( It's fair to turn down a drink from a stranger, even one you're about to spoon. Even when it's a harmless one, the same rehydrating water they were handing out to everyone who made it through intake without any problems— and the way he says his name prompts recognition, but there is, unfortunately, not a lick of it. They're nearly a hundred years apart to begin with. )
Mr. Joe MacMillan, then. Thank you for sharing your corner with me.
( She doesn't expect him to turn over and press right up against her, but she can't find it in her to mind with the exhaustion heavy in her limbs and the finally-clean feeling of even just being able to freshen up with whatever strange little soap they'd given her on request with a sink and a washcloth.
As he surmises, it was sweet, but it was certainly not vanilla. She had been especially helpful and willing in their prodding, and they had tried to accommodate her. They just had no idea what she was describing. His pointed remark makes her laugh quietly, shoulders shaking where they press back against his chest and she tries to maintain some semblance of eye contact. Her temple bumps to his brow and part of her says too close, so she tries to shift just a bit to give him an inch of breathing space, but he'll be able to see the amused crinkle of her nose with his derision. He's warmer than she is, which doesn't surprise her, and there aren't exactly any blankets. She gladly soaks it up— that and the sense that he's comfortable laying beside a stranger, not cramming himself into a pretzel against the wall. )
I'm much the same. We could start a service. ( If only she knew. Besides, that warm breath of his laugh in her hair feels nice. Just speaking gives her away as some snobby European with her Germanic accent curling her syllables, playful and soft, even if she's perfectly humble in accepting whatever is available. ) They tried very earnestly to find what I described, but what they came away with was simply "sweet like a baked good". Certainly none I've ever had. May I steal your arm?
( Over her waist or ribs, she means, her own arm shifting to indicate. It can't be comfortable for him to keep it along his side or wedged between them, and she wouldn't mind the bit of extra contact when it meant they could insulate warmth just that little bit more. Everything about her is accommodating, wanting those around her to be at ease more than anything.
Her name sounds nice on his lips, easy and familiar when they're anything but, and it's so very tempting to drift to the sound of it. He has a lovely voice— low and easy and just for her with how he pitches it quietly. Just laying here together is far beyond a first meeting, so why can't they be friends? They've already shared a bed.
The only difference is she knows this isn't a dream. She's met too many people she could never bring to mind on her own, reunions with those who were in her life over six years ago and otherwise disappeared, still feels the ache of her ankle after something as outlandish as falling off a pegasus— so sure, this is real. She doesn't know what to do with the reality beyond that. One day at a time, she supposes. She has a life to get back to and things to do, people to save. It isn't something she's ready to think about. 37 years old and she needs a nap before tackling the world again. )
(but is it upright or reversed, have u hit betray or are you here to heal my soul)
Mr. Joe MacMillan, then. Thank you for sharing your corner with me.
( She doesn't expect him to turn over and press right up against her, but she can't find it in her to mind with the exhaustion heavy in her limbs and the finally-clean feeling of even just being able to freshen up with whatever strange little soap they'd given her on request with a sink and a washcloth.
As he surmises, it was sweet, but it was certainly not vanilla. She had been especially helpful and willing in their prodding, and they had tried to accommodate her. They just had no idea what she was describing. His pointed remark makes her laugh quietly, shoulders shaking where they press back against his chest and she tries to maintain some semblance of eye contact. Her temple bumps to his brow and part of her says too close, so she tries to shift just a bit to give him an inch of breathing space, but he'll be able to see the amused crinkle of her nose with his derision. He's warmer than she is, which doesn't surprise her, and there aren't exactly any blankets. She gladly soaks it up— that and the sense that he's comfortable laying beside a stranger, not cramming himself into a pretzel against the wall. )
I'm much the same. We could start a service. ( If only she knew. Besides, that warm breath of his laugh in her hair feels nice. Just speaking gives her away as some snobby European with her Germanic accent curling her syllables, playful and soft, even if she's perfectly humble in accepting whatever is available. ) They tried very earnestly to find what I described, but what they came away with was simply "sweet like a baked good". Certainly none I've ever had. May I steal your arm?
( Over her waist or ribs, she means, her own arm shifting to indicate. It can't be comfortable for him to keep it along his side or wedged between them, and she wouldn't mind the bit of extra contact when it meant they could insulate warmth just that little bit more. Everything about her is accommodating, wanting those around her to be at ease more than anything.
Her name sounds nice on his lips, easy and familiar when they're anything but, and it's so very tempting to drift to the sound of it. He has a lovely voice— low and easy and just for her with how he pitches it quietly. Just laying here together is far beyond a first meeting, so why can't they be friends? They've already shared a bed.
The only difference is she knows this isn't a dream. She's met too many people she could never bring to mind on her own, reunions with those who were in her life over six years ago and otherwise disappeared, still feels the ache of her ankle after something as outlandish as falling off a pegasus— so sure, this is real. She doesn't know what to do with the reality beyond that. One day at a time, she supposes. She has a life to get back to and things to do, people to save. It isn't something she's ready to think about. 37 years old and she needs a nap before tackling the world again. )