[ It's not said with any seriousness, not tinged with worry, or anything close to it. Said more in amusement, laced with a soft laugh behind it; not at her, just — well, the moment. This is a decent drink, but it's still not much of a step above lighter fluid, exactly. But the burn, for him, is the point. So, like.
At the same time, as her hand lands to his shoulder and he smirks a little under his breath, he puts his drink down on the ground just for a second. Which means there's a brief gap between her hand and his shoulder, a parting of the two, until he raises up and swings out the extra hand to steady her with one hand to her shoulder, the other closer to her hip, if she hasn't toppled over before he gets there. Probably didn't need both hands, but. She feels steadier this way.
At no point does the thought of her being cool or uncool pass through his mind, of course. Just — that hit a little hard, huh? ]
[ Her chin dips in a little nod, even as she remains bulwarked by his lazy support. It's easier to lean into him, the way his hand curls around her side like her torso is roughly the same width as his handspan and his thumb just grazes her ribs.
Hard and fast, yes. Her chest feels warm, her heart twitchy; the whole thing is a bit like the inside of an engine.
Since breaking the seal between mute and verbal, she's only been able to get out the occasional spoken word. In dire moments, or even petty ones; the product of some effort, like dislodging a stone from a river. Nearly two weeks in Acreage, practicing in a mirror, and little more than whisps of syllables. Sentences are out of the question. The words get jumbled somewhere between her head and her throat, her attempts at clauses and syntax muddled, awkward; her limited English leaving her feeling stupid. But the liquour loosens something, maybe. She wants to speak and it feels like the miniature burning sun that has settled inside her chest wants that for her too.
There's a bit of a pause, though. It's still something of a fight. A moment between her mouth opening and her vocal cords working.
If she has only one word, what does she want him to hear? ]
You.
[ Out loud, crisp and clear and not at all slurred, with the lightest touch of a wandering accent. ]
[ Truth be told, he wasn't ever expecting to hear her talk out loud, so he's almost not sure he's hearing what he's hearing at first. He keeps his hands where they are; the booze can wait. His head tips slightly, his expression softening. ]
Well, hey.
[ What she's trying to convey in a single word like this, he wouldn't assume. All he can work from is how it sounds and makes him feel. And in the moment, it feels — important, and like it instantly has more weight to it. Like taking a deep breath that sits longer in your chest, lingers, opens you up and loosens something. Different from the breaths that come naturally, that keep you alive; this is the one that you pause to think about, that you want, that you intentionally tug into yourself, to feel — more, somehow.
What, he doesn't know. It's just heavier and lighter all the same. It shifts and changes things. So what he says back has meaning, too; maybe not the same as what she said, but he feels it deeper as he speaks it back, a brief smile again at the corner of his lips, there and gone. ]
You, too.
[ You. One word. It didn't waver, it seemed ready and willing to come as she said it, but he doesn't assume that means it'll come again. Doesn't need it to. Ain't his business. That she can — in her own time — is her business. ]
[ He doesn't startle, doesn't run roughshod with curiosities. Not that she thought he, in particular, would — but the gentle echo, the casual acceptance, is nice. Appreciated.
Even if the meaning behind her little you escapes her. It doesn't acquit itself neatly like a word in a dictionary, a definition clinically trailing after it. She found the word first, and the meaning might come later. Like taking a test without studying and then doing the work of figuring out how you passed it. But he responds softly, the disappearing glow of the sunset making his eyes look like a gentle shadow at the bottom of a shallow sea, and whatever he got out of it—
It's enough for him, so it's enough for her. Kimiko's smile blossoms, leaving trace creases and dimples, seizing her whole face.
Still holding a cup in one hand, she lightly taps his arm and then tilts a finger down: past the hood of the vehicle, toward the lot. Can he help her down? Sure, she could volley off on her own, but the sunshine brew needs another minute or two to filter its way through her chemically-enhanced metabolism.
And — you, too. She'll be thinking about that for a while, won't she? ]
[ All the reasons why that one word from her is quietly momentous belong to Kimiko. All the reasons why she wanted to and managed to edge out a solitary you in the waning light of the setting sun on the first day he's seeing her back here in weeks — they belong to her, too. What she wants to tell him and when — it'll all come in time or it won't. Maybe in pieces, maybe not at all; a thing just given, here for a moment, not needing to be explained.
She needed to say it; more than that, maybe she needed him to hear it. So he'll hold onto it, and — knowing some of her past, understanding the way the body shapes and changes itself to protect itself from horrible things, he recognizes the word for what it is; a rusty hinge squeaking open, a door swinging an inch or two, the body stretching something old and unused and trying again. What Amos won't do, though, is think about it much beyond that.
To him, that's like analyzing her, studying her, trying to piece together why she said something, if she can say something else again and just needs coaxing. He's not one of those docs trying to pick apart someone's head and thoughts, doesn't care to or need to think that long and hard about someone's motivations. He doesn't care about it that way. He cares about her. What she wants to do with that voice of hers again is up to her.
Now — the matter of getting down. Right. He keeps her steady now, both hands at her waist, easing her to the ground carefully. He's quick to pick up his cup and toss back the rest of it in a quick flush. ]
You get what you needed out there?
[ While she was away. Here again, he doesn't ever need specifics. A nod is answer enough for him. ]
[ Her boots touch the ground softly and she's back to the top of her head barely grazing his shoulder, back to only ever looking up or over at him. No longer knows the crown of his head, which way he combs his hair. A quirk of the status quo restored. Back in the city; back looking up at everyone else.
Idly, she shakes the cup, watching what's left of her drink swirl and slosh. Now would be a great time for a word, something succinct and tidy to sum up how she's feeling. Of course, nothing's really forthcoming. The stopper has been shoved back into her throat.
She got what she needed, sure. She got sunshine during the day, a netting of stars unspoiled by Panorama's sickly neon pollution at night. Her and Logan, sitting around a fire pit, nursing beers, with each other and a swath of companionable silence and mosquitoes for company. Feeding the horses sugar cubes and apples; trading manual labour for fresh produce. A nice, idyllic little vista. But she also got, what — four months of memories, a gap she didn't even know existed until she was shoved halfway into it and staring down a piece of her whole life like it was something foreign. Serge — Frenchie — falling in love with someone else. Hughie's father's sudden illness, A-Train's begrudging assistance, Annie's humiliation. Tala manifesting as if from a shadow on the wall, forcing Kimiko to remember her worst moments, her biggest sins.
She was here, she was there. It doesn't make sense. She's not smart enough to make it make sense, so. Fuck it.
Kimiko tosses back what's left in her cup, the burn causing her chest to hiccup slightly. A bit of a pause between his question and her looking back over at him.
A little shrug, a reserved smile. Life isn't about insta-cures, after all.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ It's not said with any seriousness, not tinged with worry, or anything close to it. Said more in amusement, laced with a soft laugh behind it; not at her, just — well, the moment. This is a decent drink, but it's still not much of a step above lighter fluid, exactly. But the burn, for him, is the point. So, like.
At the same time, as her hand lands to his shoulder and he smirks a little under his breath, he puts his drink down on the ground just for a second. Which means there's a brief gap between her hand and his shoulder, a parting of the two, until he raises up and swings out the extra hand to steady her with one hand to her shoulder, the other closer to her hip, if she hasn't toppled over before he gets there. Probably didn't need both hands, but. She feels steadier this way.
At no point does the thought of her being cool or uncool pass through his mind, of course. Just — that hit a little hard, huh? ]
You good? Hits kinda hard and fast.
no subject
Hard and fast, yes. Her chest feels warm, her heart twitchy; the whole thing is a bit like the inside of an engine.
Since breaking the seal between mute and verbal, she's only been able to get out the occasional spoken word. In dire moments, or even petty ones; the product of some effort, like dislodging a stone from a river. Nearly two weeks in Acreage, practicing in a mirror, and little more than whisps of syllables. Sentences are out of the question. The words get jumbled somewhere between her head and her throat, her attempts at clauses and syntax muddled, awkward; her limited English leaving her feeling stupid. But the liquour loosens something, maybe. She wants to speak and it feels like the miniature burning sun that has settled inside her chest wants that for her too.
There's a bit of a pause, though. It's still something of a fight. A moment between her mouth opening and her vocal cords working.
If she has only one word, what does she want him to hear? ]
You.
[ Out loud, crisp and clear and not at all slurred, with the lightest touch of a wandering accent. ]
no subject
Well, hey.
[ What she's trying to convey in a single word like this, he wouldn't assume. All he can work from is how it sounds and makes him feel. And in the moment, it feels — important, and like it instantly has more weight to it. Like taking a deep breath that sits longer in your chest, lingers, opens you up and loosens something. Different from the breaths that come naturally, that keep you alive; this is the one that you pause to think about, that you want, that you intentionally tug into yourself, to feel — more, somehow.
What, he doesn't know. It's just heavier and lighter all the same. It shifts and changes things. So what he says back has meaning, too; maybe not the same as what she said, but he feels it deeper as he speaks it back, a brief smile again at the corner of his lips, there and gone. ]
You, too.
[ You. One word. It didn't waver, it seemed ready and willing to come as she said it, but he doesn't assume that means it'll come again. Doesn't need it to. Ain't his business. That she can — in her own time — is her business. ]
no subject
Even if the meaning behind her little you escapes her. It doesn't acquit itself neatly like a word in a dictionary, a definition clinically trailing after it. She found the word first, and the meaning might come later. Like taking a test without studying and then doing the work of figuring out how you passed it. But he responds softly, the disappearing glow of the sunset making his eyes look like a gentle shadow at the bottom of a shallow sea, and whatever he got out of it—
It's enough for him, so it's enough for her. Kimiko's smile blossoms, leaving trace creases and dimples, seizing her whole face.
Still holding a cup in one hand, she lightly taps his arm and then tilts a finger down: past the hood of the vehicle, toward the lot. Can he help her down? Sure, she could volley off on her own, but the sunshine brew needs another minute or two to filter its way through her chemically-enhanced metabolism.
And — you, too. She'll be thinking about that for a while, won't she? ]
no subject
She needed to say it; more than that, maybe she needed him to hear it. So he'll hold onto it, and — knowing some of her past, understanding the way the body shapes and changes itself to protect itself from horrible things, he recognizes the word for what it is; a rusty hinge squeaking open, a door swinging an inch or two, the body stretching something old and unused and trying again. What Amos won't do, though, is think about it much beyond that.
To him, that's like analyzing her, studying her, trying to piece together why she said something, if she can say something else again and just needs coaxing. He's not one of those docs trying to pick apart someone's head and thoughts, doesn't care to or need to think that long and hard about someone's motivations. He doesn't care about it that way. He cares about her. What she wants to do with that voice of hers again is up to her.
Now — the matter of getting down. Right. He keeps her steady now, both hands at her waist, easing her to the ground carefully. He's quick to pick up his cup and toss back the rest of it in a quick flush. ]
You get what you needed out there?
[ While she was away. Here again, he doesn't ever need specifics. A nod is answer enough for him. ]
no subject
Idly, she shakes the cup, watching what's left of her drink swirl and slosh. Now would be a great time for a word, something succinct and tidy to sum up how she's feeling. Of course, nothing's really forthcoming. The stopper has been shoved back into her throat.
She got what she needed, sure. She got sunshine during the day, a netting of stars unspoiled by Panorama's sickly neon pollution at night. Her and Logan, sitting around a fire pit, nursing beers, with each other and a swath of companionable silence and mosquitoes for company. Feeding the horses sugar cubes and apples; trading manual labour for fresh produce. A nice, idyllic little vista. But she also got, what — four months of memories, a gap she didn't even know existed until she was shoved halfway into it and staring down a piece of her whole life like it was something foreign. Serge — Frenchie — falling in love with someone else. Hughie's father's sudden illness, A-Train's begrudging assistance, Annie's humiliation. Tala manifesting as if from a shadow on the wall, forcing Kimiko to remember her worst moments, her biggest sins.
She was here, she was there. It doesn't make sense. She's not smart enough to make it make sense, so. Fuck it.
Kimiko tosses back what's left in her cup, the burn causing her chest to hiccup slightly. A bit of a pause between his question and her looking back over at him.
A little shrug, a reserved smile. Life isn't about insta-cures, after all.
But she'll text him a response, why not — ]
Come with me next time.