[ 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
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. ]