eiattu_pride: (oh god no)
[personal profile] eiattu_pride
The door leads straight to his quarters, and Rial has never been so glad.

uh - placeholder, more stuff about kids and dead kids, etc etc, really can't be arsed right now. Basically he's got a sketchpad and he's sitting on the couch trying not to think about it.

Date: 2007-04-09 09:40 pm (UTC)
fighting_mad: (medium - head tilt)
From: [personal profile] fighting_mad
Plourr never would have made it as a commando. No stealth capability. She makes an impressive amount of noise as she comes in the door, shouting a wordless greeting and dropping an armload of files and items on the first end table that she comes to. Her boots hit the wall with twin thuds, and she heads into the kitchen.

"Rial?" she calls out the kitchen doorway, unsure of whether or not he's here.

Date: 2007-04-09 10:46 pm (UTC)
fighting_mad: (medium - eyeing)
From: [personal profile] fighting_mad
"Did you have anything in mind for dinner?" she calls, opening the coldbox door and peering at the neat rows of bottles, cans, bowls, containers, and fruit.

Date: 2007-04-10 12:38 am (UTC)
fighting_mad: (long - eyes dark)
From: [personal profile] fighting_mad
Plourr frowns at a container of milk and closes the foor again. That's an unusual response. She makes her way through the doorway and into the living area. Her footsteps stutter just for a second when she sees the way he's sitting, but not enough to be noticeable. She comes around the end of the sofa and sits at his side, resting her hand on his knee.

"Hey," she says brusquely, worriedly. "What's happened?"

Date: 2007-04-10 12:58 am (UTC)
fighting_mad: (medium - startled)
From: [personal profile] fighting_mad
Plourr watches him with clear concern, her face close to his, and after a second or two, she follows his gaze to her feet. From there, it's easy to spot the sketchpad lying abandoned on the floor. She leans over and picks it up.

Rial is a good artist. The childish figure is unfinished in all of the drawings, but several pages of the sketchpad are full of them, and oh gods, that figure-- Shattered forehead, skin shaded gray, eyes dead, bones showing--

Her faces loses color. She looks at him. "Rial, what--?"

Date: 2007-04-10 02:03 am (UTC)
fighting_mad: (medium - concerned)
From: [personal profile] fighting_mad
Plourr stares at Rial, then the drawings, and then she drops the sketchbook and wraps her arm around him. It'll be an awkward side hug unless he moves, but it's all she's got. Nothing she can say to that, nothing she can do but put her arms around him, rest her hand on his cheek, and hold onto him.

She shoots another look at the sketchpad, and flips it over with her foot.

"Dead?" she asks softly.

Date: 2007-04-10 02:17 am (UTC)
fighting_mad: (rial - hands)
From: [personal profile] fighting_mad
Plourr is a strong woman. 'Too tight' would require a far greater expenditure of force than is going on right now.

"Alright," she murmurs. "Alright." Not 'it's alright,' because it's not. Just 'alright,' and she rubs his side slowly, resting her set mouth against his shoulder, pressing a kiss there, and she tries not to think of the drawings under her toes.

Date: 2007-04-10 02:36 am (UTC)
fighting_mad: (medium - down down baby)
From: [personal profile] fighting_mad
She stiffens and pulls away, enough that she can see him when she talks to him. She is pale, still, and facing him when she says doggedly, "You can do this. You're going to be a good father, Rial Pernon. That's one of the few things about this that I'm sure of. If he dies--" She glances down and shakes her head honestly. "I don't-- I don't know. There's always that risk when you care about somebody." It's a risk that Plourr is always conscious of. But, "You can't dwell on that shit. What ifs and hypotheticals. You just can't. You'll go spaced." She thinks about them sometimes, but she tries not to, too much. And usually, she does pretty well at that.

Date: 2007-04-10 02:56 am (UTC)
fighting_mad: (medium - two-faced)
From: [personal profile] fighting_mad
"Of course I am." She runs her fingers through his hair, carefully smoothing the couple of tangles they meet. "You're going to teach him how to read and write. How to play pranks. You're good with children, my count. I've seen it. All the other kids are going to be jealous of how astral his dad is."

It's unclear when 'it' became unacceptable and she started saying 'he.' Somewhere along the way, she started to accept that this is going to happen. She doesn't notice it, to be honest, or notice that she is referring to a boy.

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