"I know," she says, and lets that be enough for now. Which just leaves what to do next, what to do now. She knows what she'd be doing. She knows exactly what she'd be doing to glue the pieces of herself back together and keep moving, absent an enemy to bloody, a threat to put down.
She moves over in front of where he's sitting, and folds down to join him, facing him. She drapes her arms across her lap and, one by one, pulls her gloves off. She sets them on the floor by her knee and leaves her hands, bare and empty, between them.
"It's gonna be okay," she says, softly. Promises. It's thin, and weak in its lack of detail or likelihood, but she says it all the same. They've survived loss before, and they know that's what this is. It's going to be okay - or it won't. One option gives them power while the other takes it, and it's not much but she offers it and she offers the upturned palms of her hands.
For a moment, Carver just watched her as Rosita settles next to him. As she strips her gloves off and offers out her hands—nothing but scars and bare skin, no armor to shield the delicate joints. Dulcinea squeaks and bats at Carver’s cheek, wanting to play or maybe just get a reaction, any reaction, and Carver wishes distantly that he felt something more than empty right now. Maybe in time, maybe not. He thinks people hit a wall eventually: when the losses stack too high to bear. Maybe this is finally his, after years and years of fighting wars for Pope.
He breathes out. Then, slowly, he strips his gloves off. Right, then left. He sets the gloves aside, the armor he’s carried for years upon years like an extension of himself. And then he takes her hands in his, smoothing his thumb along the ridge of her knuckles. It’s gonna be okay, she says, and maybe one day he’ll believe that.
In this place, at least, they aren’t dead.
Carver closes his eyes. He doesn’t have conversation in him right now, but he holds her hands in his, and breathes out.
Rosita doesn't have anymore conversation in her, either; if their positions were reversed, she wouldn't believe herself either. She wouldn't believe anything could be okay on a long enough timeline. She, in fact, doesn't.
But he takes his gloves off, and he takes her hands, and it's what she has to offer: skin to skin contact, warm and living, present. She lets him hold onto her, her fingertips resting lightly on the backs of his hands where they curl over. And when he closes his eyes, she leans forward - she pulls him forward, not insistently, but encouragingly - to set her head against his.
He can lean on her for a while. He can take what he needs, even if it's just air in and out of his lungs.
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chiming
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Date: 2023-10-12 01:52 pm (UTC)From:She moves over in front of where he's sitting, and folds down to join him, facing him. She drapes her arms across her lap and, one by one, pulls her gloves off. She sets them on the floor by her knee and leaves her hands, bare and empty, between them.
"It's gonna be okay," she says, softly. Promises. It's thin, and weak in its lack of detail or likelihood, but she says it all the same. They've survived loss before, and they know that's what this is. It's going to be okay - or it won't. One option gives them power while the other takes it, and it's not much but she offers it and she offers the upturned palms of her hands.
no subject
Date: 2023-10-12 02:18 pm (UTC)From:He breathes out. Then, slowly, he strips his gloves off. Right, then left. He sets the gloves aside, the armor he’s carried for years upon years like an extension of himself. And then he takes her hands in his, smoothing his thumb along the ridge of her knuckles. It’s gonna be okay, she says, and maybe one day he’ll believe that.
In this place, at least, they aren’t dead.
Carver closes his eyes. He doesn’t have conversation in him right now, but he holds her hands in his, and breathes out.
no subject
Date: 2023-10-12 02:43 pm (UTC)From:But he takes his gloves off, and he takes her hands, and it's what she has to offer: skin to skin contact, warm and living, present. She lets him hold onto her, her fingertips resting lightly on the backs of his hands where they curl over. And when he closes his eyes, she leans forward - she pulls him forward, not insistently, but encouragingly - to set her head against his.
He can lean on her for a while. He can take what he needs, even if it's just air in and out of his lungs.