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Entry tags:
- alex,
- nelson,
- oom,
- post-canon
[oom] The Railway Arms
A saloon bar. That's what he'd told her. They have a saloon bar, a place for proper ladies to sit, and eat and drink without having to be disturbed by the smoke and coarse language of men. Somewhere there's a juke box playing, and she can hear laughter. There are people here, people she should know. And somehow she knows, it's just gone quitting time. Nothing to worry about here. Molly is safe, and in the land of the living. She'll heal, in time. That little truth is small comfort to Alex.
The other truth is no comfort at all. But it's real and for once, she doesn't have any questions. It's hard, but simple fact that she, Alex, is no longer among them. The living. She's here now, where the atmosphere is warm, welcoming, and she should be ready to take her place among the contented souls of the dead.
And yet...
Something is off. Through the crowd, she catches a glimpse of blond hair, the back of a man with broad shoulders, and she turns to look. No, it's not him. It can't be. He stayed behind. He chose to stay behind. The knowledge makes her chest ache, and a wave of tears rises in her throat. This isn't right. She can't be here, not yet.
Someone calls her name from a great distance. She turns and the world shifts. A wave of vertigo threatens, and she lays a hand on the surface of the bar to steady herself. Her head is spinning and she can't seem to catch her breath. Something is missing.
Someone places a hand on her shoulder and the room goes white. Silence descends, and with it, some measure of peace.
The haze of light falls away from her eyes, and she's alone with the man she knows as Nelson. (The barman from the Railway Arms. Sam's friend. Gene's friend.) She knows who he is without even having to reach for the knowledge.
Her body settles onto a bar stool, and she feels the cool surface of the wood beneath her palms.
'I can't do this...'
Nelson shakes his head, but he’s smiling. Both his hands are on the bar, palms down flat.
‘I think you can probably do anything, if you try. Alex, is it?’
His accent is Jamaican today.
‘Anything at all.’
She shakes her head, as if trying to clear her vision. Her mouth is dry, and it's embarrassing, not being able to speak straight away. She swallows, gives him a weak smile. 'I'm sorry. I just -- this -- where am I?'
She remembers walking away from him, remembers the sound of his voice telling her to 'Go.' (Remembers the warmth of his lips against hers...) But she doesn't quite remember how she got here.
‘This is the Railway Arms, Alex.’
His smile only gets wider, but it’s friendly.
‘And you look like a red wine type of lady to me.’
He pulls a bottle from under the bar, and pours her a large glass. If she wants a deeper answer to her question, she may not find it here.
'Thank you.'
Yes, a drink, to steady her nerves. (Just like her first day at Fenchurch.) She wraps her hands around the bowl of the wine glass and bends her head to drink. (He should be sitting right over there.) Her gaze cuts away, but there is no mural. No corner booth. No cigarillo clenched between his teeth.
The wine is good. Better than any plonk Luigi ever put in front of her. She drinks it down, using the mechanics of the act to place her in this world. (Where is 'here'? It's some place we go to sort ourselves out. Coppers.)
Eventually, she looks up into Nelson's face. 'The Railway Arms. In Manchester.' She should have known. God's country. A bit of a laugh rises in her throat, disbelief and something else. (Loss.) 'I can't stay.'
His expression takes on a tiny edge of sympathy when she says Manchester, but he’s found, over the years, that it’s better to let people think what they like. Easier for them.
‘No one stays anywhere forever, Alex.’
He refills her glass.
‘But I’m in no rush to call last orders.’
No, she can’t stay here.
There are tears spilling down her cheeks, and she doesn't remember starting to weep. She stills her features, tries to maintain some air of dignity, but it's no good. The tears come, and she shudders a breath, trying to stop them.
'Why did he make me go?' The question is asked more to the empty air than it is to the barman. He wanted her to stay; he spent three years of her life arranging the world so that she would stay. And then when she asked, he told her no. Stupid, stupid man.
‘Mr Hunt? Ah well...’
The grin widens again.
‘You probably know the answer better than you think. And I gotta say, Alex - you’re the first person to ask that question.’
He breaks into a peal of laughter, though not for long. A moment later, and he’s offering her a clean white handkerchief from somewhere back there.
‘There’s no need to cry.’
She laughs through her tears, taking the square of fabric, unfolding it with exquisite care. 'The hell you say. I lost my daughter. I lost myself. And I lost -- him.' All in one fell swoop. The weight of it crushes her chest, and she finds it hard to draw a breath. Gently, she dabs at her eyes, knowing it doesn't matter now.
After a moment, she looks down at the handkerchief, noticing the distinct lack of mascara. In that moment, she's back in the grey suit and white blouse of her daily attire, circa 2008. She can feel the weight of her hair piled at the back of her head, and behind her brow, the dull throb she's been living with for the past three years is -- gone. Another bitter laugh, and she's wiping her nose, appearances be damned.
'I can't go back. He won't let me. Says, I'll throw him off his game.' But she can't stay here. The sense of wrongness is pressing close around her, even now. (He needs her.) 'But -- I can't...'
She can't even get the words out, instead biting her lip as another wave of grief hits.
The sympathy is back, full force this time. But he’s still smiling, a man at peace. He leans on the bar, and reaches across to put his hand over hers.
‘Alex. You didn’t lose yourself.’
More the opposite, he would have thought.
‘You wouldn’t be here if you had. And him - well, he has this job to do. He does it how he sees fit, y’know?’
People tend to take issue with how that man gets his results - but the result is the important thing. Here, more than anywhere.
She nods, not quite sure she agrees with his assertion that she is not lost. A long moment passes while she just tries to breathe, tries to parse the reality of the situation. She has another mouthful of wine, not really tasting it this time.
'It's not fair.'
To either of them. A shotgun blast to the face and a shallow grave. A bullet to the brain pan and a daughter left behind. And something more. How many days ago was it that he took her in his arms and danced with her? Was it days? Or was it hours? Or years, even? What kind of grand celestial plan was it to throw them together under these bizarre circumstances?
'I'd like to file a complaint.' For all the good it'd do her. Because it really wasn't fair to give them a taste, and then...
The loss of her daughter is something she's been dealing with for three years. It still stings, this sense that she's abandoned Mols the way her mother abandoned her. But she's had longer to get used to the idea.
This loss? She's not ready to accept. She quietly folds the handkerchief, licking her lips as she thinks. There has to be another way. There has to be.
His face splits into the grin again, and he laughs.
‘A complaint? You complain away, lady. I’ll be sure to tell him when he comes in.’
He gives the distinct impression he’ll enjoy passing it on. His eyes are warm though, and he tops up her glass, just a little.
‘He must have had his hands full with you.’ He leans his forearms on the bar, and leans over a little. The accent drops, Jamaica to Manchester, and he winks. ‘Like with Sam, yeah? Always thinking - what was it? Outside the box. Yeah. One of his favourite sayings, that one. Used to drive Mr Hunt mad.’
He keeps eye contact. Sometimes people need a bit of a nudge, even here.
She laughs, her expression softening. 'He told me Sam wasn't as annoying as I was, once.' Her chin wrinkles, but she keeps the smile. 'I challenged his world view. Daily.'
Outside the box.
She glances back to where she came in. The door is still there. When she looks back to Nelson, her eyes are wide.
'That wouldn't be -- against the rules?' Are there rules in Heaven? She doesn't know. (And truthfully, she doesn't care. If there's a chance she might find her way back to him, she's going to take it.)
He shrugs a shoulder. ‘My pub, my rules.’ And he knows, better than most, that people always end up where they’re supposed to be, eventually. If there are a few unscheduled stops along the way - well, look at where she’s spent the last three years.
‘There aren’t many of you as gets the option, Alex. Whether you want it or not - well, that’s up to you.’ He straightens, and rests a hand around one of the taller beer pumps. Even this place has changed a bit, over the years.
‘You’ve got to do what you think’s best.’
Whether she’ll turn out to be right or not - that’s not for him to say.
Again, she turns and looks at the door, long and hard. It's a pub, right? He can hardly fault her that one observation. And more than that, it's a second chance, and that's all she wants right now.
When she turns back, there's a light of hope in her dark eyes. 'You could get me a message, yes? If he turns up here?' She doesn't know how these things work, but it never hurts to ask.
He tilts his head, then shakes it.
‘This is my pub, Alex. What other landlords do, that’s their lookout.’
He can’t choose to walk into another bar, anymore than they can choose to walk into his.
‘And if he decides to come in-’ he laughs again, ‘- he’s never listened to a word I’ve said before. I doubt he’ll start now.’
Her eyes narrow in amusement, and she huffs a laugh. It's amazing how just a breath of hope can obliterate a wall of despair. 'Well, if he does come in, you tell him Alex Drake went looking for him. And that if he knows what's good for him, he'd better come find me.' Just the mere thought that she'd dictate what he should and shouldn't do should rile him up enough to come find her just to yell at her.
She slips off the bar stool, resting her weight on first one foot and then the other, still vaguely disoriented to be back in somewhat sensible pumps. 'In fact, put my drinks on his tab. That should have the desired effect.'
The door is still there, and she's crossing the room, one step at a time, careful not to look away lest it disappear again. 'Nelson, thank you. Thank you. Tell Shaz and the others I'll see them soon enough.'
‘You’re very welcome.’ He’s grinning again, all Jamaica once more. ‘Take care now, Alex. I’ll see you.’
He’s got a cloth in his hand now, wiping down the bar. He watches her walk, and shakes his head, dropping back to his own accent.
‘Dunno which one of ‘em I feel more sorry for.’
But it’s nice when things have a chance. Isn’t that what they’re here for?
The other truth is no comfort at all. But it's real and for once, she doesn't have any questions. It's hard, but simple fact that she, Alex, is no longer among them. The living. She's here now, where the atmosphere is warm, welcoming, and she should be ready to take her place among the contented souls of the dead.
And yet...
Something is off. Through the crowd, she catches a glimpse of blond hair, the back of a man with broad shoulders, and she turns to look. No, it's not him. It can't be. He stayed behind. He chose to stay behind. The knowledge makes her chest ache, and a wave of tears rises in her throat. This isn't right. She can't be here, not yet.
Someone calls her name from a great distance. She turns and the world shifts. A wave of vertigo threatens, and she lays a hand on the surface of the bar to steady herself. Her head is spinning and she can't seem to catch her breath. Something is missing.
Someone places a hand on her shoulder and the room goes white. Silence descends, and with it, some measure of peace.
The haze of light falls away from her eyes, and she's alone with the man she knows as Nelson. (The barman from the Railway Arms. Sam's friend. Gene's friend.) She knows who he is without even having to reach for the knowledge.
Her body settles onto a bar stool, and she feels the cool surface of the wood beneath her palms.
'I can't do this...'
Nelson shakes his head, but he’s smiling. Both his hands are on the bar, palms down flat.
‘I think you can probably do anything, if you try. Alex, is it?’
His accent is Jamaican today.
‘Anything at all.’
She shakes her head, as if trying to clear her vision. Her mouth is dry, and it's embarrassing, not being able to speak straight away. She swallows, gives him a weak smile. 'I'm sorry. I just -- this -- where am I?'
She remembers walking away from him, remembers the sound of his voice telling her to 'Go.' (Remembers the warmth of his lips against hers...) But she doesn't quite remember how she got here.
‘This is the Railway Arms, Alex.’
His smile only gets wider, but it’s friendly.
‘And you look like a red wine type of lady to me.’
He pulls a bottle from under the bar, and pours her a large glass. If she wants a deeper answer to her question, she may not find it here.
'Thank you.'
Yes, a drink, to steady her nerves. (Just like her first day at Fenchurch.) She wraps her hands around the bowl of the wine glass and bends her head to drink. (He should be sitting right over there.) Her gaze cuts away, but there is no mural. No corner booth. No cigarillo clenched between his teeth.
The wine is good. Better than any plonk Luigi ever put in front of her. She drinks it down, using the mechanics of the act to place her in this world. (Where is 'here'? It's some place we go to sort ourselves out. Coppers.)
Eventually, she looks up into Nelson's face. 'The Railway Arms. In Manchester.' She should have known. God's country. A bit of a laugh rises in her throat, disbelief and something else. (Loss.) 'I can't stay.'
His expression takes on a tiny edge of sympathy when she says Manchester, but he’s found, over the years, that it’s better to let people think what they like. Easier for them.
‘No one stays anywhere forever, Alex.’
He refills her glass.
‘But I’m in no rush to call last orders.’
No, she can’t stay here.
There are tears spilling down her cheeks, and she doesn't remember starting to weep. She stills her features, tries to maintain some air of dignity, but it's no good. The tears come, and she shudders a breath, trying to stop them.
'Why did he make me go?' The question is asked more to the empty air than it is to the barman. He wanted her to stay; he spent three years of her life arranging the world so that she would stay. And then when she asked, he told her no. Stupid, stupid man.
‘Mr Hunt? Ah well...’
The grin widens again.
‘You probably know the answer better than you think. And I gotta say, Alex - you’re the first person to ask that question.’
He breaks into a peal of laughter, though not for long. A moment later, and he’s offering her a clean white handkerchief from somewhere back there.
‘There’s no need to cry.’
She laughs through her tears, taking the square of fabric, unfolding it with exquisite care. 'The hell you say. I lost my daughter. I lost myself. And I lost -- him.' All in one fell swoop. The weight of it crushes her chest, and she finds it hard to draw a breath. Gently, she dabs at her eyes, knowing it doesn't matter now.
After a moment, she looks down at the handkerchief, noticing the distinct lack of mascara. In that moment, she's back in the grey suit and white blouse of her daily attire, circa 2008. She can feel the weight of her hair piled at the back of her head, and behind her brow, the dull throb she's been living with for the past three years is -- gone. Another bitter laugh, and she's wiping her nose, appearances be damned.
'I can't go back. He won't let me. Says, I'll throw him off his game.' But she can't stay here. The sense of wrongness is pressing close around her, even now. (He needs her.) 'But -- I can't...'
She can't even get the words out, instead biting her lip as another wave of grief hits.
The sympathy is back, full force this time. But he’s still smiling, a man at peace. He leans on the bar, and reaches across to put his hand over hers.
‘Alex. You didn’t lose yourself.’
More the opposite, he would have thought.
‘You wouldn’t be here if you had. And him - well, he has this job to do. He does it how he sees fit, y’know?’
People tend to take issue with how that man gets his results - but the result is the important thing. Here, more than anywhere.
She nods, not quite sure she agrees with his assertion that she is not lost. A long moment passes while she just tries to breathe, tries to parse the reality of the situation. She has another mouthful of wine, not really tasting it this time.
'It's not fair.'
To either of them. A shotgun blast to the face and a shallow grave. A bullet to the brain pan and a daughter left behind. And something more. How many days ago was it that he took her in his arms and danced with her? Was it days? Or was it hours? Or years, even? What kind of grand celestial plan was it to throw them together under these bizarre circumstances?
'I'd like to file a complaint.' For all the good it'd do her. Because it really wasn't fair to give them a taste, and then...
The loss of her daughter is something she's been dealing with for three years. It still stings, this sense that she's abandoned Mols the way her mother abandoned her. But she's had longer to get used to the idea.
This loss? She's not ready to accept. She quietly folds the handkerchief, licking her lips as she thinks. There has to be another way. There has to be.
His face splits into the grin again, and he laughs.
‘A complaint? You complain away, lady. I’ll be sure to tell him when he comes in.’
He gives the distinct impression he’ll enjoy passing it on. His eyes are warm though, and he tops up her glass, just a little.
‘He must have had his hands full with you.’ He leans his forearms on the bar, and leans over a little. The accent drops, Jamaica to Manchester, and he winks. ‘Like with Sam, yeah? Always thinking - what was it? Outside the box. Yeah. One of his favourite sayings, that one. Used to drive Mr Hunt mad.’
He keeps eye contact. Sometimes people need a bit of a nudge, even here.
She laughs, her expression softening. 'He told me Sam wasn't as annoying as I was, once.' Her chin wrinkles, but she keeps the smile. 'I challenged his world view. Daily.'
Outside the box.
She glances back to where she came in. The door is still there. When she looks back to Nelson, her eyes are wide.
'That wouldn't be -- against the rules?' Are there rules in Heaven? She doesn't know. (And truthfully, she doesn't care. If there's a chance she might find her way back to him, she's going to take it.)
He shrugs a shoulder. ‘My pub, my rules.’ And he knows, better than most, that people always end up where they’re supposed to be, eventually. If there are a few unscheduled stops along the way - well, look at where she’s spent the last three years.
‘There aren’t many of you as gets the option, Alex. Whether you want it or not - well, that’s up to you.’ He straightens, and rests a hand around one of the taller beer pumps. Even this place has changed a bit, over the years.
‘You’ve got to do what you think’s best.’
Whether she’ll turn out to be right or not - that’s not for him to say.
Again, she turns and looks at the door, long and hard. It's a pub, right? He can hardly fault her that one observation. And more than that, it's a second chance, and that's all she wants right now.
When she turns back, there's a light of hope in her dark eyes. 'You could get me a message, yes? If he turns up here?' She doesn't know how these things work, but it never hurts to ask.
He tilts his head, then shakes it.
‘This is my pub, Alex. What other landlords do, that’s their lookout.’
He can’t choose to walk into another bar, anymore than they can choose to walk into his.
‘And if he decides to come in-’ he laughs again, ‘- he’s never listened to a word I’ve said before. I doubt he’ll start now.’
Her eyes narrow in amusement, and she huffs a laugh. It's amazing how just a breath of hope can obliterate a wall of despair. 'Well, if he does come in, you tell him Alex Drake went looking for him. And that if he knows what's good for him, he'd better come find me.' Just the mere thought that she'd dictate what he should and shouldn't do should rile him up enough to come find her just to yell at her.
She slips off the bar stool, resting her weight on first one foot and then the other, still vaguely disoriented to be back in somewhat sensible pumps. 'In fact, put my drinks on his tab. That should have the desired effect.'
The door is still there, and she's crossing the room, one step at a time, careful not to look away lest it disappear again. 'Nelson, thank you. Thank you. Tell Shaz and the others I'll see them soon enough.'
‘You’re very welcome.’ He’s grinning again, all Jamaica once more. ‘Take care now, Alex. I’ll see you.’
He’s got a cloth in his hand now, wiping down the bar. He watches her walk, and shakes his head, dropping back to his own accent.
‘Dunno which one of ‘em I feel more sorry for.’
But it’s nice when things have a chance. Isn’t that what they’re here for?