In the night between July 4 and July 5
Jul. 5th, 2012 06:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
theycallmecap"There," Abed says, and Steve narrows his eyes, as if against the glare of the sun, to try and get them to focus on the communicator Abed has set up on a chair, apparently aimed at him. "Just press the button I showed you when you're done."
Abed presses a button, and leaves, the last of the party. He looks back at Steve with a small smile, and Steve thinks it's a sad little smile, and that makes him even more sad than he originally is. Something inside him catches, and he stares at the closed door for a few seconds before he tries to focus his eyes on the communicator again.
"Hi, Peggy." There's something in his throat, and he clears it, tries again. "Hi." His smile is strained, and he isn't sure why he smiled at all. "This wasn't my idea." His speech is slightly slurred with alcohol, but he doesn't notice, he just notices that his mouth is dry and he looks over at the nearby table, tries to find enough energy and motivation to stand up and reach for a bottle. He ends up looking at his hands, before he looks up at the communicator, and he can't seem to stop talking for a while. "That kid Abed. He's an odd one, but you'd like him. I think he'd throw himself on a grenade, too. He said I should leave you a message, even if you never get it. Sharon's here." There seems to be no link, but his brain doesn't need transitions in its current state, apparently. "Sometimes she smiles just like you. She's strong, but I think I said something the other day. She left, and I tried to find her and apologize, but I don't know where her quarters are."
That's when he realizes that he's rambling about everything but what matters, and it's that word, apologize, he has to apologize. "I'm sorry," he tells her, and his throat feels tight, so tight. "People think it was hard, adapting to the 2010s, but that wasn't it. I wanted to make it. Our date. Dancing. We should've gotten to dance. I don't wanna let go of you." His eyes are brimming with tears, and he wipes them away roughly, before they can overflow. "And this is worse. You're not anywhere here. I'd do it again, and it would kill me again, and we should've gotten to dance."
There is rough determination in his voice, and barely disguised anger; none of it is fair, and if it was in his power to make a different choice, he wouldn't. Rough determination, barely disguised anger, and underneath that, anguished pain. He reaches over, almost falls down in between the bed and the chair, and grabs the communicator, fumbles with it before he manages to stop the recording. But he's too tired and drunk to figure out how to erase it, so he leaves that off until the morning.
He wakes up in his clothes, curled up on top of his bed, cradling his communicator. He has no idea why, and wouldn't even know where to go looking for the video if he did.
Abed presses a button, and leaves, the last of the party. He looks back at Steve with a small smile, and Steve thinks it's a sad little smile, and that makes him even more sad than he originally is. Something inside him catches, and he stares at the closed door for a few seconds before he tries to focus his eyes on the communicator again.
"Hi, Peggy." There's something in his throat, and he clears it, tries again. "Hi." His smile is strained, and he isn't sure why he smiled at all. "This wasn't my idea." His speech is slightly slurred with alcohol, but he doesn't notice, he just notices that his mouth is dry and he looks over at the nearby table, tries to find enough energy and motivation to stand up and reach for a bottle. He ends up looking at his hands, before he looks up at the communicator, and he can't seem to stop talking for a while. "That kid Abed. He's an odd one, but you'd like him. I think he'd throw himself on a grenade, too. He said I should leave you a message, even if you never get it. Sharon's here." There seems to be no link, but his brain doesn't need transitions in its current state, apparently. "Sometimes she smiles just like you. She's strong, but I think I said something the other day. She left, and I tried to find her and apologize, but I don't know where her quarters are."
That's when he realizes that he's rambling about everything but what matters, and it's that word, apologize, he has to apologize. "I'm sorry," he tells her, and his throat feels tight, so tight. "People think it was hard, adapting to the 2010s, but that wasn't it. I wanted to make it. Our date. Dancing. We should've gotten to dance. I don't wanna let go of you." His eyes are brimming with tears, and he wipes them away roughly, before they can overflow. "And this is worse. You're not anywhere here. I'd do it again, and it would kill me again, and we should've gotten to dance."
There is rough determination in his voice, and barely disguised anger; none of it is fair, and if it was in his power to make a different choice, he wouldn't. Rough determination, barely disguised anger, and underneath that, anguished pain. He reaches over, almost falls down in between the bed and the chair, and grabs the communicator, fumbles with it before he manages to stop the recording. But he's too tired and drunk to figure out how to erase it, so he leaves that off until the morning.
He wakes up in his clothes, curled up on top of his bed, cradling his communicator. He has no idea why, and wouldn't even know where to go looking for the video if he did.
