Re: Great Gatsby: Jude/Clem/Shane/Graham
The room went cold, and Graham went cold right along with it. Like his blood turned to ice, not from fear but from the knowledge that something was wrong, that things were about to go real bad real fast, and to hell with him, he just wanted Clem away before that happened. He watched the Murphy boy's eyes go black and he was reminded of a childhood in churches, of prayer and God, and he had the sudden and insane thought that they could ward him off if only they had some holy water and a crucifix or two. "Clem," he whispered, because they needed to leave and they needed to leave right the hell now, but she was walking towards Jude with a shard of glass in hand and he reached out too late. Fingers closed on empty air, and he cursed under his breath. He took a step forward, prepared to yank her back, but then she held the damn glass to the boy's throat and his eyes widened ever so slightly in rare surprise.
He hadn't thought she'd had it in her, if he was being honest. But he was proud, in a strange way, and he would've kept moving closer if that damned horse from hell hadn't shown up out of nowhere and blocked his way. Like Shane he wasn't much afraid, but he was angry, and he glared at the thing that kept him from that which he cared for with hate and a fair amount of disgust. "You leave her be," he snarled, past the horse and directed at Jude, for all the good it did. "You want to blame someone, boy, you go on and blame me." And still, still, he wasn't expecting the boy to do what he did. Wasn't expecting him to toss her down the stairs, and time seemed to slow as he stared, transfixed in horror, gaze following her body as it fell and hit the ground. His heart squeezed painfully and he couldn't breathe, there was blood in his chest, and he made a sound like something a dying animal might make before he fell to his knees beside her, horse be damned.
The Murphy boy was forgotten; he didn't even hear what he said to Shane. No, his focus was entirely on Clem, Clem, and his hands shook, fingers smoothing her hair away from her face. He didn't know what to do, didn't know how to fix her, and he might as well have been years and years ago in a bedroom that smelled like blood and that perfume she liked, sickly sweet, as another life slipped through his fingers despite how very hard he tried to hold on. "Hush," he soothed, when she tried to protest whatever Jude had said; it didn't matter. "S'all right. You'll be fine. Just fine, darling, I promise." It was an echo of the past and he was lost, lost, vague thoughts of tearing Jude Murphy open with his bare hands and ripping his heart to shreds left for another day.
He forgot his own pain. Forgot the way his chest ached, the way his head pounded and bone seemed to splinter and crack with every movement; he had to get her up, up, and his gaze shifted to Shane when he moved to help. "Got to get her out," he managed, and between the two of them they could. Somewhere safe, and he told her as much, thoughtless murmurs that bubbled up like water burst free, and he couldn't have stopped it even if he'd had a mind to try.