[ that first night on the station, she had taken an offhanded comment of his and turned it into something else. from surviving this shit to surviving, period, meant to be as optimistic as it is realistic, yet she hadn't stopped to think that maybe
for some people
surviving is all they've ever done.
once you've done something for long enough, doesn't the spirit get tired?
marta watches kovacs' eyes train themselves on the slow work of her hands, and thinks (not for the first time) how old the light in his eyes look. distant, like they aren't quite made to fit the hazel they're encased in. ]
I'm sorry.
[ words often left to the role of empty platitudes, but she always tries to make them more than that, inject an empathic sincerity there that speaks to a quietly breaking heart. sorry he'd been left alone. sorry that he thinks he still is.
she finally finishes her work, holding her doll up right alongside his. where hers had once been perfectly made, it now bears a tilted spine, a too-long right arm — the mirror image to her own. she sets both down upright on a mound of snow right before them, the shorter of their arms just barely touching. so that, if you squint, together the dolls look less like people and more like a single, lonely star.
she sits herself back, breathing in deep the lingering smoke. ]
no subject
for some people
surviving is all they've ever done.
once you've done something for long enough, doesn't the spirit get tired?
marta watches kovacs' eyes train themselves on the slow work of her hands, and thinks (not for the first time) how old the light in his eyes look. distant, like they aren't quite made to fit the hazel they're encased in. ]
I'm sorry.
[ words often left to the role of empty platitudes, but she always tries to make them more than that, inject an empathic sincerity there that speaks to a quietly breaking heart. sorry he'd been left alone. sorry that he thinks he still is.
she finally finishes her work, holding her doll up right alongside his. where hers had once been perfectly made, it now bears a tilted spine, a too-long right arm — the mirror image to her own. she sets both down upright on a mound of snow right before them, the shorter of their arms just barely touching. so that, if you squint, together the dolls look less like people and more like a single, lonely star.
she sits herself back, breathing in deep the lingering smoke. ]
Still have that lighter?