[ 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.
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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.