(no subject)

[lastgunslinger]

As soon as he got up to his room he fell asleep, and there were nightmares, so he spent the night sitting in the bathroom with the lights on, reading Walt Whitman. When dawn came he fell into bed and slept hard.

Now, in the waning afternoon light, he takes stock of his surroundings. There are his chairs, and the end table. The books have been moved -- by him, he thinks; it's been many years (for him, anyway) and he can't remember all the details -- but other than that it's just the same. Not home -- he won't let himself think of it that way yet -- but it's his.

And he nods. It'll do.

Comments

[joewithnoname.livejournal.com]

Joe shrugs. "Takes a little bit more than a pretty choir to draw me on, after all I've seen. No Tower, no God, no war. That's my stand, an' I aim to hold it." He shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, awkward with the sincerity.

[lastgunslinger]

"What was behind that fence -- " Roland stops, and looks at Joe with some wonder.

[joewithnoname.livejournal.com]

Joe shrugs.

[lastgunslinger]

Still with wonder: "It's the Tower."

[joewithnoname.livejournal.com]

"It was a dream, Roland," Joe says gently. "Only that and nothing more. Dreaming's done. I am who I am, and you are who you are, and whatever Stephen fuckin' King may say, that's all we are. Give you the joy of your Tower, but you can fuckin' keep it."

[lastgunslinger]

Roland looks at Joe now, wonder still on his face -- and then it is changed for solemnity, and he nods.

No gunslinger, Joe Manco.

But that's all right.