ataraxionlogs | And darkness be the burier of the dead

CHARACTERS: Heather Mason, the bereaved
LOCATION: the Oxygen Garden
WARNINGS: gloom?
SUMMARY: Heather forgoes her usual grief reaction of KILL SOMETHING and tries to make something instead.
NOTES: wiiiiide open. Come share your Hotspur feels, folks. edit: so, um, it's been pointed out to me that the gardens are hydroponic. All the resulting inaccuracies within are the fault of myself and my head full of Sunshine (and that can be taken in several ways, can't it?). /crawls off to vomit in shame

[Heather'd had plans for after the jump. After spending all of them so far either feeling angry and sorry for herself or flitting around trying to play helpful hostess – trying to be someone she wasn't – she'd had something to sink her teeth into. Something to do. One message, short and sharp, and it should have scared her but instead it had given her a purpose. She'd been excited.

That seems almost indescribably sick, now.

Missing that purpose and waiting to hear on something that might give her another, she haunts the gardens. Keeps her hands busy in an effort to still her mind. Barefoot and with a bottle – one drink for her and one for Hotspur, because somehow she doesn't think he'd approve of her using it to numb herself – and a patch of garden she's commandeered for the purpose, beneath a sketch someone's left. With her hair still wet and dark earth on her pale hands, she replants what she's stolen from other plots. Rosemary for remembrance, of course, and iris for faith and valor. If there were poppies they're either hiding or long since pillaged, and what wouldn't she do for some edelweiss?

It's tempting to stake it out, fence it off, make a big deal of it. Make it official. The Max Southey Memorial Garden. But somehow it seems truer to his memory to call it what it is: an attempt – possibly futile - to scrape something good out of the terror.]

Did I ever tell you I was sort of a saint? [Her voice is flat as she digs, buries roots, pats soil. The water she gives the plants will do in place of tears.] Back where I'm from, I mean. Saint Alessa. Kind of a crappy one, as far as saints go. And of a really terrible religion. But it counts, right? There's a saint mourning you.

Just so you know.

[She won't ask to see his body. Bad enough that her last image of him is sad and troubled, rather than the lively, laughing man she'd met. Who'd made her smile and listened to her rambling, who'd talked with her about dreams. Who'd complained of chicken pox scars in places no man should have scars and apologized for lowering the tone on the same breath. She never did find that ice cream to share with him.

She doesn't know what they'll do with him, either. Once they're done with whatever it is they're doing. Sliced his flesh and scraped his bones to see what they can see, trying to cut information out of a man who'd never have held anything back, not if he thought it could help someone. Airlock, she supposes. It seems right.]

Give you the stars.

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It isn't.

[He nudges his forehead against hers solemnly, after she wipes her eyes. From this close, he can see how they've gone a little red from the tears. It's not a gesture that lasts; just a little push the same way any old house-cat would give one.]

But don't be sorry.

[Her eyes fall briefly closed when Asato's forehead touches hers. She never had a pet cat but she recognizes the gesture and it makes her smile, and he reaches a hand up to his hair - just a quick press of gratitude.]

Thanks, Asato. I really needed this.

[He gives her a small smile in response, pushing his head back against her hand when he feels it in his hair. It really is a little like having an overgrown pet cat around sometimes, being with a Ribika. At her thanks, he just nods. He doesn't feel like it's something that he really needs gratitude for. Anyone seeing Heather like this would do the same, he assumes.]

It's nothing. You're not still crying, are you?

It's not nothing, don't say that. I don't - I don't think there's anybody else on the ship I could be like this with.

[because Asato sees things so simply, sometimes. She cries in his presence and all he seem to be thinking is "Heather is sad". He's not judging her, thinking of her as weak or a child or a girl looking for attention. All the walls she's learned to throw up over the years, the defenses built of sass and sarcasm and hardness - they lower to let Asato through, without her even thinking about it. Maybe she oughta be concerned about that, but for now she's simply grateful.]

No, dude. Check me out, fresh as a daisy.

[lies, but at least she's not actually crying anymore.]

I see.

[People who know Asato well should understand what that means. Her words are something he needs to file away, to think about later when he has time to spend alone in silence. It's not an agreement or a denial, just an acknowledgment that she thinks of him that way and an admittance that he's not going to try to make her change her mind.

Inwardly, though, he's kind of glad. A little doubtful, maybe, but glad.]

Fresh as a daisy. [He agrees, as cheerfully as the occasion could allow.] Is it okay if I stay here a little longer?

[He already braved the feeling that he was intruding on her private time earlier, and he doesn't want to impose if she wants to have a quiet moment--quiet hours, as it may be--with Hotspur's memory.]

Of course. It's your garden too, now.

[and being here with somebody feels a hell of a lot less pathetic than being here on her own, talking to a dead guy. Asato can stay just as long as he wants, as long as he doesn't mind Heather's head on his shoulder.]

[He isn't bothered in the slightest by Heather's head resting on his shoulder. If it were a few months earlier, he'd be confused out of his wits, but now it feels normal, comfortable, to be close to the people he cares about. His tail curls around her again, its tip occasionally twitching in thought.]

What do you mean, [He asks after a minute or so of silence] my garden?

Because you helped make it. And because he meant something to you, even if you didn't know him.

[Really, it's calming just having Asato near. The warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing. Leaning against him, Heather decides to do something for Asato, just as soon as she figures out what. Not something equivalent - she hopes he's never in the same position. But something, still.]

I don't want this to be a sad place. I mean, I'm not gonna be dancing up here anytime soon, but he wasn't a sad person. He wouldn't have wanted us sitting around feeling sad about him.

It's still Heather's garden more. Everyone's garden.

[Something like that. He listens carefully as she speaks, shifting a little to get more comfortable against her. Not once had he been this close to someone in his home world. Not since his mother passed. It's nice. He doesn't want to get up.]

I understand. It's just a place of memory. And the memories were good, right? So it should be like that.

And darkness be the burier of the dead

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