( that brief moment where she thinks to correct him — maybe i'm stronger than you think — is dashed against the ground at his so-called assurance. but then chips... could be gambled for by other means, no? if she rationalizes it. she's seen the spinning wheels, and the slot machines, and the card sharps getting caught with their hands, but she's caught those hands moving bodies, too, not cards... at least before she'd shift her gaze elsewhere, anywhere else, caught in the throes of someone else's indulgence and trying to figure out where it would be safe to look.
that her eyes dart to him is a reflex that stuns her with its immediacy, but they flicker over him, as if she's checking for injury. there's just nothing that she can see outwardly in this stranger's appearance. not in his deep-water gaze. if she tried, would she be able to make out the current of his thoughts? would he let her? even the faint glow of harmony's passive ability tells her that he wouldn't make it easy. there's nothing in his eyes but her own reflection and the direction of his attention.
what did he do? what has been done to him? (would his hair be mussed after three days, feathers unruly, or would he still present so pristine and untouchable as he did when she saw him for the first time after years of unbridgeable distance?) she feels it, suddenly: smaller than she was, broken and unsteady. it's just that she can't read him, that she doesn't really know him, or anything at all.
her fingers twitch where she's still holding onto his sleeve, but the way she turns to face him more fully, her hand slipping down to press into his fingers instead almost shocks her with the speed at which she does it.
she's silent for that suspended moment. not necessarily to look into his face for recognition. but what he actually says after just filters through much more slowly, leaving her little room to question what she wants to most. )
Then... is it possible that we can survive with that kind of work? Although it isn't the most ( a pause, to reach for the right word... ) lucrative way to do it. We could pitch in together.
( but it does do something to her, that faint glimmer in her eyes like a spark. it isn't a duet by any stretch of the imagination, under forced circumstances, but maybe it's the closest thing that she can get.
looks at this monstrosity........ same
( that brief moment where she thinks to correct him — maybe i'm stronger than you think — is dashed against the ground at his so-called assurance. but then chips... could be gambled for by other means, no? if she rationalizes it. she's seen the spinning wheels, and the slot machines, and the card sharps getting caught with their hands, but she's caught those hands moving bodies, too, not cards... at least before she'd shift her gaze elsewhere, anywhere else, caught in the throes of someone else's indulgence and trying to figure out where it would be safe to look.
that her eyes dart to him is a reflex that stuns her with its immediacy, but they flicker over him, as if she's checking for injury. there's just nothing that she can see outwardly in this stranger's appearance. not in his deep-water gaze. if she tried, would she be able to make out the current of his thoughts? would he let her? even the faint glow of harmony's passive ability tells her that he wouldn't make it easy. there's nothing in his eyes but her own reflection and the direction of his attention.
what did he do? what has been done to him? (would his hair be mussed after three days, feathers unruly, or would he still present so pristine and untouchable as he did when she saw him for the first time after years of unbridgeable distance?) she feels it, suddenly: smaller than she was, broken and unsteady. it's just that she can't read him, that she doesn't really know him, or anything at all.
her fingers twitch where she's still holding onto his sleeve, but the way she turns to face him more fully, her hand slipping down to press into his fingers instead almost shocks her with the speed at which she does it.
she's silent for that suspended moment. not necessarily to look into his face for recognition. but what he actually says after just filters through much more slowly, leaving her little room to question what she wants to most. )
Then... is it possible that we can survive with that kind of work? Although it isn't the most ( a pause, to reach for the right word... ) lucrative way to do it. We could pitch in together.
( but it does do something to her, that faint glimmer in her eyes like a spark. it isn't a duet by any stretch of the imagination, under forced circumstances, but maybe it's the closest thing that she can get.
however. )
... that just leaves the exit...