( it isn't really a question. he's a soldier. their battlefields may have been different but there were some things that couldn't be lost even across the stars. there's a hint of sympathy to her voice, not any sort of pity, she'd have rejected that herself, but the sorrow that he also experiences such a thing. the shared sympathy.
it isn't the war that keeps her awake, not the battlefields of rhodia or her own punishment but what had come after that, a battle that could never be finished. not by her )
What do you do?
( usually she gets up, makes coffee, angrily stalks about the house and wishes murder on the other person that resides there, hating him even more for her perceived expectancy that he's sleeping peacefully. sleep is never an option again, or at least quill doesn't even try to go back to sleep, images still in her mind. is it the same for him too? )
[ There's flickers of the war, of soldiers with their guns marching through his memories. But it's never out there on the field, never in the actual war zone. No, they always return to his home, the kitchen, the bedroom, sometimes along the fields where they'd laid out the blanket with homemade dishes, just within walking distance of the carousel.
It's his war, yes, but more of the one in his mind than any that required a gun and a uniform. ]
I ... I don't really know. [ Mostly because he never really found a worthy way to cope with it. Though that isn't what she asks, not looking for some solution to the nightmares, knowing there never really is one.
He looks at his own fingers, adjusting his focus to the life lines of his palm. ] I worked construction once. Would sneak out on the site in the middle of the night, grab a sledgehammer and just β just break apart the walls. [ And he'd scream and scream, no one ever around in those hours to be alert of it. ]
( at his expression quill knows that he's now thinking of his nightmares, thinking of the pain he revisits each night and she regrets asking the question. it had been a momentary deflection from herself, a hope of some better thing but instead--
she sighs, shifting on the bed before getting up from it )
I'll make coffee.
( and one for him. she doesn't bother for the moment with grabbing any clothes, just heading out towards the kitchen to start boiling the water, pulling two mugs down.
getting out of the room helps a little, as if she's closing the door to her memories by leaving them in the bedroom. they're not gone or forgotten, tension still in her shoulders as she makes the drinks, lingering emotion in her expression, but that and doing something at least distracts. temporarily )
[ He can't provide an answer for her, not one that can somehow resolve the tension that follows up the haunting wake of a nightmare, though he's sure that isn't what she's seeking.
When she rises, he watches her in stillness, mind momentarily distracted in his own thoughts even as she sways up and out of the bedroom.
He runs a palm over his eyes, subbing the sleep still there as he takes another minute of silence before rising himself from the mattress. Sliding boxer briefs back over his thighs, he makes the way out the door to meet her in the kitchen, sliding his hips against the counter. ]
( she doesn't speak until after sliding one of the mugs towards him, hands holding her own close to her, letting the warmth try to guard against the chill of the air against bare skin, the cold of the kitchen floor )
It's the only one I have.
( there was no end to the nightmares, no stopping of the guilt. quill wanted only one thing, one justice but it was impossible to her. she couldn't kill anyone anymore and the one particular weapon would be out of reach even if she was free )
I make coffee and spend the time hating my captor.
( thinking of the ways she'd love to kill him or take revenge, of the things that could happen if only she could let it )
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no subject
( it isn't really a question. he's a soldier. their battlefields may have been different but there were some things that couldn't be lost even across the stars. there's a hint of sympathy to her voice, not any sort of pity, she'd have rejected that herself, but the sorrow that he also experiences such a thing. the shared sympathy.
it isn't the war that keeps her awake, not the battlefields of rhodia or her own punishment but what had come after that, a battle that could never be finished. not by her )
What do you do?
( usually she gets up, makes coffee, angrily stalks about the house and wishes murder on the other person that resides there, hating him even more for her perceived expectancy that he's sleeping peacefully. sleep is never an option again, or at least quill doesn't even try to go back to sleep, images still in her mind. is it the same for him too? )
no subject
[ There's flickers of the war, of soldiers with their guns marching through his memories. But it's never out there on the field, never in the actual war zone. No, they always return to his home, the kitchen, the bedroom, sometimes along the fields where they'd laid out the blanket with homemade dishes, just within walking distance of the carousel.
It's his war, yes, but more of the one in his mind than any that required a gun and a uniform. ]
I ... I don't really know. [ Mostly because he never really found a worthy way to cope with it. Though that isn't what she asks, not looking for some solution to the nightmares, knowing there never really is one.
He looks at his own fingers, adjusting his focus to the life lines of his palm. ] I worked construction once. Would sneak out on the site in the middle of the night, grab a sledgehammer and just β just break apart the walls. [ And he'd scream and scream, no one ever around in those hours to be alert of it. ]
no subject
she sighs, shifting on the bed before getting up from it )
I'll make coffee.
( and one for him. she doesn't bother for the moment with grabbing any clothes, just heading out towards the kitchen to start boiling the water, pulling two mugs down.
getting out of the room helps a little, as if she's closing the door to her memories by leaving them in the bedroom. they're not gone or forgotten, tension still in her shoulders as she makes the drinks, lingering emotion in her expression, but that and doing something at least distracts. temporarily )
no subject
When she rises, he watches her in stillness, mind momentarily distracted in his own thoughts even as she sways up and out of the bedroom.
He runs a palm over his eyes, subbing the sleep still there as he takes another minute of silence before rising himself from the mattress. Sliding boxer briefs back over his thighs, he makes the way out the door to meet her in the kitchen, sliding his hips against the counter. ]
Coffee's a good alternative.
no subject
It's the only one I have.
( there was no end to the nightmares, no stopping of the guilt. quill wanted only one thing, one justice but it was impossible to her. she couldn't kill anyone anymore and the one particular weapon would be out of reach even if she was free )
I make coffee and spend the time hating my captor.
( thinking of the ways she'd love to kill him or take revenge, of the things that could happen if only she could let it )