(no subject)

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

It's a curious thing, but when he walks by the bar he finds himself dragging his fingers across it. Across her: he remembers Bar's a she -- or so he's been told -- and with that in mind, lifts his hands almost as if he's been invading personal space.

And when he does, he finds a note in his fingers; he has to read it twice.

The first time he thinks it's a mistake, but the second time he's sure it isn't... especially since Charlie's Gibson appears on Bar's surface.

(Oh, Charlie.)

He's been trying not to think about it all: about sitting with Charlie's lifeless body out there under the tree, about helping dig the grave wordlessly and with such purpose, about the finality and the unfairness of it all and at first he won't touch the guitar. It feels all wrong without Charlie here, but... it's his. He's never had anything bequeathed to him before. At long last he reaches over and picks it up, so very tentatively as if it embodies what's left of Charlie's energy, his heart, his soul.

The feel of the thing is palpable; it brings an immediate lump to his throat and his eyebrows knit together and he has to blink away sudden tears. But he cradles the guitar in his arms so tenderly, thanks Bar, and pushes his way unseeingly through the bar and back upstairs. At least there's solace waiting for him in the knowledge that he's wanted... from both sides of the grave he straddles so delicately.