[ She finds him some. One, two; the little curled crescents deftly picked from the mix and deposited into the waiting hand. ]
Some. Not as we should speak. I think perhaps the both of us are avoiding it, or allowing the other to.
I do not even know what he did that night.
[ And she doesn't want to ask. Not only because it will hurt to hear, but because she doesn't want him to ask her what she had done. It is the first stone of the soulless road she paved, and thinking too closely of it now— thinking too closely about near everything in those silent years— is like looking directly at the sun.
[ It is the only polite thing to say while he’s chewing. After he’s swallowed, though— ]
I hate to give advice, because then if it goes badly it is my fault. [ A joke. Sort of. ] And I don’t know how things are for the two of you when I am not there, you know, making them much worse.
[ Also a joke; also only sort of. ]
I think it is hard to talk to someone about how they have hurt you unless you don’t mind hurting them back. But I think if I were hurt—if I were capable of being hurt— [ One last joke for the road, with a wry little smile, because he doesn’t expect her to believe that old spy’s lie. ] —then knowing that the person who hurt me understood what it meant for me, feeling like they could carry that with me—it would be a step. [ Again: ] I think.
[ He thinks of Byerly, younger and even skinnier and selling his violin to scrape by, and his default pleasant expression dips for a moment. But then it’s back. ]
I also think I do not really know what I am doing, most of the time, so...
[ For a little while she is quiet, considering. Thinking of how often it is that they are strangers to each other— she and Byerly. The violent dichotomy of their intimacy; how quickly a moment of incredible softness turns to the heat of her fear fueled rage and the chill of his withdrawal. How the closer they hold one another, the easier it is to tear one another to shreds when they stray from knowing into nothing.
If there were more knowing, perhaps...
Finally: ]
You do not make things worse, Bastien. Telling a man who is unaware he has taken a wound that he bleeds is not the cause of the bleeding.
[ She'd been palming cashews as she picked them out, one tucked away for every one she'd revealed. She puts them on the desk now, a little offering. ]
[ Bastien nods, smiles wider for the additional cashew bounty, and picks one up. ]
Thank you. [ For the cashews, for the kind correction. He splits the nut in half with his nail rather than eat it straight away. ] Tell me how it goes—your conversation about Miss Poppell. Or if I do not see or hear from you until tomorrow I will just assume it went very well.
[ A joke, like his: sort of. But when she gets up and brushes her hands lightly down her skirt to set it hanging properly she is looking at him again. And if her smile is not a broad bright thing, it is at least not sad. ]
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no subject
[ She finds him some. One, two; the little curled crescents deftly picked from the mix and deposited into the waiting hand. ]
Some. Not as we should speak. I think perhaps the both of us are avoiding it, or allowing the other to.
I do not even know what he did that night.
[ And she doesn't want to ask. Not only because it will hurt to hear, but because she doesn't want him to ask her what she had done. It is the first stone of the soulless road she paved, and thinking too closely of it now— thinking too closely about near everything in those silent years— is like looking directly at the sun.
So she doesn't. ]
no subject
[ It is the only polite thing to say while he’s chewing. After he’s swallowed, though— ]
I hate to give advice, because then if it goes badly it is my fault. [ A joke. Sort of. ] And I don’t know how things are for the two of you when I am not there, you know, making them much worse.
[ Also a joke; also only sort of. ]
I think it is hard to talk to someone about how they have hurt you unless you don’t mind hurting them back. But I think if I were hurt—if I were capable of being hurt— [ One last joke for the road, with a wry little smile, because he doesn’t expect her to believe that old spy’s lie. ] —then knowing that the person who hurt me understood what it meant for me, feeling like they could carry that with me—it would be a step. [ Again: ] I think.
[ He thinks of Byerly, younger and even skinnier and selling his violin to scrape by, and his default pleasant expression dips for a moment. But then it’s back. ]
I also think I do not really know what I am doing, most of the time, so...
no subject
If there were more knowing, perhaps...
Finally: ]
You do not make things worse, Bastien. Telling a man who is unaware he has taken a wound that he bleeds is not the cause of the bleeding.
[ She'd been palming cashews as she picked them out, one tucked away for every one she'd revealed. She puts them on the desk now, a little offering. ]
You make things better. It is better to know.
no subject
Thank you. [ For the cashews, for the kind correction. He splits the nut in half with his nail rather than eat it straight away. ] Tell me how it goes—your conversation about Miss Poppell. Or if I do not see or hear from you until tomorrow I will just assume it went very well.
no subject
[ A joke, like his: sort of. But when she gets up and brushes her hands lightly down her skirt to set it hanging properly she is looking at him again. And if her smile is not a broad bright thing, it is at least not sad. ]
I will. [ A pause, and— ] Thank you.