⟪ she makes it sound terribly simple. could it be? simple. or is a clean slate absolutely required. one of his sisters changed, became something else entirely. even despair changed, but she had to die first, and beyond minor differences, she remains mostly the same. that’s the thing with them. they were born the way they were for specific reasons. specific purposes. and to change would defeat them.
so why shouldn’t the dream lord change alongside his dreamers? ⟫
Because… ⟪ he sways closer, his voice dropping a little lower, like he’s about to tell her a terrible secret. ⟫ I am not human. ⟪ it’s an easy concept for such volatile creatures, a notion he mourns even without having experienced it. never thoroughly. there’s a hint of it in his eyes, a flat smile that flashes a little sad in their depth, chilly blue. ⟫ I exist only because you dream… ⟪ and as such, he was made to serve them, but.
what if.
what if he stopped being what he is.
the thought is both dreadful and soothing, and he’s quick to chase it away, a solemn nod to acknowledge his gratitude for her answer. ⟫ But you have given me much to ponder, Daisy Johnson.
[ He moves closer and everything goes still inside her. I am not human. That should scare her, right? Or at least unsettle her? But it doesn't, not in the slightest. It's not even that she's more intrigued because of it the way some might be, she just...
What he is a piece of the puzzle of who he is, and the who is what pulls her to him. Who is what has her wanting to lean in and—
She looks away from those star-filled eyes she'd been falling into, turning to face front in her seat again and slouching down until her head is on the back of the seat. Nudging the ground with her foot, the bench starts to gently rock. ]
Good. [ That's it? Come on, Johnson. Get it together. She glances at him, nerves skittering about inside her as she scrambles for one of her many questions, and then things go still again as she finds one. Hesitantly, she asks and tries not to be afraid of the answer. ]
⟪ she seems nervous. not quite afraid, but dream does notice the slight shift in the air, something a little tense about her. maybe you’re just too close, dude. but instead of relinquishing some of her space, his scrutiny marginally sharpens; unblinking, he studies her through a squint, something curious in the way he refuses to let his focus wander away. it’s a test, maybe. for him, for her. subconsciously. there’s something satisfying in the way he seems to be able to destabilize her, perhaps as much as she can destabilize him. there are boundaries not to cross, somewhere. and he wants to find them.
he rocks with her, willing the bench to move on its own without their help. it’s oddly serene, and peace has been rather sparse lately. he straightens up, angling his torso a little more towards her, at ease.
that answer is an easy one. ⟫ Dreamers have existed long before humans did. ⟪ long before earth existed, even. dream is impossibly old, though emotional maturity clearly doesn’t come with age.
a knowing gleam briefly darts through his eyes. ⟫ I believe you are already familiar with extraterrestrial life.
[ Peace is something she hasn't known in a long time either, and it feels so indescribably strange to find it now within a dream. For so long, dreaming has been something she's worked hard to avoid as much as possible, and it feels surreal to have even a brief period of restful sleep offered to her, never mind the ethereal creature doing the offering.
Turning her head to look at him fully, she can't help the very unladylike snorting laugh that comes out of her at that last part. She offers an amused retort with a grin stretching across her lips. ] And I believe you're already aware that I'm part-alien, so yeah, I'm familiar.
[ Her expression sobers slightly as she turns her gaze back to the sky, wispy clouds moving slowly across the crisp blue. After a moment, she shrugs one shoulder and explains her question. ]
I was just wondering because sometimes I go out there. Into space. I was gone for a year the first time, and it would be— [ The words cut off as her mind catches up with her mouth. Whatever she'd been about to say (it would be sad not to see you for so long) is replaced by something less emotionally revealing. ] Hard to get used to this place and then leave it like that.
⟪ that brief second of hesitation before the rest of her explanation spills out of her mouth doesn’t go unnoticed. it’s subtle but it’s there, a hint of hope that has no business existing blooming in the already attentive way he’s observing her. his fingers stiffen, brushing lightly against the cool wood of the bench — a distraction from the unexpected jump in his pulse. it almost sounds like she might miss him — and in the grand scheme of things, it shouldn’t matter. but it does, for reasons he doesn’t want to explore, already too warm where his endless heart stupidly stutters.
get a grip, dream.
it’s a good thing she’s not looking at him. he can’t be sure what she’d see in his eyes if she was, and somewhere in a vast array of decisions yet to be made, one surges higher than the others, almost of its own volition.
he reaches into the folds of his cloak, all deliberate movements as he draws out a small luminescent stone, deep blue. it gleams a soft azure shade in the crook of his palm, infused with a miniscule fragment of his power — nothing to endanger him. and daisy isn’t john dee. his own hesitation halts the rise and fall of his chest, a faint shimmer rippling through the air around them, shifting with its master’s contemplation.
his hand hangs open in front of her, the swirl of stars in his eyes glowing slightly guarded, almost timid but not quite. ⟫ To ensure that you never stray from the path that leads you here. ⟪ in other words: that she remains lucid at all times, and find her way. ⟫
[ Her peripheral vision catches his arm moving and she turns her head slightly to watch as he withdraws a stone that can't possibly be natural. A question forms on her tongue, but then he offers it to her with an explanation and she... doesn't know what to do with it.
Does he understand what that certainty would mean to her? The girl who's spent her life being abandoned and left behind, the woman who is always afraid of being unwanted. Could he possibly realize what this might symbolize?
Taking a deep breath, she looks up from the stone to meet those beautiful, strange eyes with her own that are full of hope and hesitation. But then she reaches out with one hand to carefully pick up the stone with her fingertips, her skin brushing ever so lightly against his—
And then her other hand wraps around his before he can lower it, and she rises from a bench in a smooth motion born of years of physical training. ]
Come on. I want to show you something. [ It's the first thing she can think of to thank him.
⟪ of course he doesn’t understand. he barely grasps what it means for him. them. he’s dumb, despite all appearances of grandeur and might… or maybe it’s more like he does understand, and just chooses to ignore its significance, letting it simmer below the surface.
still dumb, though — of the struck variety, too, when daisy decides to hold his hand, apparently refusing to leave it there, useless and empty. it’s a rare thing for anyone to touch dream of the endless — especially without an invitation — but there’s been an onslaught of odd incidents in recent years, all of which blindsiding him without truly invoking his wrath. he discovered genuine friendship, for one — after a very dramatic exit, and a hundred-or-so years. he allowed too many to disrespect him, too, mortals included, without striking them down. or wanting to. he might have recoiled, once upon a time. glared, or snarled. his body does still, and his shoulders rise, like hackles on a threatened and angry cat, but then he just looks at her confused, tension draining as he catches himself standing back up, ready to follow her.
her hand is warm. his skin tingles, all the way up to his elbow as he tests her grip and turns his palm, loosely curling his fingers around hers. he spends a ridiculous amount of time just staring at their intertwined hands — it feels like it, anyway — until he huffs a little sheepish. through his lashes, his eyes flicker up to meet hers.
show him something. in the dreaming? color him intrigued and vaguely amused, beyond the fiery little thing burning between his lungs. ⟫ Am I to be made a guest in my own domain?
[ Daisy has never shied away from physical contact. Hugs from friends, a comforting touch offered to a stranger, a sparring match — she is equally comfortable with all of them, though they all do, of course, carry different weights to them. But each is precious to someone who grew up feeling completely alone in the world and constantly tried to convince herself that it didn't matter. She could do just fine on her own.
She couldn't, though. Being on her own is the worst thing for Daisy Johnson. And while she isn't lonely anymore, she carries the scars of those years and uses that remembered pain to help others. Even if all she has to give is a hand held in a moment of need, it's what she'll do without hesitation.
The look Dream gives her tells her that his need might be very different from any she's ever encountered. That confusion that flickers across his expression makes her heart ache for him despite the fact that he's an all-powerful ethereal being, and the long look he gives their joined hands cements her instinct of how to approach whatever this is.
He might be older and more powerful than she'll ever understand, but she's not going to treat him like some deity to be feared, worshipped, or obeyed. That's not who she is, and honestly, any reason she might have to do any of those things has absolutely nothing to do with what he is. ]
Well, I seem to remember you saying this was mine to mold and shape, so... [ She draws out the word playfully, a light teasing in her voice as she fails to hold back a smile. ] Yeah. Try it on for size. You might find you like it.
[ And without waiting to see his reaction, she turns and gently tugs him toward the path they'd followed that led back to the settlement. ]
⟪ you might find you like it… yeah. and it’s a problem. stir the embers, fan the flames, and burn. he should be tugging at her hand to halt her steps, to anchor them in the same invariability he suffers. there’s a certain sense of comfort in stability, but there’s also a terrible lack of excitement — essential, among other things, to create dreams and nightmares. daisy is the embodiment of an eagerness that dream does his very best to quench on his worst days, but sometimes it just flares up and…
well. he burns.
her memory is phenomenal. everything that surrounds them is crystal clear, a perfect replica of a place that once thrived. and it’s gorgeous. from the stone stairway edged with classical balusters to the pathway bordered by lush potted plants and flowering bushes in the near distance — the settlement, aesthetically eastern-inspired. he sees all of it… and he also doesn’t, because his gaze is riveted on her as they walk, amused, curious, and then just a hair's breadth from spellbound, an itch stuck in his throat as he feels the entirety of his beating heart in the palm of her hand.
dreamers often conjure crooked or blurred memories, jumbled or just outright bizarre. this is seamless, and dream is positively impressed, but it’s her he’s looking at and the word that forms on his tongue isn’t what he means to say. ⟫
Morpheus. ⟪ instead of acknowledgement, a compliment, or even just a question, he tells her his name, no context. like a secret finally earned, a crack through his shell, his eyes lethal-tender. ⟫
[ The first time she came to Afterlife, it was only for a short while, a handful of days during which she struggled to learn about her new powers and grappled with the realization that she had her parents back. They were far from perfect, but they wanted her — and they'd wanted this to be her home. So yes, she remembers it all, every little detail engraved in her memory, and relived in bitter nightmares of it all crashing down around her.
But this isn't one of those nightmares. This is a dream, and she can make it beautiful if she wants to. They're almost to their destination, the building not very far into the settlement, and she can feel him watching her, see his face turned to her from the corner of his eye when he—
Morpheus. It's a name, one she's only heard before in movies, but she vaguely recalls it being attached to the god of dreams. A name for someone who controls dreams. He'd told her to call him Dream, so for him to offer something else now... Her steps falter as she turns to look at him, taking in that tenderness in his eyes, and her chest tightens like he's wrapped his hand around her heart and squeezed. She doesn't even have to think about how to respond. ]
Thank you for telling me. [ A smile blooms across her face like the sun coming out from behind clouds, and she squeezes his hand before tugging him forward again. Both her hands are occupied, the other holding the blue stone he'd gifted her, so she carefully tucks it into the pocket of her jeans as they reach the old painted doors, opening them and moving down the elaborately decorated hallway. Jewel tones in terracotta, green, and gold are everywhere, and she stops them at an open set of green double doors.
There's a table inside set for three, with fine china, a floral centerpiece, and an array of gold-rimmed stem glasses. And there at one of the places is a simple bouquet of daisies. ]
⟪ wisps of memories flicker around the table, ghost-like silhouettes that once gathered there. it’s blurry at best, barely visible, and dream doesn’t do anything to fine-tune them; it is daisy’s pocket-realm to shape the way she wishes to, and so he’ll wait, allow her to reclaim every nook and cranny at her own pace. her smile still shines with gratitude, and her hand withholds his still; he notes, not without a little chill whispering down his spine, that she deliberately chose to sacrifice her other hand in order to push open the doors.
somewhere in the distance, mervyn is probably shaking his head.
and lucienne is most likely rolling her eyes.
groaning, both of them.
no matter. ⟫
Our final destination, I assume. ⟪ a cozy room, a table for three. and daisies, which dream spots with a hint of warmth tugging at the corner of his mouth. he tilts his head towards her, aware of her fingers still laced around his and barely loosening his grip. ⟫ Was this your favourite room?
[ It feels right to hold on to him as if she needs him to anchor her to this place when really she just wants to be anchored to him. Somehow, he's worked his way under her skin in the short time since he and his bird waltzed into her life, and the longer he's there, the less she minds. The imaginary weight of him there is even comforting in a way. ]
I don't think I really had a favorite. [ She admits this fact without hesitation or regret; too many years have passed for those sorts of feelings. After all this time, she is able to approach these memories with only the lingering echoes of the grief that followed these events. ] I wasn't here for that long. But it is the one that meant the most. This is where we had our first family dinner.
[ Her voice quiets and the grief is a little more pronounced now. ] Our only family dinner.
⧼ the one that meant the most. and she willingly brings him here, with her grief and her vulnerability, even after berating him for spying on her dreams, for intruding where she claimed he didn’t belong. it was just hours ago — and she wasn’t entirely wrong, despite his trespass being another part of his purpose. but he’s no longer a voyeur. he’s welcome, not as a king but as a guest, and it hits him in all the right ways; he hears the shift in her voice, shell cracked, and doesn’t fight the cold warmth that splits his chest open.
she wants him here. beyond the nostalgia, the pain. and it’s one of the most intimate invitation he’s ever received.
there’s an apology on the tip of his tongue, to soothe her sorrow. but he doesn’t say anything. she knew the impact it would have on her, to be here — and she didn’t bring him along for sorries. but he can soothe her in different ways, maybe; first, by giving her hand a light squeeze, a slow stretch of fingers to lace them a little tighter. and then he leans closer, no trace of pity in his eyes; there’s warmth, mostly, and a good dose of gratitude. ⧽ Thank you. ⧼ for allowing him here at all. he’s touched in weird ways — it doesn’t happen often. ⧽
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
⟪ she makes it sound terribly simple. could it be? simple. or is a clean slate absolutely required. one of his sisters changed, became something else entirely. even despair changed, but she had to die first, and beyond minor differences, she remains mostly the same. that’s the thing with them. they were born the way they were for specific reasons. specific purposes. and to change would defeat them.
so why shouldn’t the dream lord change alongside his dreamers? ⟫
Because… ⟪ he sways closer, his voice dropping a little lower, like he’s about to tell her a terrible secret. ⟫ I am not human. ⟪ it’s an easy concept for such volatile creatures, a notion he mourns even without having experienced it. never thoroughly. there’s a hint of it in his eyes, a flat smile that flashes a little sad in their depth, chilly blue. ⟫ I exist only because you dream… ⟪ and as such, he was made to serve them, but.
what if.
what if he stopped being what he is.
the thought is both dreadful and soothing, and he’s quick to chase it away, a solemn nod to acknowledge his gratitude for her answer. ⟫ But you have given me much to ponder, Daisy Johnson.
no subject
What he is a piece of the puzzle of who he is, and the who is what pulls her to him. Who is what has her wanting to lean in and—
She looks away from those star-filled eyes she'd been falling into, turning to face front in her seat again and slouching down until her head is on the back of the seat. Nudging the ground with her foot, the bench starts to gently rock. ]
Good. [ That's it? Come on, Johnson. Get it together. She glances at him, nerves skittering about inside her as she scrambles for one of her many questions, and then things go still again as she finds one. Hesitantly, she asks and tries not to be afraid of the answer. ]
Are you only connected to dreamers on Earth?
no subject
⟪ she seems nervous. not quite afraid, but dream does notice the slight shift in the air, something a little tense about her. maybe you’re just too close, dude. but instead of relinquishing some of her space, his scrutiny marginally sharpens; unblinking, he studies her through a squint, something curious in the way he refuses to let his focus wander away. it’s a test, maybe. for him, for her. subconsciously. there’s something satisfying in the way he seems to be able to destabilize her, perhaps as much as she can destabilize him. there are boundaries not to cross, somewhere. and he wants to find them.
he rocks with her, willing the bench to move on its own without their help. it’s oddly serene, and peace has been rather sparse lately. he straightens up, angling his torso a little more towards her, at ease.
that answer is an easy one. ⟫ Dreamers have existed long before humans did. ⟪ long before earth existed, even. dream is impossibly old, though emotional maturity clearly doesn’t come with age.
a knowing gleam briefly darts through his eyes. ⟫ I believe you are already familiar with extraterrestrial life.
no subject
Turning her head to look at him fully, she can't help the very unladylike snorting laugh that comes out of her at that last part. She offers an amused retort with a grin stretching across her lips. ] And I believe you're already aware that I'm part-alien, so yeah, I'm familiar.
[ Her expression sobers slightly as she turns her gaze back to the sky, wispy clouds moving slowly across the crisp blue. After a moment, she shrugs one shoulder and explains her question. ]
I was just wondering because sometimes I go out there. Into space. I was gone for a year the first time, and it would be— [ The words cut off as her mind catches up with her mouth. Whatever she'd been about to say (it would be sad not to see you for so long) is replaced by something less emotionally revealing. ] Hard to get used to this place and then leave it like that.
[ Okay, so it's still kind of revealing. ]
no subject
⟪ that brief second of hesitation before the rest of her explanation spills out of her mouth doesn’t go unnoticed. it’s subtle but it’s there, a hint of hope that has no business existing blooming in the already attentive way he’s observing her. his fingers stiffen, brushing lightly against the cool wood of the bench — a distraction from the unexpected jump in his pulse. it almost sounds like she might miss him — and in the grand scheme of things, it shouldn’t matter. but it does, for reasons he doesn’t want to explore, already too warm where his endless heart stupidly stutters.
get a grip, dream.
it’s a good thing she’s not looking at him. he can’t be sure what she’d see in his eyes if she was, and somewhere in a vast array of decisions yet to be made, one surges higher than the others, almost of its own volition.
he reaches into the folds of his cloak, all deliberate movements as he draws out a small luminescent stone, deep blue. it gleams a soft azure shade in the crook of his palm, infused with a miniscule fragment of his power — nothing to endanger him. and daisy isn’t john dee. his own hesitation halts the rise and fall of his chest, a faint shimmer rippling through the air around them, shifting with its master’s contemplation.
his hand hangs open in front of her, the swirl of stars in his eyes glowing slightly guarded, almost timid but not quite. ⟫ To ensure that you never stray from the path that leads you here. ⟪ in other words: that she remains lucid at all times, and find her way. ⟫
no subject
Does he understand what that certainty would mean to her? The girl who's spent her life being abandoned and left behind, the woman who is always afraid of being unwanted. Could he possibly realize what this might symbolize?
Taking a deep breath, she looks up from the stone to meet those beautiful, strange eyes with her own that are full of hope and hesitation. But then she reaches out with one hand to carefully pick up the stone with her fingertips, her skin brushing ever so lightly against his—
And then her other hand wraps around his before he can lower it, and she rises from a bench in a smooth motion born of years of physical training. ]
Come on. I want to show you something. [ It's the first thing she can think of to thank him.
no subject
⟪ of course he doesn’t understand. he barely grasps what it means for him. them. he’s dumb, despite all appearances of grandeur and might… or maybe it’s more like he does understand, and just chooses to ignore its significance, letting it simmer below the surface.
still dumb, though — of the struck variety, too, when daisy decides to hold his hand, apparently refusing to leave it there, useless and empty. it’s a rare thing for anyone to touch dream of the endless — especially without an invitation — but there’s been an onslaught of odd incidents in recent years, all of which blindsiding him without truly invoking his wrath. he discovered genuine friendship, for one — after a very dramatic exit, and a hundred-or-so years. he allowed too many to disrespect him, too, mortals included, without striking them down. or wanting to. he might have recoiled, once upon a time. glared, or snarled. his body does still, and his shoulders rise, like hackles on a threatened and angry cat, but then he just looks at her confused, tension draining as he catches himself standing back up, ready to follow her.
her hand is warm. his skin tingles, all the way up to his elbow as he tests her grip and turns his palm, loosely curling his fingers around hers. he spends a ridiculous amount of time just staring at their intertwined hands — it feels like it, anyway — until he huffs a little sheepish. through his lashes, his eyes flicker up to meet hers.
show him something. in the dreaming? color him intrigued and vaguely amused, beyond the fiery little thing burning between his lungs. ⟫ Am I to be made a guest in my own domain?
no subject
She couldn't, though. Being on her own is the worst thing for Daisy Johnson. And while she isn't lonely anymore, she carries the scars of those years and uses that remembered pain to help others. Even if all she has to give is a hand held in a moment of need, it's what she'll do without hesitation.
The look Dream gives her tells her that his need might be very different from any she's ever encountered. That confusion that flickers across his expression makes her heart ache for him despite the fact that he's an all-powerful ethereal being, and the long look he gives their joined hands cements her instinct of how to approach whatever this is.
He might be older and more powerful than she'll ever understand, but she's not going to treat him like some deity to be feared, worshipped, or obeyed. That's not who she is, and honestly, any reason she might have to do any of those things has absolutely nothing to do with what he is. ]
Well, I seem to remember you saying this was mine to mold and shape, so... [ She draws out the word playfully, a light teasing in her voice as she fails to hold back a smile. ] Yeah. Try it on for size. You might find you like it.
[ And without waiting to see his reaction, she turns and gently tugs him toward the path they'd followed that led back to the settlement. ]
no subject
⟪ you might find you like it… yeah. and it’s a problem. stir the embers, fan the flames, and burn. he should be tugging at her hand to halt her steps, to anchor them in the same invariability he suffers. there’s a certain sense of comfort in stability, but there’s also a terrible lack of excitement — essential, among other things, to create dreams and nightmares. daisy is the embodiment of an eagerness that dream does his very best to quench on his worst days, but sometimes it just flares up and…
well. he burns.
her memory is phenomenal. everything that surrounds them is crystal clear, a perfect replica of a place that once thrived. and it’s gorgeous. from the stone stairway edged with classical balusters to the pathway bordered by lush potted plants and flowering bushes in the near distance — the settlement, aesthetically eastern-inspired. he sees all of it… and he also doesn’t, because his gaze is riveted on her as they walk, amused, curious, and then just a hair's breadth from spellbound, an itch stuck in his throat as he feels the entirety of his beating heart in the palm of her hand.
dreamers often conjure crooked or blurred memories, jumbled or just outright bizarre. this is seamless, and dream is positively impressed, but it’s her he’s looking at and the word that forms on his tongue isn’t what he means to say. ⟫
Morpheus. ⟪ instead of acknowledgement, a compliment, or even just a question, he tells her his name, no context. like a secret finally earned, a crack through his shell, his eyes lethal-tender. ⟫
no subject
But this isn't one of those nightmares. This is a dream, and she can make it beautiful if she wants to. They're almost to their destination, the building not very far into the settlement, and she can feel him watching her, see his face turned to her from the corner of his eye when he—
Morpheus. It's a name, one she's only heard before in movies, but she vaguely recalls it being attached to the god of dreams. A name for someone who controls dreams. He'd told her to call him Dream, so for him to offer something else now... Her steps falter as she turns to look at him, taking in that tenderness in his eyes, and her chest tightens like he's wrapped his hand around her heart and squeezed. She doesn't even have to think about how to respond. ]
Thank you for telling me. [ A smile blooms across her face like the sun coming out from behind clouds, and she squeezes his hand before tugging him forward again. Both her hands are occupied, the other holding the blue stone he'd gifted her, so she carefully tucks it into the pocket of her jeans as they reach the old painted doors, opening them and moving down the elaborately decorated hallway. Jewel tones in terracotta, green, and gold are everywhere, and she stops them at an open set of green double doors.
There's a table inside set for three, with fine china, a floral centerpiece, and an array of gold-rimmed stem glasses. And there at one of the places is a simple bouquet of daisies. ]
no subject
⟪ wisps of memories flicker around the table, ghost-like silhouettes that once gathered there. it’s blurry at best, barely visible, and dream doesn’t do anything to fine-tune them; it is daisy’s pocket-realm to shape the way she wishes to, and so he’ll wait, allow her to reclaim every nook and cranny at her own pace. her smile still shines with gratitude, and her hand withholds his still; he notes, not without a little chill whispering down his spine, that she deliberately chose to sacrifice her other hand in order to push open the doors.
somewhere in the distance, mervyn is probably shaking his head.
and lucienne is most likely rolling her eyes.
groaning, both of them.
no matter. ⟫
Our final destination, I assume. ⟪ a cozy room, a table for three. and daisies, which dream spots with a hint of warmth tugging at the corner of his mouth. he tilts his head towards her, aware of her fingers still laced around his and barely loosening his grip. ⟫ Was this your favourite room?
no subject
I don't think I really had a favorite. [ She admits this fact without hesitation or regret; too many years have passed for those sorts of feelings. After all this time, she is able to approach these memories with only the lingering echoes of the grief that followed these events. ] I wasn't here for that long. But it is the one that meant the most. This is where we had our first family dinner.
[ Her voice quiets and the grief is a little more pronounced now. ] Our only family dinner.
an era later
she wants him here. beyond the nostalgia, the pain. and it’s one of the most intimate invitation he’s ever received.
there’s an apology on the tip of his tongue, to soothe her sorrow. but he doesn’t say anything. she knew the impact it would have on her, to be here — and she didn’t bring him along for sorries. but he can soothe her in different ways, maybe; first, by giving her hand a light squeeze, a slow stretch of fingers to lace them a little tighter. and then he leans closer, no trace of pity in his eyes; there’s warmth, mostly, and a good dose of gratitude. ⧽ Thank you. ⧼ for allowing him here at all. he’s touched in weird ways — it doesn’t happen often. ⧽