She pulls a face in the reflected light of the screen, but slouches down in the seat to start sorting out her snacks, her pack behind her feet in front of her seat.
She glances up at the movie to see if she recognizes it, recognizes any part of it, but of course she doesn't. That's less daunting on a movie screen, though. Up there it could just be scifi.
"What was the last movie you watched in a theater?" she asks, since what's on the screen is largely still establishing shots.
"Time," he says, a bit solemn. "I had so much time stretching ahead of me and so much time behind. I was - sad. Numb. I didn't want to do anything because none of it mattered."
She mulls that over a moment, trying to remind herself she doesn't know what it's like to be a vampire. Not really, not permanently, not for centuries.
"Do you still feel that? Like there's too much time to fill?"
She thinks of her friend, her self proclaimed twin, who has confessed his fear that Godric will tire of him. She suspects that's more to do with Jesus than with anything Godric's done, but she understands nonetheless.
"So you think you've got another couple hundred years in you before you get bored with this new world?" she asks, trying to keep the tone light and her eyes on the screen.
"That isn't fair," he says gently. "It was not boredom that brought me to such a low place. It was - the realization that I had done nothing with my years that brought anyone joy. That is no longer the case."
At first she hedges with just, "I worry." She watches the characters on the screen, but she doesn't recognize the language, so she doesn't really know what's going on.
It's not important. She peels open something that looks like chocolate bar, considers it while she tries again.
"I'm worried that things will get too heavy for you again, and you'll disappoint him."
"I know. But he - is good for me. He's such an embodiment of the goodness of humanity. A reminder of how things can be. He - i love him, Rosita. I worry about disappointing him every day,"
She takes a bite of the corner of the bar, chews it thoroughly and slowly while she thinks. While she tries to be as honest as she can with herself about what the real problem is here - what the real point is she wants to make, to reach.
"Have you ever felt like you weren't good enough for someone you loved?" she asks. It's an earnest question: she has no idea who or how or in what ways he's loved people in his life, and she doesn't want to assume.
"By their estimation, not yours. Have you ever had them decide you weren't worth their time and energy and attention?"
She's well aware that she has no control over what all he reads into whatever she says - only that he will, of course, read into it. He will hear something she doesn't intend to reveal in this moment, when she wasn't trying to talk about herself but to focus on Jesus.
There is, admittedly, significant overlap.
"You heal from it, because you have to, right? You're still alive. You find some way to keep going, tell yourself whatever you have to. It's their loss. There was nothing you could do. You're better off anyway, or things are just like that sometimes. Plenty of fish in the ocean. Whatever." Dealer's choice.
"But there's a part of you that never really recovers fully, especially if it's a complete blindside. There's a part that never forgets when someone looks at you and decides they don't want you anymore, and there's nothing you can change. Because if you can change, then there's a way to keep it from happening again. If it's just you - well. Not much for that except to hope, is there?"
He nods. "You've been hurt far too often and far too harshly with people who love you and leave, or die, or simply stop caring because they can't use you any longer. You are - so genuine with your feelings, Rosita. That is admirable, but yes, it can lead to that sacrifice."
And if there was a better way to balance it, if she could take in the thoughts and intentions of people before they fuck her over, if that was something that could be done with an Admiral's wish, then he'd do it for her. Rosita has been so hurt, for so long, and it's such a uniquely human problem despite everything else that she's had to go through.
Godric empathizes with her so much, but especially now.
She's glad it's dark. Her throat feels tight, feels like it's difficult to push air through, once he starts talking about her - once she has to think about why it is she can say these things with such ironclad confidence.
She swallows and stares straight ahead.
"We're not talking about me," she says, as firmly as she can. "I'm not, anyway. I'm - Jesus knows this, too. Is what I mean. And once you know, once it's in you, you watch for it. Sometimes you create it where it isn't. And I don't want that for him."
If they're not talking about her, then he won't talk about her.
He nods again, taking what she says. "I don't want to hurt him and - I appreciate you telling me your worries about it. Jesus and I talk - a lot. We talk about our futures, about what we want, what we feel. I can sense his own hesitance in it sometimes. Like I know he wants something more, but holds himself back."
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She glances up at the movie to see if she recognizes it, recognizes any part of it, but of course she doesn't. That's less daunting on a movie screen, though. Up there it could just be scifi.
"What was the last movie you watched in a theater?" she asks, since what's on the screen is largely still establishing shots.
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"Why that one?"
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He laughs. "I enjoyed it."
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"Why was that the last one, then?"
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She understands depression, though.
"Isabel didn't try any more after that?"
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He loved Isabel for that. Loving humanity and humans far before he could.
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"Do you still feel that? Like there's too much time to fill?"
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"Do you know why? What changed?"
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Which he would never have wanted, but desperately needed.
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"So you think you've got another couple hundred years in you before you get bored with this new world?" she asks, trying to keep the tone light and her eyes on the screen.
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"That isn't fair," he says gently. "It was not boredom that brought me to such a low place. It was - the realization that I had done nothing with my years that brought anyone joy. That is no longer the case."
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"Either way, bad choice of words." A rare apology, in the tone and her willingness not to push back more than the actual words. "I just worry."
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"I know you do. Do you worry I will tire of Jesus? That I will - be somehow bored of him?"
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It's not important. She peels open something that looks like chocolate bar, considers it while she tries again.
"I'm worried that things will get too heavy for you again, and you'll disappoint him."
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He watches the screen.
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"Have you ever felt like you weren't good enough for someone you loved?" she asks. It's an earnest question: she has no idea who or how or in what ways he's loved people in his life, and she doesn't want to assume.
"By their estimation, not yours. Have you ever had them decide you weren't worth their time and energy and attention?"
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But he's focused on her, the movie long forgotten.
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There is, admittedly, significant overlap.
"You heal from it, because you have to, right? You're still alive. You find some way to keep going, tell yourself whatever you have to. It's their loss. There was nothing you could do. You're better off anyway, or things are just like that sometimes. Plenty of fish in the ocean. Whatever." Dealer's choice.
"But there's a part of you that never really recovers fully, especially if it's a complete blindside. There's a part that never forgets when someone looks at you and decides they don't want you anymore, and there's nothing you can change. Because if you can change, then there's a way to keep it from happening again. If it's just you - well. Not much for that except to hope, is there?"
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And if there was a better way to balance it, if she could take in the thoughts and intentions of people before they fuck her over, if that was something that could be done with an Admiral's wish, then he'd do it for her. Rosita has been so hurt, for so long, and it's such a uniquely human problem despite everything else that she's had to go through.
Godric empathizes with her so much, but especially now.
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She swallows and stares straight ahead.
"We're not talking about me," she says, as firmly as she can. "I'm not, anyway. I'm - Jesus knows this, too. Is what I mean. And once you know, once it's in you, you watch for it. Sometimes you create it where it isn't. And I don't want that for him."
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He nods again, taking what she says. "I don't want to hurt him and - I appreciate you telling me your worries about it. Jesus and I talk - a lot. We talk about our futures, about what we want, what we feel. I can sense his own hesitance in it sometimes. Like I know he wants something more, but holds himself back."