Re: Diner: Seven & Marta
What Seven wouldn’t give to know what she was thinking, as she stood there in the doorway to the greasy spoon. There were some things that struck familiar, of course, and he was at least smart enough to fill in some of the blanks. There was the air of a deer in headlights about her, like the last time. The day he’d found out she was, in fact, alive - and in Repose no less. And the posture, too. Ready to take flight like a rabbit spotted, still mostly shrouded in what Seven recognized as self-preservation. Layers, wrapped tight. A fragile heart beating somewhere beneath. Scared of him, maybe? Or scared of what he represented in her own reflection. He still couldn’t tell. But she’d reached out first, and she hadn’t run when he answered. So that was new territory hardly explored. All of this, it was tentative. Delicate. They were delicate.
So he didn’t stand as she approached, instead leaning back against the weathered vinyl of the booth’s bench. His hands were resting on the table to either side of his coffee cup, still tanned a ruddy olive from the summer months spent building a new keg shed out back of The Bar. At ease, nonthreatening. He didn’t even turn one of his hands palm-up like he wanted, didn’t slide it toward her side of the laminate tabletop to offer in greeting in case she wanted it. (Because what if she didn’t?) And all of that was familiar, hinted at the way he’d become so keenly aware of her reservations when they had been together, lived their lives together as a malleable unit. How he’d become so acutely accustomed to moving respectfully around her space, asking silent permission instead of intruding.
She looked skinnier than the last time, but it was hard to tell with the parka, and he didn’t stare. He didn’t let his face betray his thoughts as she took the seat opposite. Instead he smiled, gently. Not coddling, just cautious and maybe a little self-conscious.