[ she looks up, overhead. the light is gray out the window. pre-dawn. the kind of light that makes the boarding house sleepy, quiet. she isn't falling into anyone's dreams, not with him pressed up against her.
his torso is bare. hers is too. skin stuck against skin. she keeps her hand on him, but shifts her fingers to the side, makes room between them for his. ]
( she always knew more than she thought she did. tucked against him, body and mind, she probably has a better idea of what's going on in his head right now than he does.
his fingers lace through hers, taking that unspoken invitation. using her as an anchor for a change. )
[ she nudges her nose against his arm, then his shoulder blade. as if that would make this easier on him. he feels some kind of guilt about the fight, she gathers, but it doesn't make any kind of sense to her. they'd both known the terms. and here she is, respecting them. ]
I will get you water. [ she starts to sit up, slowly. ] Are you hungry?
( well, okay. the guilt is a fleeting thing, anyway. easily forgotten at the prospect of food and water. his mouth feels like something crawled into it and died.
his breath is probably revolting. )
Please. ( it's a pity she has to move to get it, but he's not about to stop her. ) Something sweet. ( for his head. there's probably better ways to squeeze out a little serotonin right now, but he'll take what relief he can get.
as she starts to sit up, he turns over, watching her like he's considering telling her to stay. ) We'll share.
[ she tells him, because she has heard his thoughts, his fleeting regret about her leaving. they are disjointed — his thoughts, the two of them. she gets into a sitting position, takes a cup of water from the window sill and holds it out for him. ]
Drink all of this before I'm back.
[ when he has the cup in hand, she stands, pulling her shirt off the floor and tugging it over her head. only underwear cover her ass. she doesn't go fumbling for pants. it's too early in the morning, and she isn't worried about modesty inside the boarding house. what haven't they all seen of each other yet?
she goes hunting for sweets. down the hall, in the kitchen, she finds dried and candied fruits. those will keep. she takes a fistful and stuffs them into an empty jar. but she gets dried meat too, and a few pieces of bread.
she carries them back to the room, the bread in one hand, a jar of meats and candied fruits in the other. she bumps her shoulder against their bedroom door to open it back up. ]
( by the time she's back, he's gotten himself mostly upright, his long legs hanging over the side of the bed. blanket offering some illusion of modesty.
everything aches — it'll ache for a while, probably. although he welcomes that pain; it means he's alive, after all. even if it had been touch and go for a while, there.
( he's going to need a new knife. maybe he should ask her about the one she'd used; that wooden blade had been a wicked thing. )
when she's close, he'll set aside the cup — drained just as she'd asked — and reach for her. it's quite the haul she's got, but this is less about him being helpful than the excuse to touch her, to pull her onto his lap. )
[ she says this, but she lets herself be tugged anyway. hands full, she can't put up much of a protest. she sets the food down on the edge of the bed where she can prop it against the wall, upright, then moves her hands to his shoulders so she can steady herself on him.
it feels good, though. the closeness. it had felt good to curl up against him, and better still to have him draw her in for it. to be his. ]
( the easy confidence of a man that shrugged off something that should have put him in the ground several times over. not that he's in a rush to test those limits, but there's a noticeable easing of the tension. a sense that maybe the worst has passed.
his palm settles over the place where he'd dug his knife: the place is raw, angry. it'll leave an ugly scar but whoever handled the clean-up did a decent job. )
It helps. ( being close. his strength is her strength and vice-versa. that's what the tether really was, in the end: a way to share burdens. )
[ she mewls a little cry of pain as his hand comes to rest on her side. it is still raw, still open, even with the stitches to start repairing what his healing couldn't address. she grabs his shoulders to steady herself.
turning her gaze, she considers murphy's sleeping form. he hasn't left aristaeus' side, to her knowledge. he is worried. and the noise she is making might have woken him early. but it appears he's still sleeping.
( he follows mavis' gaze. frowns openly when he lands on the slumbering form of his roommate. he doesn't know murphy all that well, isn't deserving of that level of concern. certainly not over a pair of boots.
but he reaches for the jar with his free hand. )
Thanks. ( it's genuine, if a little awkward, a little begrudging. just because she's correct doesn't mean he has to like it.
he gets out a piece of candied fruit and starts chewing. sugar isn't really his thing, but head injuries have a way of bringing out his sweet tooth. a quirk he's never managed to explain. ) You too. ( he'll fix as much as he can once he's done, but she really needs the nourishment. )
he'd like to argue but he just doesn't have the energy. the second piece of candied fruit goes down a little easier than the first. a third follows soon after.
gradually, the brain fog lifts, and he feels steadier. )
How bad?
( does it look? does she feel? she can take her pick. )
[ that seems like the worst casualty, from her perspective. both of them will be fine. they both know that. they have both suffered worse. this is the companionship that she had been fighting against, for the good of her people, for their memory. she embraces it now. ]
[ he isn't the only one. she studies aristaeus, remembering how stricken he'd been after she had returned from the castle. how erratic. he wasn't throwing her things at the wall, but he had freaked out in his own way.
both of them had to face it again. ]
I'm sorry.
[ she isn't used to it. having people. she has always been on her own, and therefore never needed to consider others in what she did, never had to anticipate long-term consequences for anything and how they would tilt a relationship. she keeps hurting people. she feels like a cactus, all spines. ]
well. he hadn't seen that coming. and it's strange, having come this far, having fought so hard for any kind of acknowledgement that now that he has it, he doesn't know what to do with it.
he settles for lifting a shoulder. )
No need.
( there's no rolling back what's already happened. besides, she's alive, that was always the part that mattered to him. )
[ well. she won't push it, if he doesn't. she wedges her arm under her head again, just watching him. she has a cat's idleness, even like this, far from her transformation.
she thought she would feel different. and she does, in a way. there's a peacefulness about the room, despite the melancholy left in the wake of felipe's anger. she has put angry ghosts to rest by trying her best to fight for them, and now she can stop fighting her own feelings instead. ]
I am not going back to the Void. [ she offers this as a compromise, a demonstration of her commitment to the terms of the challenge. ] You are not going either.
( he pauses mid-reach into the jar. did she think he'd try to change her mind? but, no — this isn't about her. it's about him. his plans.
he hadn't settled on whether he was going or not. as angry as he'd been about her leaving, he also had no reason to believe she was lying about what she'd seen.
but it'd also be a lie to say he wasn't curious. and if anyone was likely to make it through in one piece, it'd probably be him. )
( well. when she puts it like that ... he still wants to argue.
she can probably tell. can hear him turn it over in his head, weighing and measuring, before deciding to set it aside. the void isn't going anywhere. )
[ it feels nice, when she lets it. when she can assure herself that he has earned it, that no one would reproach her for following the rules of her people. her only crime was weakness.
she lifts a hand to cover his as she turns her face, pressing her cheek into his palm and breathing deep of him. reminding herself that he is alive, too. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
No. I don't — ( do that. with anyone, really — well. anyone but her, but the circumstances had been different, then.
closes his eyes, inhales slowly. deeply. exhales, a rush of breath over his teeth. confusion giving way to frustration.
his hand settles over hers, keeping it pressed against his side. ) — Sorry.
no subject
his torso is bare. hers is too. skin stuck against skin. she keeps her hand on him, but shifts her fingers to the side, makes room between them for his. ]
What are you sorry for?
no subject
( she always knew more than she thought she did. tucked against him, body and mind, she probably has a better idea of what's going on in his head right now than he does.
his fingers lace through hers, taking that unspoken invitation. using her as an anchor for a change. )
no subject
[ she nudges her nose against his arm, then his shoulder blade. as if that would make this easier on him. he feels some kind of guilt about the fight, she gathers, but it doesn't make any kind of sense to her. they'd both known the terms. and here she is, respecting them. ]
I will get you water. [ she starts to sit up, slowly. ] Are you hungry?
no subject
his breath is probably revolting. )
Please. ( it's a pity she has to move to get it, but he's not about to stop her. ) Something sweet. ( for his head. there's probably better ways to squeeze out a little serotonin right now, but he'll take what relief he can get.
as she starts to sit up, he turns over, watching her like he's considering telling her to stay. ) We'll share.
no subject
[ she tells him, because she has heard his thoughts, his fleeting regret about her leaving. they are disjointed — his thoughts, the two of them. she gets into a sitting position, takes a cup of water from the window sill and holds it out for him. ]
Drink all of this before I'm back.
[ when he has the cup in hand, she stands, pulling her shirt off the floor and tugging it over her head. only underwear cover her ass. she doesn't go fumbling for pants. it's too early in the morning, and she isn't worried about modesty inside the boarding house. what haven't they all seen of each other yet?
she goes hunting for sweets. down the hall, in the kitchen, she finds dried and candied fruits. those will keep. she takes a fistful and stuffs them into an empty jar. but she gets dried meat too, and a few pieces of bread.
she carries them back to the room, the bread in one hand, a jar of meats and candied fruits in the other. she bumps her shoulder against their bedroom door to open it back up. ]
no subject
everything aches — it'll ache for a while, probably. although he welcomes that pain; it means he's alive, after all. even if it had been touch and go for a while, there.
( he's going to need a new knife. maybe he should ask her about the one she'd used; that wooden blade had been a wicked thing. )
when she's close, he'll set aside the cup — drained just as she'd asked — and reach for her. it's quite the haul she's got, but this is less about him being helpful than the excuse to touch her, to pull her onto his lap. )
no subject
[ she says this, but she lets herself be tugged anyway. hands full, she can't put up much of a protest. she sets the food down on the edge of the bed where she can prop it against the wall, upright, then moves her hands to his shoulders so she can steady herself on him.
it feels good, though. the closeness. it had felt good to curl up against him, and better still to have him draw her in for it. to be his. ]
no subject
( the easy confidence of a man that shrugged off something that should have put him in the ground several times over. not that he's in a rush to test those limits, but there's a noticeable easing of the tension. a sense that maybe the worst has passed.
his palm settles over the place where he'd dug his knife: the place is raw, angry. it'll leave an ugly scar but whoever handled the clean-up did a decent job. )
It helps. ( being close. his strength is her strength and vice-versa. that's what the tether really was, in the end: a way to share burdens. )
no subject
turning her gaze, she considers murphy's sleeping form. he hasn't left aristaeus' side, to her knowledge. he is worried. and the noise she is making might have woken him early. but it appears he's still sleeping.
she looks back at aristaeus. ]
Eat. It will help, too.
no subject
but he reaches for the jar with his free hand. )
Thanks. ( it's genuine, if a little awkward, a little begrudging. just because she's correct doesn't mean he has to like it.
he gets out a piece of candied fruit and starts chewing. sugar isn't really his thing, but head injuries have a way of bringing out his sweet tooth. a quirk he's never managed to explain. ) You too. ( he'll fix as much as he can once he's done, but she really needs the nourishment. )
no subject
[ unlike some people. she arches her eyebrows at him, pointedly, then settles back down onto the bed, staring up at him while he eats. ]
no subject
he'd like to argue but he just doesn't have the energy. the second piece of candied fruit goes down a little easier than the first. a third follows soon after.
gradually, the brain fog lifts, and he feels steadier. )
How bad?
( does it look? does she feel? she can take her pick. )
no subject
[ that seems like the worst casualty, from her perspective. both of them will be fine. they both know that. they have both suffered worse. this is the companionship that she had been fighting against, for the good of her people, for their memory. she embraces it now. ]
no subject
He cares.
( clumsily and selfishly, but that's beside the point. )
no subject
[ he isn't the only one. she studies aristaeus, remembering how stricken he'd been after she had returned from the castle. how erratic. he wasn't throwing her things at the wall, but he had freaked out in his own way.
both of them had to face it again. ]
I'm sorry.
[ she isn't used to it. having people. she has always been on her own, and therefore never needed to consider others in what she did, never had to anticipate long-term consequences for anything and how they would tilt a relationship. she keeps hurting people. she feels like a cactus, all spines. ]
no subject
well. he hadn't seen that coming. and it's strange, having come this far, having fought so hard for any kind of acknowledgement that now that he has it, he doesn't know what to do with it.
he settles for lifting a shoulder. )
No need.
( there's no rolling back what's already happened. besides, she's alive, that was always the part that mattered to him. )
no subject
she thought she would feel different. and she does, in a way. there's a peacefulness about the room, despite the melancholy left in the wake of felipe's anger. she has put angry ghosts to rest by trying her best to fight for them, and now she can stop fighting her own feelings instead. ]
I am not going back to the Void. [ she offers this as a compromise, a demonstration of her commitment to the terms of the challenge. ] You are not going either.
no subject
( he pauses mid-reach into the jar. did she think he'd try to change her mind? but, no — this isn't about her. it's about him. his plans.
he hadn't settled on whether he was going or not. as angry as he'd been about her leaving, he also had no reason to believe she was lying about what she'd seen.
but it'd also be a lie to say he wasn't curious. and if anyone was likely to make it through in one piece, it'd probably be him. )
no subject
[ it's not up for negotiation, in other words. if he gets to make those kinds of demands, state them as unmitigated fact, then she will do the same. ]
no subject
she can probably tell. can hear him turn it over in his head, weighing and measuring, before deciding to set it aside. the void isn't going anywhere. )
Fine. ( a little nod. he has plans, anyway. )
no subject
[ she raps her knuckle on the mason jar's base. ]
You have no plans until you recover.
[ then, yawning, she pulls the blanket back over her and shuts her eyes. ]
no subject
the audacity of him to enjoy it, even a little.
silence. he makes his way to the bottom of the mason jar, sets it aside with the mug and then reaches for her, brushing the hair back from her ear.
it's a concession; a reminder — she's not alone. )
no subject
she lifts a hand to cover his as she turns her face, pressing her cheek into his palm and breathing deep of him. reminding herself that he is alive, too. ]