[ That's not the name of it, but — she can't remember the name of the pub, so. There's a come by, if you want kind of baked into her words, the same way insinuation and meaning is folded up in looks, in gestures, in everything she uses up to make up for the voice she lacks. And then she's gathering herself, her coat, her bag. ]
[ Christmas. She might as well have said, it's Friday. But — okay. Sure, it's been mentioned. All the holiday shit around. Nothing to do with him.
He's tempted to reply, simply, with — Why?
Instead, he leaves it go. Doesn't actually even reply. It may seem like that's the end of the conversation. He's more used to texting, he's better at keeping up with messaging steadily now than he was, where there might be days-long lulls between his responses. But it still feels like a conversation that isn't actually a conversation, and so — doesn't warrant all the tidiness and unspoken rules of conversations, like giving any indication at all as to whether he's going to join her. Thing is, it's not intentional, it's not him thinking, let me keep her in suspense. Just — doesn't occur to him. She, for some reason, has a present to give him, she's at the patio (he knows the one), he'll come get it. Assumed, right? He just tucks his phone into his pocket, throws his clean clothes into a pile in the passenger seat, and heads that way.
So — figure on twenty minutes passing before he pulls up, parks, steps out, looks for where she's sitting so he can join her. ]
[ If he had responded with why, her response would have been something along the lines of, because shut the fuck up, that's why. In her defence, she's had roughly three years to learn English and slightly less than that to be an autonomous person. There are flares of temper, goaded by her own clumsiness, her ineptitude. There are immature moments, moments where teeth are bared, moments where the lines between girl and gun (in someone's hand, not her own) are muddled.
She wouldn't have had words to explain. She would have masked that failing with irritation, with juvenile petulance. Fortunately, he doesn't put her in that position. She doesn't follow up to ask if he's coming. Either he will or he won't.
If he doesn't, well. That's... probably for the best. — right?
But he sticks out among the crowd, head and shoulder and breadth and gaze, and she spots him instantly, lifting a hand where she's seated. A few short weeks of space has done nothing for the oddness of it all; the feeling like it's the ground beneath her, not her head, that's on that damned swivel. An axis without a pin.
Once he's seated, she pushes a folded piece of regular-sized paper toward him. Doesn't waste time with preambles, simply moves her drink out of the way and shifts her feet from one chair to the other so he has room.
While he's getting settled, she waves down the server. A few tidy gestures are all it takes for Kimiko to put him — and his pending drink order — into the spotlight. ]
[ Amos, of course, has no idea what she's feeling. Wouldn't know how to relate to it. Doesn't think anything of their night together except it was a night together, and that was fine. Kimiko is someone he met on the side of the road, met again accidentally, and they fucked. That's the extent of his thoughts about her, really, but then she'd shown up at his garage and shit happened.
He's not against knowing people; hell, it's a big city, it happens. You meet people, you see them again. It's just different for him with people he's fucked; usually, it's more anonymous, he doesn't see them again. He prefers it that way. But she hasn't been unkind, and he wasn't expecting this thing about a gift. Not sure how to really feel about it, honestly.
It brings them potentially closer in a way he's not looking for with someone he had sex with. But he's not an asshole. She's — in theory — just being kind. So he sits down, orders tequila, folds his arms together on the table. Waits. For her to "speak," for her to share the gift. Anything, really, ball's in her court. ]
[ Tapping the folded piece of paper, Kimiko pushes it closer to him.
Should she have dressed it up a little more? A bow, or something? Festive glitter? The idea of decorating anything with holly turns her stomach after all the strangeness of the holiday festival, so that's out. But suddenly, she feels like she's on her back leg again. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, because he's — focused, practical. Sentiment seems to slide off him like water. And this city is hard, she gets that, so if she can make it a little easier for someone? Someone who's helped her, who— no. If that was a thought that could be pursued, she still wouldn't pursue it. Not safe.
The piece of paper, when he opens it, is a list. The right half is easy written Japanese in a practiced hand; the left half is a meticulous, careful translation into English — each letter precise, individually written. Each fighter of repute at the Dome, registered with enough frequency to have their own combat alias, their own following, their own detractors, with everything she's observed carefully parceled out into discrete little point form sentences. When to bet on them, when not to.
Little Spider: - The eyepatch is fake - When it's on the left eye, he'll probably lose - Don't bet on him the last Friday of the month
Julius Quasar: - If he looks outside the cage before the bell - Means his wife is here - He fights clean when she's there - Significantly less likely to win
Sin: - Don't bet on her or against her - Trust me
And so on, ten or so more fighters helpfully listed, all the way down to—
Loudmouth (me, but don't call me that): - Whenever
Because... what's he seen of her? Being chewed up and spat out by some unknowable eldritch essence baked into the highway outside the city; being maimed by an Enforcer who had a gift and speed and little else, but still got the better of her. The events fill her with shame, with clean and tidy ideas of her own insignificance. She fights because she doesn't know how to do anything else. She isn't smart, not like him. But she could at least be someone a little worthy of betting on.
Anyway, while he's studying that, she orders a tequila of her own, simply because she likes its golden sheen. This, surely, will go extremely well for her. ]
[ Alright. Drink ordered, and — okay. The paper. Later, he'll reflect more on the writing itself, the style on the right-hand side, the language he doesn't know. He doesn't say it much, but he likes learning new things, and even if it's just a little bit, he'll be able to match symbols to letters, get some general and very shaky idea of a language he's never heard of, or seen.
She's right that he doesn't know how to deal with sentiment, either giving or receiving. He appreciates things he can do something with, and — clearly, someone could do a whole lot with this. Just — not him.
Amos sees this gift for what it is, though. If someone were the betting type, this is like a cheat code, an easy money grab. He appreciates money plenty, especially in a place like this, where they end up here immediately saddled with debt over their heads.
But the Dome isn't his kind of entertainment, generally. People are making the choice to fight there, that's all fine. Nothing about that part of it bothers him, certainly not the violence of it. It's just — he's more likely to participate than to watch. Thought about it a time or two, if he's got a night he's just itching to hit someone. So — he'd participate, maybe, but he's less about the watching. Outside of dropping her money off that time, Amos doesn't really go to the Dome. Maybe he'd come watch her again, when he's sticking around Panorama more regularly.
But it's a gift given with kindness, with the intention to help him along a bit. Why, he's not sure. Unless she does this for other people she knows. People don't give him gifts, and the gesture of it is the thing that sticks with him the most, so after he's read through it, he folds it up, sticks it in his pocket, gives her a little nod. ]
Thanks.
[ He'll consider it, maybe. If he bothered to bet on anyone, it would just be her. Whenever, though. She wrote whenever. He'll linger on that, too. Later.
The thought that he circles back to again, though, is the why of it all. Texting him to meet for a drink, to give him a piece of paper with some cheat codes about Dome fighters so he can make a little money. He can't wrap his head around it. ]
[ She’s given it to him, he accepted it, so — she should have her drink and split, right? He’ll use it or he won’t, but the awkwardness of the space left behind after his response has her uncommonly clawing for words. What else should she have given him? A set of free weights? A nice watch, a bottle of bourbon, a “swimsuit” magazine to go with the naked-lady-ornament tree back at the garage?
Logan had encouraged her, if she was confused, to express that confusion. To say what she thinks, ask what Tree feels.
Sitting here now, all she can think is — fucking easy for him to say.
The arrival of the drinks is a nice little buffer, and… possibly a life preserver thrown out to the imaginary choppy, freezing sea Kimiko is adrift in. Amos handles shots like an expert, she remembers. When she attempts to mimic his smooth downswing, she ends up with a splash of burning heat down her throat and, most embarrassingly, in her cheeks. A cough rasps up her throat before she can stop it; when she presses the back of her fingers to her mouth, there’s almost something defensive to it. Not because she’s particularly upset about her reaction, but— (first girl to make a noise dies.)
Cheeks still burning, she chases it with a sip of water. It barely helps, although it does cool down the prickle of unwanted memories. ]
[ She didn't need to give him anything at all, is the thing for him. But — it's fine that she did, and seems to have meant something to her. So he's not sitting there thinking a different gift would have been better; should have been this or that instead. Anything at all is more than he would have expected, wanted, or needed.
He feels no sense of unease about the lack of back and forth, he's just looking forward to the drinks, and gives a little nod of thanks to the server once they're set down.
They had beer last time, so he's not used to seeing her try to sling back some of the harder stuff, which means her reaction does draw his attention for a minute. The way she holds her fingers to her mouth just seems to him like someone trying to keep it down, he can't read more beyond it at the moment, but all of it pieced together has him asking — after a few sips of his own — ]
Ultimately, Kimiko gives him control of the bottle; it's probably safer that way. It's a few minutes before she taps her shot glass — refill, please — and she fills that time quietly, lengthened out between her chair and where she's propped up her feet, eyes toward the sky as if she might suddenly pick out pieces of the galaxy as he described it (his Epstein funeral ship, his Belt, his Mars). But there's only light pollution and the forbidding slate of a perpetually weather-tied sky, isn't there? Even the moon is hidden.
No more distractions. No reason to continue being a coward.
The next shot goes down easier. Kimiko doesn't go for a third right away, not while her face still feels warm. Fortunately, when she reaches for her phone again, her superhuman metabolism means steady fingers.
It isn't a type, flip, show this time. She has his number. Sitting across a table, she writes it all out and sends it as a text. Puts her phone back down, reaches for the bottle. ]
I wanted to tell you That it meant a lot to me that you trusted me that night
And I'm really glad I didn't accidentally kill you during sex
[ At some point, it'll occur to her that she's... beyond this, isn't she? This being her conditioned aversion to making noise, the clotting in her throat to go with the inner ear instability every time she thinks about speaking, laughing, grunting, sighing; all the little ways people let their voices infect the air around them. Even in her bed, he'd only pulled out little sighs and aching breaths from her. She'd been making progress; laughing with friends.
She's confused, so Kimiko backslides, or risks backsliding. So, she decides, fuck that. If nothing else, it pushes her toward honesty. ]
[ This would be another first for him; that is, someone talking about the act of sex after it's behind them. He sure didn't expect it, so he just reads it over for a long moment, trying to decide what it means to him. Sets his own phone down, takes another long pull from his glass after he's topped her off.
Then he realizes, he doesn't need to decide what it means for him or to him at all. She's just sharing what it meant for her. Now, some pieces fall into place, without him needing to ask specifically. The act of it and the trust that's sort of necessary and implicit in any consensual act of sex, well, it did something for her.
That wasn't exactly his intention, but he gets where it comes from. Not his intention in the sense that the trust in the moment is for the moment alone. Every time he's ever fucked someone, they're trusting him and he's trusting them; for a little while, at least. The part he can't seem to do much about is trusting beyond that moment, stretching it out into something more meaningful and long-lasting. Sex is just sex. Moment over, trust behind him.
But for her, for the shit she's been through he knows only a bare minimum about, it seems to have landed different. And he suddenly understands — he thinks — that they were coming at it from two different places. ]
Glad I'm still kickin' too.
[ He smirks a little, though he understands it's not a joke, either. He's seen what she can do. Doesn't figure she would've killed him on purpose; like she said, would've been an accident, but — damn, what the fuck's happened to her before? ]
I don't know what you think of yourself, the shit you're carryin' around. [ They've all got something, just — some of them have a whole lot more of that. ] But you ain't someone people should be afraid to trust.
[ Again, she texts her response to him. Feels a bit rude, like she's stepping outside of the moment when she ought to remain inside, but part of her is grateful for a bit of smooth road. ]
You don't know me.
[ Does he? He's seen her degloved, seen the spots where her muscle was chewed down to the bone. He's seen her kneeling in front of a very well-dressed, very foul-mouthed toddler, seen her build a galaxy out of condiments to try to understand him. Seen her wrapped around him, seen her tousled and rosy and unwrapped. Seen her with her boot on an Enforcer's back. Snapshots. That's it. Not a full picture.
But it's hard to argue that she knows him, either. Trying to decide if she wants to, filtering through the noise and the mystery to all the things she likes about him, or could like.
Regardless, there's a gentleness to her expression, the barest wisp of a smile, to punctuate the message. It isn't condemning. It's just... a fact. ]
[ He shrugs a little, only because it's not something he feels like he can or really needs to explain out loud. The kind of person people should be afraid to trust wouldn't have dragged someone around because a fortune cookie said he had to shake hands. Wouldn't have bothered with a kid the way she had, or would have been shitty to the girl.
He doesn't need a full picture. He's not putting his full faith and trust in her, just thinks of all the people around someone should be afraid of, she's not it. Who knows, though; people hide their evil sometimes. Maybe he's wrong. If she shows that side of her sometime, they'll deal with it then. ]
[ He knows people, he says; and that, well, makes it sound very simple. Kimiko isn't sure she believes it, but she would like to. She's too used to teetering on a knife's edge. Solid ground sounds nice, even if it's an illusion. And then there's more of her drink, more silence. The space heaters dotted through out the patio do their job, creating a nice little bubble of warmth amid the growing mid-December chill. But friendly, exuberant chatter rises up around them. It's hard not to be aware.
"Oh my god, I haven't seen you in forever!" "Give me a hug!" "How is Dathaniel? How are Fixie and Jeo?" "Jeo got suspended for setting the class gerbil's cage on fire." "Holy Frem, start at the beginning."
"I'm telling you, man. Cliff's going all the way." "Nope. Sin's my lady." "Every time you bet on Sin, she loses."
In and out, in and out. Their own little encoded worlds, strings of syllables the foundation for affection, for experience, for life. Kimiko resists the urge to favour the knot of vocal cords at the base of her throat, instead picking up her phone again. ]
You're heading back to the Scrapyard soon, right?
I hope you'll keep in touch next time you come back to the city I'd like us to be friends.
[ Her gaze tilts back over the table, a funny little (and utterly unwelcome) quirk of her heartbeat over those words. ]
[ It's the kind of chatter he's used to when he's around a crowd of people like this; has heard it often enough at various stations they've docked at before. Old friends running into each other again after a long time, that sort of thing. He doesn't have much in the way of a frame of reference for it. Hasn't really ever had people to miss, is the thing.
But if he turned around and suddenly Holden, Naomi, Peaches were here — well. Shit. That would be something.
He glances at Kimiko's phone when she 'speaks' to him through it, nods again at the question. Supposes the nod could be for the mention of friendship, too.
It's once again the sort of thing he hadn't considered. He was gonna just keep on doing his thing here — whatever that looked like — and if he saw Kimiko again or not, it wasn't much of a consideration at all for him. But she brings it up, it's a thought she has, and he supposes he could try. Not the best at it, but he can try. ]
[ It's easier, hearing that. The unique uncertainty of the space between her bedroom and here feels a lot less stifling. Maybe she just isn't cut out for one-night stands. But he seems relaxed, and she can do the same. They have a few more drinks; not enough to unmoor her, but enough to make her feel as warm and golden as the tequila she decides she likes after all. And she smiles through them, and leaves before he does. She takes care of the bill, of course, squaring up inside the pub proper.
Before Kimiko goes, though, she leaves something on the table. A little illustration of her intent from earlier, visual shorthand the moment she got tired of typing, of pretending and fussing at typed English and needing her phone to bridge them. Two butter packets, face up, a centimetre or two between. Space left to spread out, to be themselves, to stretch and breathe and be unbothered— separate, maybe, but the same, and not alone.
There's that, and a little wave goodbye from the other side of the patio fencing, and then — whatever comes next, or doesn't. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ Jesus, man. Keep up. ]
Heading to the patio from before. Galaxy patio.
[ That's not the name of it, but — she can't remember the name of the pub, so. There's a come by, if you want kind of baked into her words, the same way insinuation and meaning is folded up in looks, in gestures, in everything she uses up to make up for the voice she lacks. And then she's gathering herself, her coat, her bag. ]
no subject
He's tempted to reply, simply, with — Why?
Instead, he leaves it go. Doesn't actually even reply. It may seem like that's the end of the conversation. He's more used to texting, he's better at keeping up with messaging steadily now than he was, where there might be days-long lulls between his responses. But it still feels like a conversation that isn't actually a conversation, and so — doesn't warrant all the tidiness and unspoken rules of conversations, like giving any indication at all as to whether he's going to join her. Thing is, it's not intentional, it's not him thinking, let me keep her in suspense. Just — doesn't occur to him. She, for some reason, has a present to give him, she's at the patio (he knows the one), he'll come get it. Assumed, right? He just tucks his phone into his pocket, throws his clean clothes into a pile in the passenger seat, and heads that way.
So — figure on twenty minutes passing before he pulls up, parks, steps out, looks for where she's sitting so he can join her. ]
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She wouldn't have had words to explain. She would have masked that failing with irritation, with juvenile petulance. Fortunately, he doesn't put her in that position. She doesn't follow up to ask if he's coming. Either he will or he won't.
If he doesn't, well. That's... probably for the best. — right?
But he sticks out among the crowd, head and shoulder and breadth and gaze, and she spots him instantly, lifting a hand where she's seated.
A few short weeks of space has done nothing for the oddness of it all; the feeling like it's the ground beneath her, not her head, that's on that damned swivel. An axis without a pin.
Once he's seated, she pushes a folded piece of regular-sized paper toward him. Doesn't waste time with preambles, simply moves her drink out of the way and shifts her feet from one chair to the other so he has room.
While he's getting settled, she waves down the server. A few tidy gestures are all it takes for Kimiko to put him — and his pending drink order — into the spotlight. ]
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He's not against knowing people; hell, it's a big city, it happens. You meet people, you see them again. It's just different for him with people he's fucked; usually, it's more anonymous, he doesn't see them again. He prefers it that way. But she hasn't been unkind, and he wasn't expecting this thing about a gift. Not sure how to really feel about it, honestly.
It brings them potentially closer in a way he's not looking for with someone he had sex with. But he's not an asshole. She's — in theory — just being kind. So he sits down, orders tequila, folds his arms together on the table. Waits. For her to "speak," for her to share the gift. Anything, really, ball's in her court. ]
no subject
Should she have dressed it up a little more? A bow, or something? Festive glitter? The idea of decorating anything with holly turns her stomach after all the strangeness of the holiday festival, so that's out. But suddenly, she feels like she's on her back leg again. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, because he's — focused, practical. Sentiment seems to slide off him like water. And this city is hard, she gets that, so if she can make it a little easier for someone? Someone who's helped her, who— no. If that was a thought that could be pursued, she still wouldn't pursue it. Not safe.
The piece of paper, when he opens it, is a list. The right half is easy written Japanese in a practiced hand; the left half is a meticulous, careful translation into English — each letter precise, individually written. Each fighter of repute at the Dome, registered with enough frequency to have their own combat alias, their own following, their own detractors, with everything she's observed carefully parceled out into discrete little point form sentences. When to bet on them, when not to.
Little Spider:
- The eyepatch is fake
- When it's on the left eye, he'll probably lose
- Don't bet on him the last Friday of the month
Julius Quasar:
- If he looks outside the cage before the bell
- Means his wife is here
- He fights clean when she's there
- Significantly less likely to win
Sin:
- Don't bet on her or against her
- Trust me
And so on, ten or so more fighters helpfully listed, all the way down to—
Loudmouth (me, but don't call me that):
- Whenever
Because... what's he seen of her? Being chewed up and spat out by some unknowable eldritch essence baked into the highway outside the city; being maimed by an Enforcer who had a gift and speed and little else, but still got the better of her. The events fill her with shame, with clean and tidy ideas of her own insignificance. She fights because she doesn't know how to do anything else. She isn't smart, not like him. But she could at least be someone a little worthy of betting on.
Anyway, while he's studying that, she orders a tequila of her own, simply because she likes its golden sheen. This, surely, will go extremely well for her. ]
no subject
She's right that he doesn't know how to deal with sentiment, either giving or receiving. He appreciates things he can do something with, and — clearly, someone could do a whole lot with this. Just — not him.
Amos sees this gift for what it is, though. If someone were the betting type, this is like a cheat code, an easy money grab. He appreciates money plenty, especially in a place like this, where they end up here immediately saddled with debt over their heads.
But the Dome isn't his kind of entertainment, generally. People are making the choice to fight there, that's all fine. Nothing about that part of it bothers him, certainly not the violence of it. It's just — he's more likely to participate than to watch. Thought about it a time or two, if he's got a night he's just itching to hit someone. So — he'd participate, maybe, but he's less about the watching. Outside of dropping her money off that time, Amos doesn't really go to the Dome. Maybe he'd come watch her again, when he's sticking around Panorama more regularly.
But it's a gift given with kindness, with the intention to help him along a bit. Why, he's not sure. Unless she does this for other people she knows. People don't give him gifts, and the gesture of it is the thing that sticks with him the most, so after he's read through it, he folds it up, sticks it in his pocket, gives her a little nod. ]
Thanks.
[ He'll consider it, maybe. If he bothered to bet on anyone, it would just be her. Whenever, though. She wrote whenever. He'll linger on that, too. Later.
The thought that he circles back to again, though, is the why of it all. Texting him to meet for a drink, to give him a piece of paper with some cheat codes about Dome fighters so he can make a little money. He can't wrap his head around it. ]
no subject
Logan had encouraged her, if she was confused, to express that confusion. To say what she thinks, ask what Tree feels.
Sitting here now, all she can think is — fucking easy for him to say.
The arrival of the drinks is a nice little buffer, and… possibly a life preserver thrown out to the imaginary choppy, freezing sea Kimiko is adrift in. Amos handles shots like an expert, she remembers. When she attempts to mimic his smooth downswing, she ends up with a splash of burning heat down her throat and, most embarrassingly, in her cheeks. A cough rasps up her throat before she can stop it; when she presses the back of her fingers to her mouth, there’s almost something defensive to it. Not because she’s particularly upset about her reaction, but— (first girl to make a noise dies.)
Cheeks still burning, she chases it with a sip of water. It barely helps, although it does cool down the prickle of unwanted memories. ]
no subject
He feels no sense of unease about the lack of back and forth, he's just looking forward to the drinks, and gives a little nod of thanks to the server once they're set down.
They had beer last time, so he's not used to seeing her try to sling back some of the harder stuff, which means her reaction does draw his attention for a minute. The way she holds her fingers to her mouth just seems to him like someone trying to keep it down, he can't read more beyond it at the moment, but all of it pieced together has him asking — after a few sips of his own — ]
You good?
no subject
Ultimately, Kimiko gives him control of the bottle; it's probably safer that way. It's a few minutes before she taps her shot glass — refill, please — and she fills that time quietly, lengthened out between her chair and where she's propped up her feet, eyes toward the sky as if she might suddenly pick out pieces of the galaxy as he described it (his Epstein funeral ship, his Belt, his Mars). But there's only light pollution and the forbidding slate of a perpetually weather-tied sky, isn't there? Even the moon is hidden.
No more distractions.
No reason to continue being a coward.
The next shot goes down easier. Kimiko doesn't go for a third right away, not while her face still feels warm. Fortunately, when she reaches for her phone again, her superhuman metabolism means steady fingers.
It isn't a type, flip, show this time. She has his number. Sitting across a table, she writes it all out and sends it as a text. Puts her phone back down, reaches for the bottle. ]
I wanted to tell you
That it meant a lot to me that you trusted me that night
And I'm really glad I didn't accidentally kill you during sex
[ At some point, it'll occur to her that she's... beyond this, isn't she? This being her conditioned aversion to making noise, the clotting in her throat to go with the inner ear instability every time she thinks about speaking, laughing, grunting, sighing; all the little ways people let their voices infect the air around them. Even in her bed, he'd only pulled out little sighs and aching breaths from her. She'd been making progress; laughing with friends.
She's confused, so Kimiko backslides, or risks backsliding. So, she decides, fuck that. If nothing else, it pushes her toward honesty. ]
no subject
Then he realizes, he doesn't need to decide what it means for him or to him at all. She's just sharing what it meant for her. Now, some pieces fall into place, without him needing to ask specifically. The act of it and the trust that's sort of necessary and implicit in any consensual act of sex, well, it did something for her.
That wasn't exactly his intention, but he gets where it comes from. Not his intention in the sense that the trust in the moment is for the moment alone. Every time he's ever fucked someone, they're trusting him and he's trusting them; for a little while, at least. The part he can't seem to do much about is trusting beyond that moment, stretching it out into something more meaningful and long-lasting. Sex is just sex. Moment over, trust behind him.
But for her, for the shit she's been through he knows only a bare minimum about, it seems to have landed different. And he suddenly understands — he thinks — that they were coming at it from two different places. ]
Glad I'm still kickin' too.
[ He smirks a little, though he understands it's not a joke, either. He's seen what she can do. Doesn't figure she would've killed him on purpose; like she said, would've been an accident, but — damn, what the fuck's happened to her before? ]
I don't know what you think of yourself, the shit you're carryin' around. [ They've all got something, just — some of them have a whole lot more of that. ] But you ain't someone people should be afraid to trust.
no subject
You don't know me.
[ Does he? He's seen her degloved, seen the spots where her muscle was chewed down to the bone. He's seen her kneeling in front of a very well-dressed, very foul-mouthed toddler, seen her build a galaxy out of condiments to try to understand him. Seen her wrapped around him, seen her tousled and rosy and unwrapped. Seen her with her boot on an Enforcer's back. Snapshots. That's it. Not a full picture.
But it's hard to argue that she knows him, either. Trying to decide if she wants to, filtering through the noise and the mystery to all the things she likes about him, or could like.
Regardless, there's a gentleness to her expression, the barest wisp of a smile, to punctuate the message. It isn't condemning. It's just... a fact. ]
no subject
He doesn't need a full picture. He's not putting his full faith and trust in her, just thinks of all the people around someone should be afraid of, she's not it. Who knows, though; people hide their evil sometimes. Maybe he's wrong. If she shows that side of her sometime, they'll deal with it then. ]
I know people.
no subject
"Oh my god, I haven't seen you in forever!"
"Give me a hug!"
"How is Dathaniel? How are Fixie and Jeo?"
"Jeo got suspended for setting the class gerbil's cage on fire."
"Holy Frem, start at the beginning."
"I'm telling you, man. Cliff's going all the way."
"Nope. Sin's my lady."
"Every time you bet on Sin, she loses."
In and out, in and out. Their own little encoded worlds, strings of syllables the foundation for affection, for experience, for life. Kimiko resists the urge to favour the knot of vocal cords at the base of her throat, instead picking up her phone again. ]
You're heading back to the Scrapyard soon, right?
I hope you'll keep in touch next time you come back to the city
I'd like us to be friends.
[ Her gaze tilts back over the table, a funny little (and utterly unwelcome) quirk of her heartbeat over those words. ]
could wrap here or on your tag if you like!
But if he turned around and suddenly Holden, Naomi, Peaches were here — well. Shit. That would be something.
He glances at Kimiko's phone when she 'speaks' to him through it, nods again at the question. Supposes the nod could be for the mention of friendship, too.
It's once again the sort of thing he hadn't considered. He was gonna just keep on doing his thing here — whatever that looked like — and if he saw Kimiko again or not, it wasn't much of a consideration at all for him. But she brings it up, it's a thought she has, and he supposes he could try. Not the best at it, but he can try. ]
Yeah. I can do that.
🎀 wrapped!
Before Kimiko goes, though, she leaves something on the table. A little illustration of her intent from earlier, visual shorthand the moment she got tired of typing, of pretending and fussing at typed English and needing her phone to bridge them. Two butter packets, face up, a centimetre or two between. Space left to spread out, to be themselves, to stretch and breathe and be unbothered— separate, maybe, but the same, and not alone.
There's that, and a little wave goodbye from the other side of the patio fencing, and then — whatever comes next, or doesn't. ]