βͺ there's quiet for a moment, the comfortable silence that sometimes settles between them, when there's not a hundred questions and fifteen funny stories from the bar bubbling out of her. that said, no proper massage can stick to his shoulders, and she can't do this unevenlyΒ ββ which means she lowers her touch, gently caressing where she wants to continue β her right hand on skin, her left on skin, too. skin and scar-tissue. β«
Yeah. Not a lot of sensation. Scar tissue's a bitch like that.
( maybe it's easier to talk about with her than he'd anticipated. but how many times in ten years has he been deliberate about letting other people see them? be this close? not many. the women he's slept with mostly thought they were sexy, or used them as proof positive he must be in dire need of fixing or saving or both, somehow. the real answer is so far away as to almost be on another planet. scars just mean something you've survived.
there are other things that've hurt him worse than bullets in his life.
he's silent a moment. then, )
It was a Kalashnikov. Russia really fucked up with that one, left probably half their second world war armory in Afghanistan after they pulled out in '89. The guns migrated with the militants.
βͺ the pressure she applies is even, then, but not deep enough to cause pain β just enough to soothe muscles beneath, in as far as she can, as she listens him talk with some passion, but almost some kind of personal impassiveness about his injury. that, she thinks, is almost typical for him β he thinks of an 'us', the men he fought side by side with, who were all faced with the same weaponry, the boys, she guesses, who didn't outlive them. he speaks of the gun that did it, rather than the life it had almost cost him. she wonders if that's his way of self-defence.
she lowers her head β he can feel her curls against his back before she pulls herself together. β«
Sorry 'bout that, I just. βͺ her hands remain steady, uninterrupted. β« It doesn't look survivable. And it's hard to think about that.
( he wants to lift his arm, angle his elbow and bury a hand in those curls, but he doesn't. tell her it's okay. she feels too deeply for other people, and empathy can be soul-crushing when you're new to the idea of emotional tolerance and regulation. she hasn't had people to care about in a long time. )
Shifter things, you know. The crow wanted to live.
( all shifters are inherently hardier than humans. something in their dna. they're stronger, they heal quicker. it doesn't seem to depend on the type of shifter or the durability of the animal in question — he doesn't think he's inherently any weaker than his grandfather was in his prime.
βͺ she wants to hold him, but she doesn't. these are old wounds, it isn't fair to suffer at him right now, not when he's sharing a story. there's time for that eventually. β«
I'm glad we met.
βͺ it can't encompass all she feels, but it's... it's an important part. β«
Can I ask you about something else? The coordinates?
( he has a very real, very visceral moment where he wants to tell her no. where he wants to keep that old moment to himself, play close to his chest. the scars he'll talk about. the grueling walk through the desert that came closer to killing him than the bullets did. hell, he'd even tell her about the men who did it.
but the coordinates aren't only the place he got shot.
he sucks a breath in between his teeth, hands clenched beneath the still water of the tub. some of flora's questions have, in the past, been invasive, but she hasn't asked any that makes him angry like this one does. and he knows it's not reasonable or rational for that sudden ember of rage to combust into a conflagration, incandescent with the burn, but.
he has to walk himself back. focus on the mist. the air. the ambient sounds of the woods. somewhere, in the distance, a wolf is howling, and maybe that's how he finds center again. )
Sorry.
( for the shift, the change. his father's anger was a storm to be weathered, sam still recalls how the mood would drop like the ambient temperature when the sun had gone down whenever his father came into a room and he'd told himself they'd never have that commonality.
softer, )
Sorry. 'Don't get a tattoo if you don't want people to ask', right?
( breathe in. breathe out. the wolfsong has stopped, and he wonders if they're coming closer. )
It's just a place where a lot of people died.
( they'd been laughing. joking about something stupid. heartbeats between moments, and everything can change in the space of one. military equipment is built by the lowest fucking bidder, rocket launcher meets metal plating and it was like tissue paper. jefferson never stood a chance. none of them did. if he hadn't been so disoriented by the blast, maybe — maybe it would have been different. but it wasn't. )
βͺ she lowers her hands, instead, reaches for his, which he has balled into fists under the surface. he's seen her shift and hide from angry patrons before, a habit she'd developed around some of her aunts more drunk, more rage-prone lovers, and her less than relaxed aunt herself.
it's not that his anger leaves her unaffected β it's that she believes in this moment, it's caused by hurt, rather than a true wish to lash out at her. so she lets him breathe, waits until the water's calmed, listens to his breathing, syncs her own with it. β«
I shouldn't have prodded into it.
βͺ not: i shouldn't have asked, her question's fair enough in her eyes. what she feels she shouldn't have done is find out they're coordinates, type them into a search engine, that kind of thing. sometime's a message's coded for a reason. β«
( 'a lot'. it's probably fewer than the number she's imagining. four, in this case. a small quantity of things, in the grand scheme of the universe, but it had been his whole world, then.
she doesn't flinch from the anger, and maybe that's why he leans back into her. just a little. it's instinct to cling to whatever isn't sinking in a storm. )
No, it's fine. ( her prodding. therapy's convinced him, sometimes he needs to talk. ) It was war. You don't go in expecting zero casualties.
( and they'd all been world-weary vets of afghanistan. fighting in the hindu kush. mountain warfare with a population that knew the land like the back of their hands. christ, he lost count of how many times fngs asked him why he, the only native guy in the unit, wasn't better at tracking them. like it's a fucking inherent skill he could just pull out of his ass on command.
afghanistan had cut their teeth. iraq was just more of the same. problem was, they'd let their guard down. complacency. maybe if someone'd been up in the turret scanning the horizon, maybe if they hadn't been goofing off, maybe if they hadn't all been thirty-six hours without sleep, maybe, maybe. each thought is a deeper furrow than the path the bullets took, and he carries them just the same as the scars. )
βͺ it takes her a moment to place what these words remind her of, as he sinks back into her touch, as she slowly lets go off his hands to get back to massaging his back, tend to the tensions in the most physical way she can. it sounds familiar ββΒ
it's an odd comparison, in the end, but it feels fitting anyway. drugs. not that she's ever done anything worse than smoke a little weed, the fox had saved her from that, had given her a place of safety and comfort and simple joys that were enough of a home to keep her from it. but addicts spoke that way about dead friends, sometimes. it's heroin, you don't expect to live that long. β«
I... I don't think it's fine. βͺ her voice is very soft. β« I think it's very, very difficult, actually.
βͺ there's a moment's hesitation, as she tries to wrap her thought into words.β«
I know you're strong. I just... I need you to know that I'm not going to fox off the moment you're feeling something other than calm and good humour.
( he surprises himself with a laugh. a little chuff of noise that's almost more crow than human, perhaps in presentation more than sound. )
No, I meant it's fine you're prodding. Six years of therapy has actually managed to convince me I'm pretty fucked up about it.
( there's a million words for what he feels. survivor's guilt is probably the foremost of them. his tone's a bit flippant, but that's just one more way he deals. easier to talk about it like it happened to something else. easier to pretend that infection isn't still below the surface waiting for the right pressure of a sharp knife to lance it out into the open air. )
But trust me, Flora, you wouldn't see that side of me if I didn't know it was. ( his mouth twists into a grimace. the word-choice that follows is deliberate: ) safe.
( for her, first of all. he couldn't control being angry, but he can control the anger. but. safe for him too. to show it. )
βͺ he's likely caught flora do much of the same thing, the shrug that usually pre-faces some revelation about her past that she knows isn't normal or healthy or good, but the truth all the same. maybe not the best trait to share, but if nothing else, it means they speak each other's language. β«
Good! We're on the same page.
βͺ she says it to try and lighten the air, as she's still doing what the jets wouldn't bless them with, easing tension out of him moment by moment. β«
I've been talking to friends a lot about... everything, but I'm going to get myself one of those therapists too, when we get back. Turns out the college's got a bit of an offer for students, counselling and such. Wouldn't be something I would have considered much if we hadn't met.
( her hands feel fucking wonderful. between that and the hot water, if the conversation weren't as fraught as it is, he'd be thinking about a nap. instead, he just ducks his head down, stretching out the muscles as she works. )
Just make sure you get a good one. Not every therapist's a fit for every person. The first couple I had really made me want to punch holes in drywall more than anything else. One of them thought it was a great idea to get critical about the war and the American invaders. Loved that. ( a bit of a sharp exhale. ) All I'm saying is, don't throw the baby out with the bath water if it doesn't stick at first.
βͺ it's right on the money β she fully hadn't considered that. β«
I'll keep it in mind. And... I'm glad you found one who works well for you.
βͺ there are other things she's thought about β boris, like every year since billie suggested it, is happy to host a thanksgiving for the youths. flora's sat herself down and thought of some things she can do with the kiddos without doubling down on things billie or sam or the others are already doing, and came up with a few ideas.
but... and that might be a bit selfish. but part of her just wants to enjoy the hot water, wants to do just what she's doing right now. sink in the moment. β«
βͺ part of her wants to joke, before she remembers the way he lives and realises that this is, truly, the kind of thing he can just buy. working jets and all. by now, with her place being as crappy as it is and the occasional generous tip, she's got her paycheck and savings that, well, don't amount to more than two hundred bucks, if that. and that's already a lot, considering where she used to be.
she's paid no mind to the wolves. it's... not her habit to focus on the soundscape of nature like that. β«
I'm not stopping you. I'll trade you breakfasts and dinners for a dip.
( he knows that it's wholly possible she's got a chip on her shoulder about the money. he tries not to lord it over anyone, but it's an undeniable part of him — but he didn't have the typical model of wealthy upbringing growing up. his father was frugal. every penny had to be accounted for, clothing was bought second-hand or mended unless it was to be worn in front of the cameras, belongings beyond that had to be earned. sam mowed lawns every day for a summer to buy the nintendo he'd had as a child. and after he moved out of that old, big house at sixteen he'd been as dirt poor as anyone else.
honestly, he had no idea how much money the old man had skimped and saved away until a lawyer was muttering millions into his ear over a poor-quality phone connection. he'd thought at most the house was the only asset of any note, and that he'd wanted to sell. his mother was the one who changed his mind, who'd said that he should take it as a chance to turn a place of misery into something better.
he's not. quite there yet. maybe once he throws out the last useless box of hoarded garbage he will be.
but in the meantime, he has more freedom than he's ever had in his life. money has gone from meaning everything to meaning almost nothing. he's not rich, but he's certainly wealthy. he could quit his job tomorrow and live off the interest of the sundry investments. instead, he pays them back into the community. sets up grants and programs and ways for people to better their lives. all things his father claimed to do but rarely did. he never made a financial move unless it doubled his return somehow. sam feels a kind of petty, vindictive pleasure in spending his money frivolously. )
Deal. Also, god, yeah, that spot. Right there, right shoulder.
βͺ he is not unpleasant about his wealth ββ in fact she's had no idea of it until she saw his house. that aside, he knows, intimately knows, in part through his work, what her side of the financial equation looks like. β«
Like so?
βͺ she can feel how tense this spot is, and she focuses her touch, amping up the intensity just enough to hopefully rub out the tension. β«
( it actually pulls a deep, pleasurable groan out of him. he doesn't exactly relax, but the tension does ease off, some. sam wouldn't know what to do with relaxation if it bit him, frankly. )
βͺ don't think flora won't make this her personal mission. β«
Oh, you would? Thank you.
βͺ she's not fully expected it, seeing how it was her idea to offer, so... the fact that he'd like to makes her feel all warm and soft inside. that said, she does shift to give him access. her curls are already pinned up as well as they can be, considering that they're not exactly tameable. β«
( he swaps with her, but. there's a problem. she sinks so low into the water that any motion of his hands against her back is going to create the world's most awkward splashing. he stares at her shoulders, flummoxed. the only solution he can think of off the top of his head is her sitting on his lap, but. he is. not going to suggest that.
instead, he just bursts out laughing. )
Holy shit. You're too short for this, I'm so sorry. We might have to carry this on inside by the fireplace.
βͺ she joins in, coming to just about the same realisation. it's not something she'd considered β after all, she's just had the most comfortable time massaging him, what with most of her body being in the nice, hot water. she laughs hard enough to get a helping of tub-water into her mouth, so the amusement is temporarily interrupted by coughing.
eventually β β«
I didn't consider that. βͺ lord, it's a good idea in general β they've been in the water for quite a while now. once she's gathered her bearings, she wades through to the adjunct shelf and hands him a towel before grabbing one for herself. β« And I should have, I mean, I sat in your driver's seat trying to reach any pedal.
βͺ back during the storm, when he'd shown her his precious blue. β«
( he just laughs, follows behind her. he grabs the towels they'd set aside, handing her one first before he drapes the second of them over one shoulder. )
Want a lift?
( it's not a long walk to the house, but they're barefoot. and maybe it's an excuse to be near to her, and maybe it's just being chivalrous. either way. )
βͺ she grins β after all, she'd been the one to awkwardly stalk barefoot into the tub, trying to avoid any pebbles that might have found their way onto the deck. β«
Always!
βͺ and it's only in part because, after spending so much time touching, it's a strangely bereft feeling not to be so close anymore. β«
( so, after ensuring she is secure in the towel, he sweeps her — quite literally — off her feet. an old-fashioned bridal carry, with all the bells and whistles. he's grinning a bit as he does it, enjoying the proximity just as much.
kissing her would feel so natural right here. he almost does it, too, half leaned in over her where she's nestled in his arms, but. he holds back, instead transmuting the gesture to a press of his cheek over the crown of her hair. affectionate without being overt. once he's finangled the door open with no small amount of finesse, he sets her gently down. )
Do you have any lotion or something? Your skin'll rub otherwise.
βͺ he carries her, and it's a wonderful, lighthearted feeling to be in his arms like that, and there's a moment where she's sure he's about to kiss her β instead, he presses his cheek to her, nuzzling her in an affectionate way that, somehow, has her feeling just as good as a kiss might have. once inside and on her own two feet, she nods, stepping over to her backpack and returning with a lotion bottle. β«
With shea butter.
βͺ because she'd liked the scent, which, to be fair, is how she does most of her shopping. lotion, much like conditioner and the concept of not just using her shower gel as both that and a shampoo, are a recent addition, slowly brought in as her paycheck became a stable thing to allow those small expenses she'd previously denied herself.
she joins him by the fire, hands the bottle to him to inspect. β«
Y'think it's going to work?
βͺ she's no expert. his skin's probably glad there was water and steam about. β«
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βͺ there's quiet for a moment, the comfortable silence that sometimes settles between them, when there's not a hundred questions and fifteen funny stories from the bar bubbling out of her. that said, no proper massage can stick to his shoulders, and she can't do this unevenlyΒ ββ which means she lowers her touch, gently caressing where she wants to continue β her right hand on skin, her left on skin, too. skin and scar-tissue. β«
Is this okay?
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( maybe it's easier to talk about with her than he'd anticipated. but how many times in ten years has he been deliberate about letting other people see them? be this close? not many. the women he's slept with mostly thought they were sexy, or used them as proof positive he must be in dire need of fixing or saving or both, somehow. the real answer is so far away as to almost be on another planet. scars just mean something you've survived.
there are other things that've hurt him worse than bullets in his life.
he's silent a moment. then, )
It was a Kalashnikov. Russia really fucked up with that one, left probably half their second world war armory in Afghanistan after they pulled out in '89. The guns migrated with the militants.
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she lowers her head β he can feel her curls against his back before she pulls herself together. β«
Sorry 'bout that, I just. βͺ her hands remain steady, uninterrupted. β« It doesn't look survivable. And it's hard to think about that.
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Shifter things, you know. The crow wanted to live.
( all shifters are inherently hardier than humans. something in their dna. they're stronger, they heal quicker. it doesn't seem to depend on the type of shifter or the durability of the animal in question — he doesn't think he's inherently any weaker than his grandfather was in his prime.
he lifts a shoulder in an absent shrug. )
It healed up fine.
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I'm glad we met.
βͺ it can't encompass all she feels, but it's... it's an important part. β«
Can I ask you about something else? The coordinates?
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but the coordinates aren't only the place he got shot.
he sucks a breath in between his teeth, hands clenched beneath the still water of the tub. some of flora's questions have, in the past, been invasive, but she hasn't asked any that makes him angry like this one does. and he knows it's not reasonable or rational for that sudden ember of rage to combust into a conflagration, incandescent with the burn, but.
he has to walk himself back. focus on the mist. the air. the ambient sounds of the woods. somewhere, in the distance, a wolf is howling, and maybe that's how he finds center again. )
Sorry.
( for the shift, the change. his father's anger was a storm to be weathered, sam still recalls how the mood would drop like the ambient temperature when the sun had gone down whenever his father came into a room and he'd told himself they'd never have that commonality.
softer, )
Sorry. 'Don't get a tattoo if you don't want people to ask', right?
( breathe in. breathe out. the wolfsong has stopped, and he wonders if they're coming closer. )
It's just a place where a lot of people died.
( they'd been laughing. joking about something stupid. heartbeats between moments, and everything can change in the space of one. military equipment is built by the lowest fucking bidder, rocket launcher meets metal plating and it was like tissue paper. jefferson never stood a chance. none of them did. if he hadn't been so disoriented by the blast, maybe — maybe it would have been different. but it wasn't. )
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it's not that his anger leaves her unaffected β it's that she believes in this moment, it's caused by hurt, rather than a true wish to lash out at her. so she lets him breathe, waits until the water's calmed, listens to his breathing, syncs her own with it. β«
I shouldn't have prodded into it.
βͺ not: i shouldn't have asked, her question's fair enough in her eyes. what she feels she shouldn't have done is find out they're coordinates, type them into a search engine, that kind of thing. sometime's a message's coded for a reason. β«
I am sorry you lost so many people.
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she doesn't flinch from the anger, and maybe that's why he leans back into her. just a little. it's instinct to cling to whatever isn't sinking in a storm. )
No, it's fine. ( her prodding. therapy's convinced him, sometimes he needs to talk. ) It was war. You don't go in expecting zero casualties.
( and they'd all been world-weary vets of afghanistan. fighting in the hindu kush. mountain warfare with a population that knew the land like the back of their hands. christ, he lost count of how many times fngs asked him why he, the only native guy in the unit, wasn't better at tracking them. like it's a fucking inherent skill he could just pull out of his ass on command.
afghanistan had cut their teeth. iraq was just more of the same. problem was, they'd let their guard down. complacency. maybe if someone'd been up in the turret scanning the horizon, maybe if they hadn't been goofing off, maybe if they hadn't all been thirty-six hours without sleep, maybe, maybe. each thought is a deeper furrow than the path the bullets took, and he carries them just the same as the scars. )
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it's an odd comparison, in the end, but it feels fitting anyway. drugs. not that she's ever done anything worse than smoke a little weed, the fox had saved her from that, had given her a place of safety and comfort and simple joys that were enough of a home to keep her from it. but addicts spoke that way about dead friends, sometimes. it's heroin, you don't expect to live that long. β«
I... I don't think it's fine. βͺ her voice is very soft. β« I think it's very, very difficult, actually.
βͺ there's a moment's hesitation, as she tries to wrap her thought into words.β«
I know you're strong. I just... I need you to know that I'm not going to fox off the moment you're feeling something other than calm and good humour.
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No, I meant it's fine you're prodding. Six years of therapy has actually managed to convince me I'm pretty fucked up about it.
( there's a million words for what he feels. survivor's guilt is probably the foremost of them. his tone's a bit flippant, but that's just one more way he deals. easier to talk about it like it happened to something else. easier to pretend that infection isn't still below the surface waiting for the right pressure of a sharp knife to lance it out into the open air. )
But trust me, Flora, you wouldn't see that side of me if I didn't know it was. ( his mouth twists into a grimace. the word-choice that follows is deliberate: ) safe.
( for her, first of all. he couldn't control being angry, but he can control the anger. but. safe for him too. to show it. )
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Good! We're on the same page.
βͺ she says it to try and lighten the air, as she's still doing what the jets wouldn't bless them with, easing tension out of him moment by moment. β«
I've been talking to friends a lot about... everything, but I'm going to get myself one of those therapists too, when we get back. Turns out the college's got a bit of an offer for students, counselling and such. Wouldn't be something I would have considered much if we hadn't met.
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Just make sure you get a good one. Not every therapist's a fit for every person. The first couple I had really made me want to punch holes in drywall more than anything else. One of them thought it was a great idea to get critical about the war and the American invaders. Loved that. ( a bit of a sharp exhale. ) All I'm saying is, don't throw the baby out with the bath water if it doesn't stick at first.
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I'll keep it in mind. And... I'm glad you found one who works well for you.
βͺ there are other things she's thought about β boris, like every year since billie suggested it, is happy to host a thanksgiving for the youths. flora's sat herself down and thought of some things she can do with the kiddos without doubling down on things billie or sam or the others are already doing, and came up with a few ideas.
but... and that might be a bit selfish. but part of her just wants to enjoy the hot water, wants to do just what she's doing right now. sink in the moment. β«
I like this place. I'm glad we came here.
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Honestly, all this is doing is convincing me I should put a hottub in my back yard.
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she's paid no mind to the wolves. it's... not her habit to focus on the soundscape of nature like that. β«
I'm not stopping you. I'll trade you breakfasts and dinners for a dip.
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honestly, he had no idea how much money the old man had skimped and saved away until a lawyer was muttering millions into his ear over a poor-quality phone connection. he'd thought at most the house was the only asset of any note, and that he'd wanted to sell. his mother was the one who changed his mind, who'd said that he should take it as a chance to turn a place of misery into something better.
he's not. quite there yet. maybe once he throws out the last useless box of hoarded garbage he will be.
but in the meantime, he has more freedom than he's ever had in his life. money has gone from meaning everything to meaning almost nothing. he's not rich, but he's certainly wealthy. he could quit his job tomorrow and live off the interest of the sundry investments. instead, he pays them back into the community. sets up grants and programs and ways for people to better their lives. all things his father claimed to do but rarely did. he never made a financial move unless it doubled his return somehow. sam feels a kind of petty, vindictive pleasure in spending his money frivolously. )
Deal. Also, god, yeah, that spot. Right there, right shoulder.
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Like so?
βͺ she can feel how tense this spot is, and she focuses her touch, amping up the intensity just enough to hopefully rub out the tension. β«
I'm so going to do this more often. It's fun!
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Christ, here. Trade me spots. Your turn.
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Oh, you would? Thank you.
βͺ she's not fully expected it, seeing how it was her idea to offer, so... the fact that he'd like to makes her feel all warm and soft inside. that said, she does shift to give him access. her curls are already pinned up as well as they can be, considering that they're not exactly tameable. β«
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instead, he just bursts out laughing. )
Holy shit. You're too short for this, I'm so sorry. We might have to carry this on inside by the fireplace.
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eventually β β«
I didn't consider that. βͺ lord, it's a good idea in general β they've been in the water for quite a while now. once she's gathered her bearings, she wades through to the adjunct shelf and hands him a towel before grabbing one for herself. β« And I should have, I mean, I sat in your driver's seat trying to reach any pedal.
βͺ back during the storm, when he'd shown her his precious blue. β«
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Want a lift?
( it's not a long walk to the house, but they're barefoot. and maybe it's an excuse to be near to her, and maybe it's just being chivalrous. either way. )
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Always!
βͺ and it's only in part because, after spending so much time touching, it's a strangely bereft feeling not to be so close anymore. β«
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kissing her would feel so natural right here. he almost does it, too, half leaned in over her where she's nestled in his arms, but. he holds back, instead transmuting the gesture to a press of his cheek over the crown of her hair. affectionate without being overt. once he's finangled the door open with no small amount of finesse, he sets her gently down. )
Do you have any lotion or something? Your skin'll rub otherwise.
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With shea butter.
βͺ because she'd liked the scent, which, to be fair, is how she does most of her shopping. lotion, much like conditioner and the concept of not just using her shower gel as both that and a shampoo, are a recent addition, slowly brought in as her paycheck became a stable thing to allow those small expenses she'd previously denied herself.
she joins him by the fire, hands the bottle to him to inspect. β«
Y'think it's going to work?
βͺ she's no expert. his skin's probably glad there was water and steam about. β«
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