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 Posted: Fri Sep 26, 2014 12:07 am
Invitations
Because she'd wanted to say it, she'd wanted to ask for months, but kept it in out of some half-hearted attempt to make them something other than what they were, America visited every other morning to say that all-important phrase: run with me. Barging into his room in the early hours, if he hadn't known she was an eager morning person before, he did now. Obnoxiously cheerful and energetic, it was a flip of the coin how she'd approach the bed to make her request known.
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Posted: Fri Sep 26, 2014 12:16 am
Demands
Sometimes she could be coaxed and charmed to spending her night away from home, but as he predicted, with less frequency than he'd prefer. For every peaceful bubble of time there was one full of odd frictions, petty spite, hidden hurts, and bitchy little fights that involved the arduous process of making up. For every peaceful stretch of rest, there was a nightmare and the process of coaxing her back into the room, out from under the bed, away from the window, and into the security of thin, strong arms and quiet words and the value of right now.
One night she let herself in, and there was smoke on her lips and dirt under her fingernails and where she was often gentle because she could be, and yielding because she could be, there remained only rough demand. Because everyone would leave someday and everything she built would be destroyed.
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Posted: Fri Sep 26, 2014 12:22 am
Introductions
"And this," America gestured grandly, "...is Felipe Pierre, my greatest confidante." She wore the blue dress and her hair was up, but her heels were no compromise to his dignity. They were one of her favourite pairs, another gift from Uncle Beaux, and the click of them across the floor was a theme of feminine pride and grace.
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Posted: Fri Sep 26, 2014 12:32 am
InvitationsIt didn't seem to matter. Any given tactic resulted in much the same: either he'd already been visibly awake when she barged in or he humored her, and she'd either commence a childish pronking on the mattress or a sly approach of hands and mouth, and either way what she got in return was an irritable toss of his head, and on the second occasion a pillow shoved in her face. Too early for your energy, he'd say, and none of it was even a little bit sincere and he was a good liar but he had no intentions to mislead her, not really, and so maybe it was obvious that it was all (mostly) an act. He presses a key into her hand after the first time and tells her he doesn't like leaving his door unlocked. And he runs with her, tempering his usual exhausting and exhaustive self-destructive sprints into attempts to match her endurance. When the frustration of failing overwhelms him, as it sometimes does, he succumbs to the need to push himself and to best her, and he surges past her unexpected, outstripping her effortlessly only to be just as effortlessly caught up to later when the effort leaves him winded and stumbling. (He seems happier, then: when he is too tired to function, when the half-limp/half-lope back is forced through a haze of exertion. He sometimes laughs for no reason.)
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Posted: Fri Sep 26, 2014 12:40 am
DemandsIt feels unfair that he should have to negotiate her time, not because he wants all of it (he does) but because it still hurts him, still stokes his fury and fuels his petty attempts to goad her into bickering, that she is spending those other nights not alone but with someone else. Twice he wavers on the brink of telling her what Kostya had told him in the infirmary, about what would happen if he wakes one day and finds that other hesitations and voids have fallen away like his fear of touching had. He does not. He finds, as Fiona had suggested, respite. It sometimes occurs to him to feel guilty that he never feels better than when he is murmuring comfort into her hair while she trembles and cries. The night she tastes like cigarettes he wants to make her unafraid, as fearless as he'd once imagined she was, and he exults and aches that she is not. Many things are still difficult. This one is harder even than letting her hands go wherever they demand to go. He returns her attention exactly as she delivers it, sparing her nothing, and as he lifts her wrist to try again what he hadn't managed to do in Russia he says I trust you and, still more difficult: please.
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Posted: Fri Sep 26, 2014 12:44 am
IntroductionsHe loves them, of course, even if he's mostly spending his time at arm's length so that the height difference is less marked. He watches the manatee bob peaceably, its expression one of tolerant serenity, and he says, theatrically wounded: "I thought I was your greatest confidante."
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Posted: Fri Sep 26, 2014 12:52 am
Deploy
He pretends for her sake that he's not that worried, and he's good at lying, but he is afraid. He trembles, not just his hands but a quiet cold shiver next to her, and he thinks of the sort of person he must be. A person that hears approaching footsteps in the dark and prays silently, tearfully, that it's the one that will make him simper and crawl. Prays that he'll be made to eat like a dog and rest his head in a skeletal lap so that a monster can toy with his hair as though he is a child or, more, a doll. A person that afraid of a little pain, of a few threats, of an empty room with no threat beyond the harmless but horrific seething of the floor and the loudness of his own mind.
What kind of a person is that? What kind of a person is she? They talk about the Sahara and he tells her again and again, his voice steady (it's so ******** cold in here), that he wishes she wasn't going. They talk about the Sahara and he thinks about Russia.
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Posted: Fri Sep 26, 2014 12:57 am
Secret
The first day she visits the walls, as usual, are bare.
The third night she sleeps over there's a crayon drawing tacked up in the corner over the desk, every scrawled figure (human, dog, cat) in it neatly labeled by a grown-up's hand: Mima. Grandpa. Mal. Ros. Harley. Tuesday. Grim. Sookie.
There is a second, tacked up next to it. There's only two figures in it and they aren't labeled. They don't need to be. They swim in a sea of childishly-drawn hearts.
"I'm going to ask Edith for another civilian mission," he says. "I think they're--important."
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Posted: Fri Sep 26, 2014 1:20 am
Invitations
She loves the resistance and bitching, his griping has always been endearing to her, has always made each reluctant venture that much more satisfying. The key is placed on a chain that dips down into her shirt, hanging alongside one other and a ring of unique design.
There are certain things America always wants to show him and rarely is able to, not with much success. She tries to show him that she adores him to the point of sheer stupidity, that he makes her happy in ways that tie her up and unravel her between one breath and another, that he's capable of so much more than he gives himself any credit for.
America doesn't take him down the obstacle runs through the jungle, not yet. But she does what she can to encourage those extra pushes, that slipping between the cracks of what he thinks his body can and cannot do. She drinks in the breathless laughter, the way exertion allows him to slip more comfortably into the body he spent so long punishing, and wonders if six months could ever be enough, could ever satisfy her in the slightest.
The answer is of course not.
One morning it storms loudly all around them and everything is perfect.
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Posted: Fri Sep 26, 2014 1:27 am
Demands
There is a brief moment of terror, and then the trust of it, the trust in her, nearly breaks her apart. He trusts her and so her hands do not shake or fall or harm more greatly than desired. Russia fades back for a time, and she begins to trust herself too, if only a little bit.
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Posted: Fri Sep 26, 2014 1:37 am
Introductions
She teases him for the distance, sometimes walking just a little ahead, back straighter and a bit on her toes, creating the illusion a much taller woman than she actually was. There are double takes, though only some for her apparent height. She is grinning and smiling and laughing nearly the whole time, and in turn others find themselves smiling back, issuing small laughs without knowing why.
With a dramatic moan, America leans against the glass, cheek smushed and arms spread in a hug and ignoring all the signs requesting visitors to avoid such molestation of their facilities. "But you're the one we talk about," she complains.
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Posted: Fri Sep 26, 2014 1:53 am
Deploy
She eventually gathers blankets and pillows and pets until they are a little nest, far far away from any deserts or bases or dangers. The talk of Sahara (that outlined the shape of Russia without ever quite daring to define it) was traded for stories. For I'll tell you if you tell me.
They have left behind lives and people and the only way left to touch those things is with words, the only way to expand them is to share those words and see them reflected in another's eyes. She handles her own and his with careful, greedy indulgence. Turning them over and over she pieces them together, building a life where they know each other just a little better than the day before.
it is not enough of a distraction, because stories can go on so long until there is silence on again. She whispers reassurances, but most of all a single promise, I'm coming back. It's as much as she can offer, and it will never be enough.
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Posted: Fri Sep 26, 2014 2:05 am
Secret
The pictures are studied quietly at first and then questions follow. She is at turns delighted and near tears, though she doesn't allow them to spill over. This is not her sorrow. This is not her place.
She looks at them often, and doesn't dare to touch, to make contact with that other life. There is something overwhelming about them that compels even as she loses words and courage.
"I can't think of anyone better for it," she answers plainly. And it's true in a way that makes her feel a sudden, decisive distance between them. It's not unlike when Konstantin spoke of transferring to death, of his need for orders and certain purpose. She does not feel suited for civilian missions, to blend and carefully care for those a world away and living in constant and sometimes willful ignorance. And she cannot deny their worth, but she does, in some small manner, resent that they will take him away and one day kill him, that they bring into sharp relief the ways in which he is worthy and she is not.
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Posted: Fri Sep 26, 2014 2:07 am
Belated
She tries to coax him to the house one afternoon, to sample the long put-off omelet.
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Posted: Fri Sep 26, 2014 11:23 am
Belated It works, when he knows that Konstantin isn't there.
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