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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Yeah, this is one of two conversations he was hoping to avoid, and even though he knows she deserves answers and even though she's not flinging the words at him, he can almost feel himself prickling at them anyway. Time to tap out another cigarette before he spits out something dumb and defensive.

"Not if ya don't attack me." Too late, and goddamn does that ever come out sulky. He frowns at his cigarette and lights it.

She exhales - not quite a sigh, more of a soft huff of relief, one more little bit of tension leaving her. And it's a little like watching a horror movie and screaming at some co-ed in her underwear not to go into the basement, because a good portion of her instincts are shrieking at her that she can't trust him. After all, look what he just did. Look what he could have done.

On the other hand, because of his actions it's also clear that he's got enough of an upper hand that he has no reason to lie to her. Why bother? He doesn't need to, and whatever else she might be confused about she's sure he's not the type to do it for fun.

"If I ever attack you and you're not going after someone I care about, you should probably just go ahead and assume I'm not in control."

Her response makes him glance up immediately over his cupped hands, confused as to why she needs to clarify when that's what he meant in the first place. "No shit. I did that already, sorta."

Well, he assumed that either she wasn't in control or she'd been fucking with him the entire time he'd known her. Given what she's said, though, he'd like to be prepared for round two if it ever happens again. But he still feels like he's missing a piece of the puzzle, here, or maybe that there's something he's doing wrong.

"I wouldn't just, uh," he shrugs, ashes, and isn't sure how to finish the sentence without repeating himself or saying too much. A few agitated puffs later, he decides to circle back. "What did ya mean, worse."

Well, fine. It's not like he needs her permission for that anyway, clearly, but it's awkward enough to try and tell someone you understand why they might try to kill you again and that under certain circumstances you'd actually be okay with it without having to say those precise words, so she lets it hang.

And almost immediately wishes she hadn't. Because however awkward that might have been it's got nothing on explaining her fear that he might just be mad enough that next time it wouldn't be so... clinical.

"Not so... quick." That it might go from being about just stopping her to being about hurting, about revenge.

Whatever he was afraid she might ask, that wasn't it. His expression goes from puzzled to surprised to downright incredulous in the blink of an eye, and then remains solidly in "you're kidding" territory.

"Why the hell would I - " Oh. His mouth snaps shut as he gets what she means, and he gives a quick, jerky shake of his head. "No. Waste of time."

Inefficient, and messy. Too much room for error. Then the full realization that they're talking about him killing her hits him, again the realization that he nearly did, and his gaze tears away from her to flit about the room for a moment before finally settling on the plants right behind her. "No."

Edited 2012-06-28 04:22 (UTC)

She watches his eyes in their search for a safe place to settle and has to bite back an apology. There's still that part of her that wants to smooth it all over, to make peace, but if her self-preservation instinct can't figure out that saying sorry would probably piss him off - or at the very least, make him even more uncomfortable - then it can't be worth much.

"Right. That makes sense. It wouldn't be very you, now I think about it."

And it's not really the time to ask for a favor but hell, if there's a guidebook for this kind of thing she hasn't read it. Her whole life has been figuring out boundaries by throwing herself up against them to see if they'll give, and it feels strange and surreal to be feeling them out. Especially like this.

"Look, I'm not gonna ask you not to. I know that'd be pointless. But just... be sure. Please?" The next words are heavy on her tongue, the wrongness of feeling like she even has to say them making them clumsy and awkward. "I don't want to die."

It wouldn't be very you - he has to snort over that. Of all the damned things to say about it, and she says that. While he thinks about shooting back something sarcastic to that effect - it wouldn't be very you not to keep your trap shut, or something - it remains as a thought.

And spitting sarcasm at what she says next would just be cowardly. Or callous. Both, maybe. The way she says it draws his gaze back, and though he wants to fidget he doesn't. She's serious, and in his mind she's presenting it as a deal. Deals are familiar, easy to work with. So he'll lay out his hand, too.

"I don't want ya to," he admits, and plunges on just so he doesn't have to think what he just said too hard. "An' if I - " He swipes his hand through his hair (sixteen million), looks down at Lodewijk, and back up. "Would ya take care of him? Or, uh. Find someone. If you need to kill me."

Sixteen million back home wouldn't die with him, but his rabbit is here, and his rabbit would.

She blinks at him, a little stunned, but even as her brows knit she's nodding agreement. It's such a small thing, and asked with such seriousness, that she swallows the don't be stupid I'm not going to kill you I wouldn't even know where to start and just agrees.

"Of course. And if I can't do it, I'll find somebody who can." Her eyes drop to the rabbit, who seems to be the only one having normal responses to the whole situation, and she shakes her head. "Probably wouldn't be too hard to find volunteers, he's adorable."

That's not really the point, but it is safe, and she clings to it.

"Thanks." Uttered softly, almost carefully, but he means it. For a moment he lets his gaze follow hers before it swings back out to the gardens, then he sighs and finally lets his shoulders drop, a bit. "Just don't tell 'em he's a pain in the ass."

For one: he has an entire plot of grass to keep up with, now. While that's the direction he's looking, the direction he's thinking is decidedly more morbid. If something were to happen, someone needs to know how to run the gardens - a few someones.

"You need t'learn how to start seeds," he mutters, turning back to her. "Not just transplant shit." With that he looks past her, to the plot she's set up, and moves to stand. Now isn't the right time, not when the reason she's down here is hanging over their heads.

"I need to learn a lot." Wry, but for now, at least, she really is just talking about the gardens. She stays put and watches him move. She's almost going to leave it at that but when she changes her mind it's abrupt, something to spit out before she just decides not to, and her words are prefaced by a sharp little inhale.

"Would you - I don't mean now, but... I don't know who else to ask."

He takes a second to blink down at her, suddenly feeling way too tall. If he wasn't leaving he'd sit down again just to level things, but instead he shifts his weight and hefts his rabbit up to rest against his chest.

"I am," he states, simple as that. Not I will, but I am going to - it's something that needs to happen sooner rather than later and appointments are far more productive than promises. Hell, he has no idea who else she would ask either. "Tomorrow, Beta shift. How's that."

Face tipped up to look not at him but the rabbit, she give a little finger-wave of goodbye for a second before she catches herself and closes her hand, feeling silly for it. She drops the loose fist back into her lap, eyes panning up to his face as she nods.

"I'll be here. And thanks."

And darkness be the burier of the dead

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