[ she feels overwhelmed, everything swells and redacts and she just stares at the phone, awaiting inevitable questions. those three little letters stare her in the face, larger than life, larger than anything, and she wishes she never typed them.
but she doesn't flinch. maybe, in all the hubbub, they'll fly low under the radar if she just doesn't flinch. ]
[he wants to bite out a million questions, tells himself that he doesn't because the most important one (how do I get down there? how do I get down where they made himyouthem?) will go unanswered; almost-empathy tugs at him anyway, makes him want to try, try hard and say something, anything that will help her]
[but he knows can't undo the damage of the Below, can't make anything unhappen to any of them, can't make her sing her blues more clearly for him]
[in the end, he can only listen to her (it's not funny anymore), breathing in that softwashed scent, and offer ugly words slung together as best as he can]
That ain't so bad. It's another chance, ain't it? Least he's alive. If he's important... ya ain't gotta give up.
[they're all a little cracked, but they're not broken -- despite what everyone sees, they're not broken and they're not done, not yet]
Badou is blunt rust and sharp edges. it's not that she'd been expecting cruelty, but... perhaps at least for his kindness to be fumbled, awkward, better served silent. instead what she gets is— it rolls out of him and seeps into her, into all the stresstense muscles her little frame has to offer, under all the aches and over all the scars. it curls in her chest and wallows there, a hungry crocodile whose prey of choice is hurt.
she feels safe.
the guilt, a few short moments later, as she realises he gave her that and he probably doesn't understand yet, is crippling. but it buys her time. space to find something to do with all these strings.
breath rushing out in an audible sigh, Nill affords herself a small smile as her head turns to the side, forehead lowering to press against his shoulder for a moment; part acceptance, part thanks - all relief ]
[his head turns just a fraction, eye glancing down at the wavy wheat-blonde, trying to gauge that release against him -- but then the relieved sigh against his pallid, freckled neck makes him twitch, startle straight forward once more, all awkward and young]
[(at least she was relaxed, anyway)]
[he mumbles, clumsily but earnestly]
Y'wanna smoke?
[but he doesn't wait for an answer, and the pack and lighter are tugged, a bit ungraceful, out of his jeans pocket (he always has them on him just -- just in case it starts to get bad again)]
[a flare and a spark, he lights one in his mouth, passes it down with ash flecking across bruised knuckles; he doesn't know how else to offer warmth, to make her feel part of something even when she's isolated from someone important]
[he sighs that first inhale out, fog above those wheat-fields below]
[ her head lifts at the question, glances up at his face as the cigarette lights and is passed down, a baton of-- of what? it doesn't matter what. it's shared.
there's a brief pause. a look. startlement maybe, a moment to take in his offer, to register fully the intention of it. and then she reaches out, takes the cigarette between fingers (when you live a toxic life in a place swimming in poison, when you have to come out kicking and screaming or die before you've lived, some extra tar in your lungs is the least of your troubles.) she's had no practice, but she's lived long enough amongst those just starting out and those well-learned to know the theory, and it's raised to her lips so she can take a breath, half smoke-- the cigarette is moved to give space --and half clean air to drag it down.
it sears at her throat, scavenging its way down into her lungs, and Nill is reminded of the empty cavity that must be sitting in place of a voice. it goes down and - ah, there it is, a cough. inevitable but controlled, two meager catches of breath that puff out smoke before she lets the rest go in an exhale.
this isn't something she could enjoy on her own, she notes, as the burn stings and the taste plays on her memory and her senses. but here, as she passes the thing back up to him and settles her head back down (he makes a fine pillow, bones and all, and for now it seems like that might be okay with him), there is a warmth in it that she wouldn't find anywhere else in this place.
staring forward, ruminating, she doesn't feel alone. ]
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Re: action;
but she doesn't flinch. maybe, in all the hubbub, they'll fly low under the radar if she just doesn't flinch. ]
Re: action;
[but he knows can't undo the damage of the Below, can't make anything unhappen to any of them, can't make her sing her blues more clearly for him]
[in the end, he can only listen to her (it's not funny anymore), breathing in that softwashed scent, and offer ugly words slung together as best as he can]
That ain't so bad. It's another chance, ain't it? Least he's alive. If he's important... ya ain't gotta give up.
[they're all a little cracked, but they're not broken -- despite what everyone sees, they're not broken and they're not done, not yet]
Re: action;
Badou is blunt rust and sharp edges. it's not that she'd been expecting cruelty, but... perhaps at least for his kindness to be fumbled, awkward, better served silent. instead what she gets is— it rolls out of him and seeps into her, into all the stresstense muscles her little frame has to offer, under all the aches and over all the scars. it curls in her chest and wallows there, a hungry crocodile whose prey of choice is hurt.
she feels safe.
the guilt, a few short moments later, as she realises he gave her that and he probably doesn't understand yet, is crippling. but it buys her time. space to find something to do with all these strings.
breath rushing out in an audible sigh, Nill affords herself a small smile as her head turns to the side, forehead lowering to press against his shoulder for a moment; part acceptance, part thanks - all relief ]
Re: action;
[(at least she was relaxed, anyway)]
[he mumbles, clumsily but earnestly]
Y'wanna smoke?
[but he doesn't wait for an answer, and the pack and lighter are tugged, a bit ungraceful, out of his jeans pocket (he always has them on him just -- just in case it starts to get bad again)]
[a flare and a spark, he lights one in his mouth, passes it down with ash flecking across bruised knuckles; he doesn't know how else to offer warmth, to make her feel part of something even when she's isolated from someone important]
[he sighs that first inhale out, fog above those wheat-fields below]
Re: action;
there's a brief pause. a look. startlement maybe, a moment to take in his offer, to register fully the intention of it. and then she reaches out, takes the cigarette between fingers (when you live a toxic life in a place swimming in poison, when you have to come out kicking and screaming or die before you've lived, some extra tar in your lungs is the least of your troubles.) she's had no practice, but she's lived long enough amongst those just starting out and those well-learned to know the theory, and it's raised to her lips so she can take a breath, half smoke-- the cigarette is moved to give space --and half clean air to drag it down.
it sears at her throat, scavenging its way down into her lungs, and Nill is reminded of the empty cavity that must be sitting in place of a voice. it goes down and - ah, there it is, a cough. inevitable but controlled, two meager catches of breath that puff out smoke before she lets the rest go in an exhale.
this isn't something she could enjoy on her own, she notes, as the burn stings and the taste plays on her memory and her senses. but here, as she passes the thing back up to him and settles her head back down (he makes a fine pillow, bones and all, and for now it seems like that might be okay with him), there is a warmth in it that she wouldn't find anywhere else in this place.
staring forward, ruminating, she doesn't feel alone. ]