since they left. She used to find her such a nag, the very bane of her existence; now, she'd give anything to hear her gently grating voice, or see those warm eyes. She craves arguments and farce and love and laughter. She wants to climb into her mother's arms and sob that she's sorry and she wants to be forgiven, that she wants to be part of the family again…
She placed a picture of her family - the one that she'd thrown hurriedly into her bag as she'd packed, adrenaline pulsing through her veins - beside their bed, but had draped a flannel over it when he'd entered the room.
"You don't have to do that," he'd assured her. "I don't mind. I don't, honest." But she'd seen the slight whitening of his face, seen the way his fists had clenched, and she'd jammed the photo back into her bag anyway.
Why is it like this? she asks herself. Why do I feel so… so empty? I got what I wanted, after all.
That's the one advantage, she supposes, the one triumph in this strange little mess. She's won, Dani's lost. It might seem petty, but this isn't how things usually work. Usually it's Dani who comes out smelling of roses - or Ralph Lauren perfume, at the very least. Usually it's Dani who walks off into the sunset with some guy who's hopelessly smitten with and intrigued by her, or teases and laughs with him over a milkshake in the Diner. Usually it's Dani whom everyone cares about, Dani who everyone frets over. Dani, Dani, Dani, that's all she ever hears, so pretty, so popular, such a good student, perfect-perfect-perfect.
No one ever mentioned how self-obsessed she could be. Daddy's girl, Daddy's little princess. Spoiled, utterly spoiled.
And the irony, the really bloody ironic thing was that though her dad had spoiled her, Kane had ruined her.
She wonders how much guilt he feels; if it's something that hides at the back of his mind, or if it consumes him, day and night, and he can't escape it. She wonders if he hates Dani, wants to snap her pretty little neck, and she prays he doesn't. She wonders if it breaks his sleep, infests his dreams. True enough, he talks in his sleep; disjointed words that mean nothing to her. She wonders if she talks in her sleep, herself. She knows what she would say, if she did.
The grass is always greener on the other side…
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