Author's Note: Another one inspired by a word; Mother. Anyway, this one just came to mind with the word, and even though it's short, and I had time to write more, I rather liked where it ended, and so, left it where it was. Take it as you will.


JUST FOR US

Turning the glass in his hand, he watched the measure shift and slosh inside, never quite reaching up to the rim, and therefore, never spilling. His green eyes were fixed on the liquid, the scotch calling his attention and holding it successfully. He seemed to forget everything else in the room, even his companion; the one who had invited him in for a drink that night, after dinner in the stateroom.

"You all right there, Sawyer?"

Tom Sawyer lifted his gaze, managing to tear it off the scotch in his glass, and nodded. A little smile touched his face for a few moments as he replied, "Fine. Just thinking."

"Don't hurt yourself," Skinner teased, and Tom faked a laugh, rather drolly, making the thief smirk. It was odd to see the man grin, especially since his teeth, and everything beyond, were invisible. Tom was getting used to it though; he didn't let it bother him anymore… or at least, he tried not to.

"So what were you thinking about?" Skinner asked after a moment, pouring himself another glass of the alcohol. He was doing quite well tonight; he didn't even have a slur yet. Tom found himself amused by the thought, and took a moment before responding.

"Believe it or not; life." He looked the man in the face – having never quite been able to truly look him in the eye, after all – and shrugged. He was sat forward in his chair, almost poised on the edge, his elbows on his knees. His gaze fixed on the scotch again, before he sipped a little more of it down, feeling it work its way down his throat, leaving behind a memorable sensation. It would fade, but for now, he welcomed it.

"Oh, is that right?" Skinner mused. "And what exactly is it about life that's got you so thoughtful tonight, kid?"

Though he hated being referenced to as anything other than mature, he had come to tolerate it from Skinner. No matter how many times he had asked, the thief would never really stop, so he had given up; admitted a small defeat. The thief never meant any offence by it, after all.

"Just… life in general." He furrowed his brow. "Don't you ever think about life, Skinner?" Tom was certain everyone did at one point or another.

"Well, it's like my ol' mum used to say," Skinner began, lifting his glass as if to admire the liquid within as the light shone through it. "'Never let life get you down; always pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and keep on going; you'll get there in the end'." He smiled again, faint, before downing half of the measure.

Tom was pensive and quiet. He watched the thief, realising how little they really knew about him. "Never heard you talk about your mother before," he noted calmly, casually, in passing. He didn't want to push; if Skinner didn't want to talk about his past, then he wouldn't ask.

"Well," Skinner began, "there are some things we have to keep to ourselves, Sawyer." The man paused, looking to Tom through his pince-nez. "In doing so, we have somethin' special… somethin' no one else can ever take from us. Because it's just for us…"

Tom was quiet for some time, and let his eyes wander down to his own half-full glass. Half-full… not half-empty. His American optimism had kicked in again.

"Skinner," he said, lifting his own glass a little to look at the scotch within, before he downed the remains of the measure. "I think that's the most beautiful thing you've ever said."

Fin