🎵 𝄞 🎸 𝄫 🎷🎶 🎻 (jukejoint) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-05-20 00:46:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !dc comics, *log, neil donovan, sam alexander |
Log: Neil/Sam
Who: Sam and Neil
What: Reuniting
Where: A Gotham restaurant
When: Recently
Warnings/Rating: Language
Neil still wasn’t sure if Gotham was a blessing in disguise or a deeper level of the hell Las Vegas had become. He had money. He had power. He had a huge fucking house. All pros, but then there was the tiny problem of having all of this as a result of being the head of a crime family. Morality was only one complication; now there were other mob families to deal with. One in particular, it seemed, wanted full-out war. Damn the Falcones. If he did nothing, he’d be seen as weak. If he responded, there would be no turning back and people would undoubtedly get hurt. Like Sam said, he’d have to be willing to do things he’d never done before. Even if he found a way to hit the Falcones as hard as possible, as quickly as possible, chances were that this wasn’t going to be a feud easily settled. First, it was Ash. What next? Who next? And it didn’t help that, aside from Louis, his family wasn’t involved in the criminal dealings. Even Louis seemed reluctant to step into this new life set before them; the last thing he wanted was to force him into anything.
So yeah, things hadn’t been good. Or easy. He was strategizing, or trying to, and contemplating hitting up Eddie whoever to see what he had to say. In the midst of that he realized that something was up with Sam, something Louis knew about but wasn’t willing to disclose details on. He had no idea what the hell was happening, but he was determined to find out. Like his life wasn’t fucked up enough already, right?
He was at the restaurant early, some family-owned place that was pretty much empty at this time of day. When he walked in there was the usual deference of respect, and he sat himself down in a corner table to wait. He wasn’t wearing a suit but was somewhere between dressy and casual, brow furrowed as he perused his phone.
Sam was working. She was midway through a long shift that had cut into her lunch hour, so she didn't have time to go home and change into something more, yeah, something. Something more like the girl Neil had known. She knew that was a stupid desire anyway, because she wasn't that girl anymore, and pretending for the duration of a meal wasn't going to make it real. So, she walked to the restaurant in red and a cardigan, slacks and flats, her hair messy and free of the bun she'd tucked it into that morning.
And, yeah, she was fucking nervous. So far, the conversations she'd had with people from six years earlier hadn't gone so fucking good. She knew she'd changed, knew she'd been through shit, and maybe that shit made it harder to deal with their shit. She wasn't sure. She only knew that all this crap? It felt like intrusion or something. She'd gotten over missing everyone. She'd sucked it up, yeah? And now they were back, but none of them actually knew her. And she'd forgotten so fucking much about dealing with them.
And Neil? Neil was the worst. She could deal with Lin not liking her, with Lou and Daniel and Russ. Whatever. But she'd cried herself to sleep for fucking weeks over Neil. And while he was like some shimmering thing from her past, she knew that didn't mean he would want to be part of her future. She'd tried, while getting dressed that morning, to remember exactly where the fuck he was. Not physically, yeah? Emotionally. Where they'd been, because it would be important to whatever conversation they had. But that shit had been stressful. She wasn't, as Lin had taunted, a shrink. She wasn't even close to that, and conducting therapy sessions for Gotham villains? Yeah, so didn't help with this kind of fucking crap.
She looked around the restaurant, and she mentally pinpointed all the crime family associates. Because, yeah, you didn't call Arkham home for six fucking years without knowing every villain to cross through its doors. That was the thing with places like Arkham; it brought together evil shit, and then it somehow expected that evil shit to get less evil. That shit so didn't work.
She saw him, finally, and she walked toward his table. She was skinnier, much skinnier, because Arkham did that too. And she was an awkward approach, nothing like the steady bounding confidence of the girl she'd been. Yeah, no, she kind of looked like she would run if someone talked too loud. Because, yeah, well, maybe she would. "Hey."
At first glance, Neil dismissed the woman who walked in. It was quick, there and back, too quick to register familiarity. She was somebody else. He didn’t actually notice she was approaching until he heard footsteps drawing closer, and he looked up with a mixture of confusion and annoyance, because hell, didn’t anybody who came in here know who he was? Didn’t he pay people to make sure he wasn’t disturbed? He started to speak when she said hey, started to ask who the hell she was (politely), but then he stopped.
Now that she was close, now that he could see her properly, he stared. He stared because there was something... familiar. He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid. He could put a few pieces together. Louis saying something was wrong, Louis telling him to talk to Sam, the fact that he’d agreed to meet her here, at this time…
“Sam?” He sounded incredulous, doubtful, like he wasn’t sure if he was going insane or not.
She pulled out a chair before she answered him, thin wrist and long fingers and her grip on the thing was a little shaky or whatever. But there was a kind of logic in that; it had been forever, yeah? But she was outward calm as she sat down, with the exception of that hand's tremor, and she looked at him without flinching or looking away. Arkham taught a person how to look really horrible shit in the face, and she knew his reaction would be the equivalent of really horrible shit; she was expecting that.
He looked good. She realized it in a belated way. She'd tried to remember what he looked like for years, but she'd forgotten after a while. All the drugs and therapies, they weren't really good for mental clarity, but she'd tried to keep some kind of picture in her mind. He looked better than that picture, and she smiled a reserved smile that was slightly wry, slightly entertained with herself, no gapped teeth in sight.
"Hey," she repeated, and she still sounded Jersey, just less. Everything about her, as she sat there, was less. "It's been a while. Well, for me anyway, yeah?" Obviously. It was a yes without so many words.
She didn’t speak right away, didn’t answer, and so Neil stared. He wasn’t sure what else to say until he had confirmation or denial, though truthfully he was expecting the former. She looked different, obviously. Older. Like a lot of fucking time had passed and he wondered, briefly, if she was even the same Sam he'd known. Time changed shit, didn't it? Maybe he was her past, a memory, and this was a 'letting him down gently' meeting. Their relationship had been complicated enough before, after all, and he doubted this was going to make things any easier. She was calm, and he tried to be the same, outwardly at least, even though he wanted to scream. Fuck this. He couldn't ever seem to catch a break.
Her smile was different, too. No gap-toothed grin, but he could still see familiarity in it if he looked hard enough. "Yeah," he echoed. "You're-- how long? What the hell happened? Louis wouldn't tell me a damn thing." He ran a hand over his jaw and wished for a drink.
"Six years. Yeah, Lou kind of freaked and lost his shit." The language was still there, the expletives, but it was calm around the edges, slow, accepting. "We were fighting about your job or whatever, and we ended up in the door without using a key. There was this little yellow box, and I picked it up." She shrugged slowly, because that was it, yeah? And the use of the word job was intentional; a quick look around told her most of the people in this place where his, but she knew better than to trust any of them. If shit was still the way it had been when she'd last seen him, then every one of those goons was probably considering a bite at the apple. If they saw him as weak or unsure, they were probably already mobilizing behind the scenes.
The waiter came, and she ordered a club soda with lime, and she waited for them to be alone before she spoke again. She reached across the table, and she squeezed his fingers with something like the fearlessness of her youth, no hesitation, despite the fact that the grip was gentler than it ever was when she was younger. Her fingers were thin, long-boned, and they had the same weird fragility that the rest of her did now, bones and not enough meat to make her the brash kid she'd been once; even her voice was fucking soft when she spoke. "Hey. It's ok, yeah? Like I told Lou, it's no one's fault. Shit just happened, and I'm fine." She drew her hand back slowly.
Neil stared. Six years. Six fucking years. Just like that, while for the rest of them time had passed normally. Of course Louis had freaked. Of course he'd lost his shit. "So you picked up this box and... what? Where'd you go?" It hadn't been here, that was for damn sure. He caught her use of the word 'job', and truth be told while he was trying to present a strong, capable front, he wasn't sure how well it was working. He couldn't trust anyone and he knew it. Even if they hit the Falcones back hard, even if they asserted their power in this city, it was all too easy for someone to stab him in the back. Power was nice, but it came with its fair share of risks and dangers.
He ordered a water without much thought, waiting impatiently for the waiter to fuck off so they could keep talking. When she squeezed his fingers he looked down, cataloging the differences before brushing his fingers over hers. "It's okay? You're fine?" He looked back up at her. "Come on, Sam. This is kind of a big deal."
She was quiet while he stared, because she knew that shit took some getting used to. She didn't rush him impatiently. She didn't push at him to give her a reaction. She waited as the drinks came, and she waited after. She was good at being still now, fucking unmoving and her inky gaze lighting on him every so often. "I went back to some version of Gotham. I don't know what version. There are lots of them, yeah?" The Gotham she'd gone to had been smooth and whole or whatever, not like this one where people came from all fucking places, but it was still Gotham.
And, yeah, so she held still while she squeezed his fingers, outwardly unconcerned about whether or not he reciprocated. No pressure or whatever, but she smiled a little when he brushed his fingers over hers, a wan sort of pleasure on a face that looked like maybe it wasn't used to it anymore. "Ok, so maybe it's a big deal, but I don't want you to feel pressured by it or something. I'm not who I was. I get that. Shit was hard at the beginning, but it's ok now. I swear, Neil, it really is ok now. I'd rather hear about you, because I've forgotten so much shit." And there were eyes on them, yeah? Of course there were. She wasn't who she'd been, and the mob families catalogued shit. She was an ex-Arkham inmate, and that made her one of them in a way she hadn't been before. She wasn't sure if that would make shit better or worse for him; she did know they couldn't talk Family shit here, not too much. But that didn't stop her from tugging her hand back slowly and tucking strands of messy blonde behind her ear as she leaned forward, elbows on the table and a fucking whisper that looked like it was all intimacy. "The guys at the corner table are Falcone."
He didn't need to be a comic book nut to know that there were a million different universes, which meant a million different Gothams. "Yeah, I guess," he agreed. She seemed really fucking calm, which still didn't make much sense, and he studied her like he wasn't sure if it was an act or reality. "Was it like this place? What did you do? Hell, what are you doing now?" Because she'd mentioned a job, and drug running didn't exactly give lunch breaks.
Despite everything, her smile made him feel a little better. It was the most irrational thought ever, maybe, but that didn't make it any less true. "I don't feel pressured," he said immediately, because that wasn't it at all. "I just-- I don't want you to minimize shit or whatever. If it's okay now, great, awesome, but if it's not you can tell me." In all honesty, Neil didn't have a lot of fucking people in his life. Louis, Ash, and Dair--Casey was gone--and Sam. That was it, really. Everybody else was on a damn payroll. "There isn't much to say about me," he admitted. "Louis and I are trying to figure shit out." He said it quietly, and when she leaned forward he followed suit, a small smile and pretense of sharing some silly whispered words. He wasn't stupid; he knew better to stare at the men in question. He didn't even turn his head. "I'm still trying to pinpoint all the damn fuckers." He sighed. Following through had seemed a viable option before, but now he wasn't so sure.
She was calm while he scrutinized her. It didn't bother her to have him look or whatever. She was used to people staring at her. And, yeah, ok, so maybe she wanted him to like her or be into her or whatever, but she didn't expect it. She was older, and he'd liked her when she was different, before years of testing at Arkham had fucked her shit up in ways that wasn't immediately evident. But there was still something hopeful in the fragility of her smile, despite her desire to keep it hidden. Whatever, he was gorgeous, and she'd forgotten a little or whatever. And if there was something Arkham did to a person, it was make them respond to power in ways that weren't so healthy.
"It's ok," she repeated, because it was, yeah? "I work at Arkham, you know, group therapy and shit. It was a rough time at first. Really fucking rough. I ODed, and I ended up taking some fucked-up spying job at Arkham without getting what it meant. So, they locked me up and shit, but I got a degree and I work there now." And that was so whitewashed, but she thought it was enough. If he wanted to be in her life, maybe there would be more, but she wasn't expecting that from him. And she was much more interested in the topic of him and Lou and his problems. Like him, she didn't glance at the men in the corner. She just dragged narrow fingers along his cheek, the touch so much fucking easier than anything had been when she was young. It was a cover, yeah, for what she was saying, but it was impossible to tell for sure. "Don't trust anyone until you can tell who's who. Next time, we meet somewhere less public," she suggested, and then she sat back and looked at him. "Do you want a next time?"
Neil knew about Arkham in a distant sort of way, like someone would recognize the name of some celebrity, but he didn't really know what went on behind closed doors. He didn't get how fucked up it was. Yeah, all of Gotham was like that, full of crazies and crime and vigilantes, but Sam didn't look like any of them. She just looked older. Maybe a little more world-weary, but not broken or mentally unstable. She was smiling, which was good, right? And she was here. She hadn't moved on, hadn't decided she hated him or no longer wanted to associate with the head of a crime syndicate. Dair and Ash had already distanced themselves from the family, and Louis, well, he was pretty sure Louis could go either way at this point.
"They locked you up?" His voice rose a little too loud, and he had to exert actual effort to rein himself in and go back to a whisper. "Who locked you up? Spying for who?" He didn't expect answers, necessarily, but he asked anyway. And as for her working there, well, he had no fucking idea whether or not that was a good thing. "Do you like working there? Because if you don't, you don't have to stay. Fuck that." He breathed a little easier when she dragged her fingers over his cheek, and he let out a long, heavy exhale. Trusting no one was exhausting. "Yeah, okay." He blinked in surprise when she asked if he wanted a next time. "I do. You're older, yeah, and shit happened, but you're still you. It doesn't change anything."
Her smile widened when his voice rose, and she almost laughed. "You suck at being inconspicuous, baby." He totally fucking did, and it was kind of endearing or whatever. "His name was Daggett. He got killed back where I was. Shit was hard at first, yeah? I didn't have any money, any friends or whatever. The streets were all fucking drugs, and I got desperate." It was all such a fucking understatement, and maybe she'd unwind it for him some day or whatever. Explain what made her talk softer than she ever had, and explain why her hands trembled slightly when she reached for her water. But not yet. Not here. anyway, where everyone fucking listened and watched. As it was, she knew she'd have some visitors at Arkham later. The Falcones had people in and out of there all the fucking time, just like every other family in the city.
She handed back the menu when the waiter came and asked for it, and she shook her head. "Yeah, nothing for me, thanks. Some coffee to go, though, yeah?" She didn't like glass mugs; a new quirk, along with her hatred for food. "I like my work. I'm a therapist. I'm a therapist to total fucking psychos that don't actually get better, but I like what I do. Arkham, baby, you have to see it to understand. It's every bad thing in one place, yeah? I used to be scared of that shit, terrified or whatever. But I'm not anymore." Or not on the surface, but she did like what she did. She liked talking. She'd been shit at it when she was young, and she liked it now.
Her hand slid away, rested on the table between them. "Shit has changed, Neil. I'm different. And you're like some awesome memory from when shit was a lot simpler."
He shrugged one shoulder carelessly. "I'm working in it," he said, of being inconspicuous. Besides, he was more interested in her, in what had happened to her; he knew he'd missed a lot, and he wanted to know. She might have been glossing over the details, yeah, but Neil wasn't stupid. A street full of drugs, a desperate ex junkie-- he could put the pieces together. He stared at her in dismay, and he had no fucking idea what to say. "You got desperate," he echoed, hating himself for being so pathetic. "How bad?" Maybe he didn't need to ask. But maybe he did, because on the surface she seemed alright, maybe a little quieter, a little shaky, but he couldn't see past that.
If he'd been hungry before, he sure as hell wasn't now. He followed suit and handed the menu back, and shook his head. "I'm good, thanks. Just a coffee for me too." Not to go, because he figured he'd he sticking around. He wasn't done here yet. He tried, and failed, to imagine Sam as a therapist to psychos. He just couldn't see it. "Is that shit even safe?" He had no idea what she could possibly like about a place like Arkham; it sounded like hell. The exact kind of place she'd fight tooth and nail to avoid. Maybe more had changed than he wanted to admit.
"Okay." He was uncertain, not sure how to take her referring to him as an 'awesome memory'. "So, what? Do you not want to try?"
"It was bad at first," she admitted. She didn't think he needed her to draw him a picture though, yeah? She knew he wasn't good with that shit, and time hadn't passed for him, so that shit wouldn't be any different. "I OD'ed. You know how it is. The Arkham thing is probably the only thing that saved my life. I was locked away for five years. I didn't get a choice, yeah?" Such a long fucking time, but she hadn't gone back to the needle, and that was something, yeah? "I got out a year ago, and I have a little basement place. I work. I like it." That last part was true. She did like working. She'd always wanted a fucking purpose, always. Now she had one, and maybe it was the kind of thing that didn't make much difference in the end, but it didn't make her feel stupid, and she'd spent a lot of time feeling stupid before. "Daggett's dead. No one owns me now."
When he asked if she didn't want to try, she couldn't help but give him a shaky kind of smile. "Are you fucking kidding me? If you want to try, I want to try. Do you want to try?" That all came out in an awkward rush that was more like her than the calm was, even if the honesty of the sentiment itself wouldn't have ever made it past her lips back then or whatever. "You're hot, and I was seriously in love with you then." She forgot, for that moment, that he hated hearing those words. And it didn't matter so much that he'd never said them himself. She forgot, too, that she'd cheated on him gloriously a week ago or whatever, as far as his timeline was concerned. Yeah, ok, there had been fucking in the past six years. But none of it was like what she remembered with him.
He swallowed hard and nodded. "Yeah. I know how it is." Neil had seen her OD before, after all. That shit was still clear as glass in his mind. "I hate the thought of you being locked up," he admitted, "but I'm glad it helped. I mean, you're clean now, right? That's something." He was trying really, really hard to see the bright side, and that much was obvious. But he couldn't change the past, and he'd only drive himself fucking crazy if he kept dwelling on it. "If you like it, that's something too." Oh, he didn't like it, and he wasn't convinced; he made a mental note to look into Arkham, maybe get some of his guys in there. He had people everywhere, right? So why not the nuthouse? He frowned when she said no one owned her now. "Damn right they don't," he scowled. "This Daggett guy is lucky he's already dead."
There was something like relief in his expression when she said that yeah, she wanted to try. He'd, thought, maybe-- "Yeah, I want to try," he told her. He laughed a little when she said he was hot, but that laughter stopped abruptly when she said she'd been seriously in love with him then. They'd never talked about that, even though he'd always meant to, and he stared at her for a second. "You're not seriously in love with me now? Because, uh, that'd mean we're on completely different pages." He intentionally didn't ask if there had been anyone else. He didn't want to know. He really, really didn't want to fucking know.
"I'm clean now," she assured him. After years with a doctor that had a serious hardon for pharmaceuticals, she was definitely fucking clean. Aversion therapy, they'd called it, and every fucking high, every needle in her arm had been followed by some kind of fear drug and hell. It wasn't enough to hit her with the drug and have her fear whatever was in the room. Fuck, no. They'd added on, made it worse, brought all her fears to life in bright and vivid color. Yeah, no, she hadn't touched a needle since she'd been out. When she'd left, ended up here, she'd still been doing treatments once a month, just to keep her in "remission." She hadn't mentioned that shit to anyone here; she wasn't sure if she was going to.
She smiled when he said he said it was a good thing Daggett was dead, and there was something about that smile that was just a little removed from reality. That she didn't mind the statement was obvious, and maybe that shit was old, a carryover from the Murphys and Ian and all the shapes her fears had taken over the years. The fact that he hoped Daggett was dead, it was reassuring somehow. Calm. It made her calmer. It wasn't anything sexual, and it wasn't a fetish, it was just a hint of the hurt little girl looking back at him hopefully from inky blue eyes.
She sipped her coffee, once it came. He said he wanted to try, and she gave him a smile that was pure fucking trust. Like she just believed, no questions, none of that extreme doubt that had always plagued her. "Are you saying you were in love with me?" she asked plainly, the words soft, like everything else and only a tremor against the cardboard coffee cup indicating that she was maybe freaking the fuck out inside.
He let out a long sigh and nodded. Yeah, clean was good. Of course, he didn't know how she'd gotten to that point. He didn't know about that aversion therapy bullshit. If he had known, well, his opinion on the matter would've been a hell of a lot different. But he didn't know, and he decided to look on the bright side and focus on the fact that she was no longer using. And her smile confused him a little, maybe, but he figured Daggett had been a bastard and she probably liked that he would've killed the guy if he was still alive and kicking. It was what he wished he could've done to Ian; to anyone who hurt her, really. He just wasn't that good at expressing that kind of thing.
The lack of doubt was new. He was so used to her questioning everything; it was part of why he'd been so fucking reluctant to tell her how he felt, because he hadn't thought she would believe him. And now wasn't the best time for confessions. They were surrounded by mobsters, and he'd just found out she'd been gone for six fucking years... but then again, was there ever a good time? He was probably going to have to kill people. He couldn't be scared of a bunch of stupid words. "Not were," he said, toying with his glass of water, gaze on his hands. Yeah, he was fucking nervous. "Am. I am. I've just been too much of a fucking idiot to say anything."
She knew she'd fucked him up with the whole OD thing. She knew he'd be glad she was clean, regardless of anything else. She'd fucked them both up with that shit. She'd fucked them both up so much, and she knew it. She understood why it had all happened now. Part of her got it in a way she hadn't then. She considered explaining it to him, but why the fuck do that now? Yeah, so she wanted him to be into her. She didn't want to drag any of her crazy shit to light. She knew it was the present for him or whatever, but maybe she could be cool enough that he wouldn't associate her with the girl who'd gone off for days at a time to get fucked up and cheat. She almost apologized, but she didn't. In the end, if he wasn't thinking about it, she didn't want to be the one who reminded him. And she didn't look like that junkie, yeah? The cardigan was chaste, and so were the shirt and slacks. Her messy hair looked more unkempt librarian than wildchild, and there wasn't a hint of skin visible anywhere. She'd changed, yeah?
"I've changed," she reminded him, but there was some childish light in the inky depths of her eyes, and she felt jittery, like she'd had too much fucking coffee. Ok, so maybe she wasn't the girl she'd been then, but it still made her stomach do fucking flip-flops to known he'd cared about her like that. Loved her, and maybe she could make him love the person she was now, yeah? "I get that I'm different, but maybe you could love me instead?" It was definitely a question, and so fucking blunt. She toyed with her coffee cup. She turned it between her fingers. Turn, turn, turn, and she didn't take a sip.
She was older, yeah, and she'd clearly changed, but he still saw Sam sitting across from him. He didn't see a stranger. All the bad shit, the drugs and the booze, the ODing and the cheating and miscommunication, that was behind them. It was in Vegas. Neil really didn't want to think about it any more than he had to, and it had been longer for her, right? So all that was years and years behind her. Things weren't perfect here; he was a criminal. He was a criminal on the brink of a mob war, but he hadn't touched a drop of booze since ending up in Gotham and Chloe was like a bad fucking dream. He'd healed, too, with only a scar left behind to remind him of his near miss with death.
"I know." There was no point in beating around the bush. He kept trying to lift his gaze, trying, trying, and he finally managed when she asked if he could love her instead. "You're still you," he said simply. He felt like he couldn't breathe, but he reached across the table, reached for her fingers and took hold. "Christ, Sam, I'm not going to stop loving you just because you're a little different." He looked a little uncomfortable, yeah, but he didn't take the words back. He just wasn't used to this shit, that was all.
His discomfort and that inability to lift his gaze made her grin. "I could totally paint you right now. You look like you want to stand up and pace or something. Or maybe just move around in your chair until you stop feeling uncomfortable, yeah?" The gap was missing between her front teeth, but the shit-eating grin was the same. "I never did get around to painting you. My hands work normal now." It was an invitation issued without pressure. And, yeah, all the mobility problems of the past were gone now. She had some aches and pains when it rained or got cold, but those had more to do with how skinny she was than because of anything lingering from the gunshot.
When he did manage to lift his gaze, she stared. Yeah, ok, so maybe she'd wanted to hear him say he loved her forever. And now he was saying it and reaching for her hand, and yeah, that shit had so never happened before. "I'm a lot different." She was, but she squeezed his fingers back with hands that shook. Both hands, because the second joined the first, and bother of her hands covered his. "It's ok if that weirds you out, yeah? And it's ok if there's shit about me you don't like. It's ok if you aren't into me like you were." Her smile turned hopeful. "Though, yeah, it would be kind of nice if you were. Into me. Or whatever." Smile.
Being called out on his discomfort just made it worse, and Neil resisted the urge to get up and start pacing. Too many people around who might interpret it the wrong way. He was going for calm and cool, unfazed, in control. So he shrugged instead, and he saw managing to lift his gaze as a victory in itself. Small, but hey, baby steps were still steps. “You want to paint me?” It was avoiding his inability to sit still, maybe, but he was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he’d told her he loved her. Out loud. Not in his imagination, but in reality. “You can,” he added hastily, in case she thought he was asking because he didn’t want her to. Smooth. Really smooth.
Her staring made it hard to keep eye contact, but he tried. He really fucking tried. “I know,” he repeated when she said she was a lot different, and he didn’t pull his hands back when she covered them with hers. He kept them there. “Sure, it’s a little weird. But sitting here, with you, I don’t… I don’t feel any less.” It was a shit way to explain, maybe, but it was true.
She was staring as he tried to keep himself still. It was awkwardly blatant staring. It wasn't coy; it didn't know how to be coy. It was an unnerving stare in inky blue. "Yeah," she wanted to paint him. "Yeah?" Did he really want her to? She laughed, and it was a quiet shadow of the laughter of her youth. There was absolutely nothing of the loud girl she'd been in the memory from her wedding day. This Sam didn't ask strange boys to dance, but the laughter was honest. An honest shade, yeah? And maybe that described the too-thin woman sitting across from him at the table too. "So, yeah, can you maybe say that again? The part about loving me. Even if it's past tense." Maybe if she'd realized how uncomfortable he was, she wouldn't have put it out there like that. Bam, request. But it was the kind of shit she'd played over and over in her mind during those first nights in a jacket with buckles. Him saying something like that. And the therapist in her was so fucking missing from the room at the moment.
She thought it was cute or whatever, that he couldn't make eye contact. "Was it easier when I couldn't look you in the eye either?" she asked before he began explaining how he felt - or didn't feel. "Ok. So, maybe come to my place next weekend? I work an overnight on Friday, but I'm off next Saturday. I have paints. And a cat." She pulled her hands back. "That sounded so fucking pathetic, yeah?" She grinned.
She didn't wait for him to say yeah or no. If she stood up then, she could infer agreement, yeah? She grinned again, and she pushed the chair back, and she left, a little skip in her step as she returned to Arkham.