Chapter 2.3 – It's only loneliness
The memory of the scene at the gate hit him like a tone of bricks. He was lost for words, embarrassed and, especially helpless. One thing was to react to a man saying those same words. Another one would be reacting to a woman. Women were to be revered, his dad had always said, not to be touched in anger even if only with a flower. The steps echoing on the wooden floor told him she was walking in his direction. But instead if the cold metal of a gun against his head, he felt her hand, cool and gentle. It felt warm and soft and oddly familiar, like his mother's would feel, like a lover's hand. A long lost lover.
"We had to leave you on the floor. Sorry about that!" That was definitely not what he'd expected. "Your young fifer is having supper- he looks half starved… Now help me get you to bed" There was, Booth thought, something off about the whole situation. His companion was getting dinner in the kitchen, he was being tended by this woman that smelled like flowers and that sported a gun in her pocket. He tried to get up but his body was not fully responsive and he slammed against another pile of books. She came to his rescue, sliding her arm around his back to help him up. Caught unaware, Booth was startled.
"I'm just going to help you up." He sighed.
"Thank you, Mrs Sullivan."
"You're most welcome, but I have to say, you keep on knocking down my books with every turn, and I'm getting my gun again." But there was a hint of a smile in her voice. "Now, I've got a bedroom upstairs. Think you can reach it? One thing though: keep in mind that I have a gun and that I, not only know how to use it, I'm a very good shot!" No mistake now about that intimidating tone in her voice. He had come in peace, but didn't blame her for the cautious, suspicious attitude. Later that night when he was rolling in bed unable to sleep, Booth would reflect that her preoccupation with stating possession of the gun was merely protective instinct , but at that particular moment, her words had the desired effect on him.
She helped him undress. War, she told him, was no time for bashfulness. She cleaned him up as much as possible and fetched him supper. The fragrant stew made his mouth water. She put the plate in his hands and handed him a spoon. When he merely stood as if frozen in place, she quickly realized her blunder. She took back the plate, apologizing. She brought a lamp closer and when she did, his eyes perceived a change in the light. The darkness became less intense, less ominous and, certainly, less suffocating. He touched his eyes noticing the absence of the usual bandana. She noticed the movement.
"It was quite dirty, you know? Besides, I think it could be good for you to stop hiding behind that rag."
He was almost as startled by her direct approach to the subject of his blindness as by the movement of the bed when she sat on it to spoon feed him.
Temperance was feeling unsettled herself. And she was honest enough to admit that the almost naked soldier in her house was somewhat to blame for that. He was sitting in a bed, completely at her mercy, vulnerable but exuding masculinity. The helplessness of his situation- weak, blind and naked did nothing to hide that. In the animal kingdom, he would be a pack leader, just because of the energy that emanated from him. She could see burn marks on his chest and various other scars. The skin was that of a worker- tanned by the sun as if he worked outdoors. She was feeling flushed and warm and her attention was more that suitably caught by him. There hadn't been a grown man in her house since her husband had left her for a campaign with the confederate army. He'd left the house in great fanfare, happy as a little boy with a new toy, and telling her not to be silly and that it'd all be over in a month. Five years had passed and less than a dozen letters was all she had to show for it. Loneliness, it's only loneliness. After all, she was a woman that had been left alone for far too long. She felt a longing for the small gestures of intimacy, the shared warmth and laughter. The texture of warm skin beneath her fingers. Her fingers lingered a little longer than necessary on Booth's chest. She pulled her hand quickly, as if his skin had burned her. He was a soldier, and he had brought with him the words of lost hopes. She wasn't ready for them. For him.
"Why are you being so nice to me?" Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth, Booth!
"You mentioned my husband…" he could recognize a prompt for information when he heard one. This, however, was not the kind of information he liked to give. His expression closed.
"Your husband was Mr Timothy Sullivan was he not?" She sighed.
"Well, Corporal Booth, until proof to the contrary, my husband is still Mr Timothy Sullivan." But her voice was laced with sadness, not conviction. It tugged at Booth's heart. He wanted to soften the blow of the news he had to deliver. But, somehow, he did not know how to do it with her. It had been easier to comfort the mothers and fathers that had allowed him that.
"Ma'am, I'm afraid I have bad news…" he felt her get up from the bed, heard books being moved from one place to the other, pages turning, volumes closing. He felt lonely and just a bit lost, just a little bit jealous. " I have a letter… he, your husband entrusted me with bringing it to you…"
"Yes, I'm aware of that. You gave it to me before you collapsed" she said with no emotion. She had suspected, of course, that Sully was dead. She had for quite some time now. But she was a great master in denial. You had to be, to be married to Sully and still maintain some shred of hope and laughter and self-esteem. Sully's sprawling handwriting on the envelope had killed that for her, the possibility of denial. Sully was dead. "What happened to your eyes?" He could also recognize avoidance strategies when he heard them.
"Not sure" He could help with avoidance. God only knew he could postpone what usually followed opening the letters. "There was an explosion and this flash of very bright light, then, I woke up and only darkness. There used to be flashing lights in the beginning, but then there was only this…sort of darkness." He wondered when the crying would start. The tears, the sobs and he would, for the last time, be offering comfort to the relatives. Instead, all he heard her controlled voice.
"I'm almost a doctor, you know. I'll have a look at your eyes in the morning. Now sleep. God knows you need it. And she left him alone in a room he knew to be full of her books and his demons.
