#sllyrds

Mind far afield, it was one of those days where he couldn't tell you which route he'd taken to get to the theatre - probably the same one he generally took but he really couldn't say - couldn't say what he'd had for breakfast or whether he'd had breakfast, or whether it was even breakfast time anymore.

Script in hand, he'd been drafted, thank god, into the not combat-veteran role, and found it fucking nauseating to even look at the way the guy opposite him had a red and white kiffiyeh slung around his neck like a goddamn hipster scarf. "So here we are?" the guy began again at the behest of Cousineau, to which Barry replied a little flatly, "Yes, Mr. Garcin." Gar-sin? Gar-seen? He'd been told flat, no blinking. They were all dead after all. He barely heard the guy reply "And this is what it looks like?" before he was spitting out, "Yes." An enormous pause.

Where the fuck was Sally. She was the scorned heiress who was damned for adultery or something and she was supposedly entering soon. While Garcin monologued about furniture styles, he caught sight of her in the wings, decked in some fantastic assemblage meant to convey the general drape of an evening gown. He was distracted enough that there was another large pause between Garcin's "Bogus in bogus, so to speak," before Barry swore under his breath and searched the script for his line.

If he could say one thing for the temporary move to the backlot outside Toronto, it was that the bed of Sally’s trailer was infinitely better than her mattress on the floor back home. Not that he’d complain, but it was really something to wake up each morning not only with Sally in his arms, but in a really fucking nice bed. One she vacated most mornings before him to either empty her guts in the toilet or to rush into some clothes and get to wardrobe and makeup. The puking had somewhat tapered off as filming went on, and for Sally's sake Barry was extremely glad, having navigated the first doctor's visit in all its awkward secrecy and been assured that it was all extremely normal. The internet told him they had at least four months to go in secrecy, five maybe because it was Sally's first time and had good muscles or something like that. All Barry knew is that morning, whatever week or month it was, he saw it. And it was unmistakable.

She'd gotten up with the alarm, dragged herself out of bed and he'd pried his face from the pillow and scrubbed his hands over his face til he felt a little more wakeful, the smell of coffee filling the trailer as she flipped the coffeemaker on along with the lights. Maybe it made him a grade-A douche or maybe it just made him a doting boyfriend, but he enjoyed watching her dress, not in a sexual way, just admiring her. Because she was fucking pretty, even just rolled out of bed, the print of the wadded sheets still in her skin, her hair tumbled from sleep. And today, a little lower than halfway down her middle was a definite outward push, a decidedly round curve. More than just relaxing and being real after a good night of drinks and nachos. No, this was unmistakable, something more, and Barry elbowed his way half-upright in bed to catch her attention before she could tug her shirt down over it.

That was the trouble with blowing up at your girlfriend, and it hadn’t even been a real blow up. He hadn’t shouted, hadn’t thrown things, and yeah he’d come really close, but he hadn’t, and that was the main point. She had no right to be fucking around and looking through his stuff, held just the view on all of it that an actress would, that it was an experience to use, something to put in your fucking acting toolbox and there was no use making her understand that it wasn’t. It wasn’t something he wanted to use, it wasn’t something he wanted to do anything with at all except lock in a box and forget about. Not to mention Jack’s name he wore daily around his wrist, next to his pulse, or the notifications his fucking phone sent him every day that he had an unread message in his Facebook inbox from Chris, from months ago. One he refused to open, would never open, and didn’t know how to make it go away.

That was the trouble with blowing up at your girlfriend when you had no other place to go, Barry thought, rolling himself bitterly onto the sofa, feet jammed against the armrest and head cramped against the top, the furniture made for sitting on, not laying on, and if it was for laying on, it was meant to be laid on by someone much shorter than himself. Hours passed, or maybe it was just minutes, but the house was dark, and even the ambiance of the room was different out here. Sally had gone to bed, he thought, they hadn’t talked. He’d gone out for a brisk walk, yelled at some wild grass and litter, and come back a little more subdued, and forgone his shower in favor of a bowl of cereal and a crick in the neck. 

Why had he always feared it would come to this. Rubbed his eyes in the broad daylight and wished to god he was dreaming, that her face, flared with two splotches of pink on each cheek, the flush running down her neck where her pulse leapt beneath the skin, her shouted words, angry gestures weren't real. A shove, even. His arms hung limp by his side, words gone, he'd said them all. He hadn't told her the entire truth, fuck no, but she knew things, she knew he'd been involved somehow with Ryan's murder, and now -

“Sally, you swore you'd never be with a violent man again, am I violent? Am I ever violent toward you?” Outside of stage, he inwardly added, the way she'd pushed him, provoked him, all but forced him to choke her as the scene required. He didn't want to, but had tapped into that anger, that hurt, that suppressed confusion last-minute, flipping the table, grabbing her so that he could feel her breath and he'd had to take a moment, lungs screaming, to see through the red light of the stage and wait for her to finish coughing. Wondering if that had been him or if she was just that good of a fucking actor. He'd never asked.

“Things happen, things fucking happen, and you think I can help that? You think I want that? Fuck, all I ever wanted was this.” He gestured to her, her success, the badges from the set, the papers of the next day's scenes, clothing strewn about because she was too busy. Too victorious to even bother, and he hadn't cared. They didn't fight about those things. No, they fought about this, that he had a gun, that she knew he was somehow involved with Ryan's murder, maybe more, and now thought his entire time with the acting class was a farce, up until now. Even his relationship with her, their love, the fucking child taking up space under her skin. 

Before, Barry would have thought that the term seeing red was just a figure of speech, but tonight brought him back to that day when he'd realized it was real, even in the low light, red rimming his vision, staining his hands, rattling in his throat. In any other circumstance Sally's would have been the last place where he'd go, but with how things were with Fuches, with Hank.... he'd spent the night in her bed, in her arms, notwithstanding the fact that work had to go on. He just didn't anticipate it being so fucking messy.

He smelled the strong copper tang first when he opened the door, fishing the key from beneath the mat, seeing it smeared in red, and realizing somewhat belatedly that the scent was him, shirt soaked through, face spattered, lips stained from where he'd wiped the back of  his hand there. She hadn't screamed, hadn't panicked, just swore a lot and ushered him to the bathroom, turning on the water and he'd climbed woodenly in, knees to his chest because tubs like this weren't made for guys like him, they were made for little kids, with yellow rubber ducks and blue fluffy washcloths, and all the colors except the red staining the acrylic as it rushed toward the drain between his feet.